There’s something off about Bruce.
Dick’s eye is trained for detail; He has to calculate every leap, every step, every breath, every count. He’s a showman. Everything is routine, and routine is everything.
Injury isn’t unusual, especially for his father .He out stubborns Tim in resisting medical examinations, after all.
For Bruce, secrets are protection. He lied about every injury he had when Dick was Robin, suffering in silent agony as the pain grew and grew, a tradition he carries on from Jason to Damian.
If Bruce screams, it’s bad.
“God fucking dammit, how the fuck does he do this? Who the fuck breaks their femur AND just carries on? Jesus FUCKING Christ.”
Bruce curses under his breath, profanity hushed. Dick’s veins freeze, blood turning to stone. He guesses his shock is obvious because Jason mirrors it to perfection.
One; Bruce doesn’t curse.
Two; He definitely doesn’t curse in a jersey accent.
The unease is pungent. Alfred practically tastes it, vitriolic as anything. His chest is taut, pulse slow, “Sir,” it’s cautious, “Shall I prepare the supplies?”
‘Bruce’ waves his hand, voice gruffer, lower, smokey, “Yeah, thanks, babe,”
Alfred blinks. And whoever pretends to be Bruce, blinks back, almost like a deer being cornered by an English hound, smile a bit boyish and unsure.
“… Okay, you’re gonna laugh—“
Dick is reeling, because apparently:
His dead grandparents have been possessing his father throughout the years and they, wards to the best detective in the world, never caught on.
“Look, I get you’re pissed, BUT,” It’s so unbelievably weird watching Bruce be so expressive;
His hands move energetically, like they have their own voices, and his rain soft voice catches on fire when his father talks through him,
“This IS 50% MY body, technically.“
“Thomas, dear, that is not how that works. Come now, you’re scaring our grandchildren.”
And Jason’s voice is uncharacteristically soft when he speaks, more posh, more elegant . That is not his brother.
Alfred passes out, to no one’s surprise.
