Only in this moment of truth did Alfred realize that there had been subtle signs all along.
Years ago, when Avery had left for his studies in London, Bruce had watched him go with a steady, cobalt gaze that carried something Alfred still couldn't quite understand. Since then, their contact had gradually waned, eventually severed entirely as Bruce set off on his own travels.
What, Alfred wondered, had they each been thinking at that time?
Did Avery believe that time could wash everything away? Back then, when Bruce had been lost in his own confusion, he had buried everything deep within himself. Now, years later, here they were, meeting again amidst the ruins.
Like the scorched, blackened estate grounds where, with the lightest breeze, embers could still be seen flickering—one spark was all it took to rekindle the flames.
Alfred thought to himself that his son couldn't be entirely unaware of certain things; Avery simply never said a word about them, nor did he show anything. Or perhaps he was simply oblivious, too slow to realize.
"Perhaps we should have a talk," Alfred finally said, standing in the hall outside Bruce's room at Wayne Manor, regarding his son with a gentle, intent gaze.
Avery met his father's eyes, sensing a certain inevitability to the conversation, and nodded with a resigned smile.
They made their way to the estate's lawn, a wide, open area, ensuring their private conversation would not be overheard.
"When did things start between the two of you?" Alfred asked as they stood together in the sunlit garden.
Avery took a moment to consider, then answered honestly, "When you were away on your trip."
Alfred's face involuntarily twitched at the irony; he realized that by going on vacation, he'd left the two of them alone, creating just the opportunity for them to deepen their bond. In retrospect, he had unwittingly played the role of a third wheel.
The old butler sighed and asked, "How do you feel about it?"
Avery froze for a moment. "About what?"
"This relationship—how do you feel about it?"
Avery fell silent. For him, this was a complex question because he'd never seriously considered what the relationship meant.
He had once traveled to France and witnessed the openness there, and honestly, he thought the U.S. was not much different in that regard. To him, what was happening between him and Bruce simply made sense. They found each other agreeable, were physically compatible, and so certain things naturally followed. He had never really needed a reason.
Yet, now his father was asking him what he thought of it, and Avery found his mind surprisingly muddled, unable to come up with a straightforward answer.
"I..."
"I think…"
Alfred observed his son's hesitation and, for the first time in years, saw Avery falter like a child, needing a wiser, more experienced figure to offer guidance.
So he posed a pointed question. "If it were anyone else, would you so readily be in a relationship that went beyond friendship?"
Avery froze, realizing, perhaps for the first time, that he had indeed become unusually invested in this.
It wasn't as if he had no experience in these matters, but when it came down to it, those past experiences could be counted on one hand. While there was no issue with his body, his emotions had always been indifferent, leaving him unable to fully enjoy such things.
But with Bruce...
Thinking back on their time together, Avery noticed that he had indeed become unusually absorbed. Unlike his past, passionless flings, his connection with Bruce had always been intense and insatiable.
But what did this mean?
Did it mean that Bruce held a different, more favorable place in his heart than others?
Avery unconsciously furrowed his brow. He wasn't oblivious; he simply had always been someone for whom emotions were scarce, making such reflection challenging.
As he stood there, deep in thought, Alfred watched him in silence, with a gaze brimming with patience and understanding for his son. They strolled across the lush green lawn, the gentle breeze drifting by, while the fountain continued to cascade softly nearby.
Not far away on the third floor, a pair of steel-blue eyes watched them intently through the clear glass.
After a while, the observer lightly touched his ear, adjusting his listening device.
Back on the lawn, Avery, after a long period of thought, finally began to reach some clarity. He sighed and calmly gave his answer.
"Bruce is different for me," he admitted.
Bruce was, after all, his only true friend.
"I may, in fact, have some unusual feelings toward him, but as for what I think of those feelings…" Avery glanced at his father. "I… I've never really considered it."
"I know Bruce may have different thoughts on the matter, but I can't envision any way for us to move forward. It always feels like we'll reach a dead end. I've never thought about any future with him."
He blurted out all of this at once, only realizing afterward just how much he had revealed. For someone who almost never expressed his inner thoughts, it felt uncomfortably vulnerable, as if he had laid himself bare for someone else to see. Even though it was Alfred, whom he had always respected, this openness was unsettling.
But now was hardly the time to dwell on his discomfort. Reflecting on the complex nature of his feelings, he appeared, for the first time, genuinely at a loss. "I don't know why things have ended up like this."
Alfred, however, looked at him knowingly and asked, "Do you really not know?"
Avery lifted his head, meeting his father's gaze with a look of bewilderment.
With a sigh of both affection and resignation, Alfred offered his insight. "You need to be honest."
Honesty.
Between people who care for each other, honesty is what matters most.
The word struck something deep in Avery. He froze, a slight tension creeping through him. Impressed by his father's insight, he finally confronted an uncomfortable truth: he truly hadn't been honest.