Batfic!

[icarus_chained]

I'm maybe not so good with the Batfamily as a whole, considering the amount of their collective canon I've missed, but ... I gave it a go, anyway. Keep in mind that the Robins in particular are not exactly my strong suit.

Title:  Dancing Lessons
Rating:  PG
Characters/Pairings:  Alfred. Bruce. Dick. Barbara. Jason. Tim. Cassandra. Hints of Dick/Babs, Bruce/Selina, Bruce/J'onn, Tim/Cassandra. Also mentions of a few old flames of Alf's, from the good old days.
Summary:  In his time, Alfred has taught all his family to dance. He's had to. With some, it's been easier than others. But it's meant something with all of them. 
Disclaimer:  I gotta remember to do this more often. Not mine.
Wordcount:  1644 (short, in other words)

Dancing Lessons

 

In his time among them, Alfred had taught all of his collected family to dance. Nothing too fancy, in most cases. A few basic steps, a few glimpses at different styles, maybe a hint of a flourish here or there. Just enough to get them by, to get them through the demands society placed on them, to give them options undercover. He'd had to, eventually, for all of them. Trace the steps for them, partner them a little to learn the movements, show them how to dance with a partner. Teach them how to appear confident, how to make it seem natural. Try to show them that there was fun to be had, that these movements weren't the deadly exercises of their other lives, that there were forms meant to be enjoyed. That last had been hardest of all, for most of them.

With Bruce, so young, it had been a sterile exercise. By the time the young man had been old enough for it to become a social necessity, that fatal milestone had been passed, and Bruce was already deep into his mission. He had been grave and dedicated and silent, his body learning the moves without his heart ever learning the meaning behind them, as graceful and empty a parody as the bright smile flashed to the women at the dances. It had been years before Alfred had seen that change, years before Bruce had found someone to dance with to make it mean something. Years before he'd seen life slip into the movements, before Bruce touched a shoulder with care, cradled a waist with passionate sincerity. Years to come, but Alfred had finally seen it happen, and that was enough to make those empty lessons worthwhile.

Then there was Master Dick. No sterile exercise this time. That young man had lived for movement, for flight, for motion, and even if the social contexts had chafed unbearably on his irrepressable young spirit, the life and joy in the dance itself had always been there. Dick danced because he had to, because it was fun, and because it helped him to be able to lose himself in the motion of bodies when the inanities of words became too much. When the mood was on him, when the mischief in him lead him to aim to impress, that young troublemaker had had the entire female contingent of a hall swooning and queueing for his attention. Much to Bruce's chagrin, and Alfred had made very sure to hide his smile.

Miss Barbara, too, once upon a time. Because Dick had told her about his lessons, and because the young woman had wanted to be able to dance beside him. She'd been grave, that one. Dedicated, learning her steps with care, focused on finding the pattern beneath the movements, the rhythm that gave it structure and form. But there had always been something more, a hint of self-amusement, a touch of embarrassed laughter in shy eyes. It had made Alfred want to protect her, this vibrant, intelligent young woman. It had made him proud to see her come with her father to one of Gotham's 'affairs', and dance Master Dick off the floor. It had broken his heart, when the world had stolen her ability to fly, and she could dance no more.

And Jason. Oh, that boy. That boy had been meant to dance solo, in the beginning. Too demanding, too powerful, too fierce for a partner. And yet, when they could keep up with him, when their movements could match his ... when he could dance with the support of another, that boy had seemed so much stronger, so much more graceful. When his partner was right ... but in the end, perhaps Jason had always known he was going to be dancing alone. Alfred hoped not, hoped there had been something more ... but the world had not been kind enough to prove him right.

And Tim. The most serious of them all. More dedicated than even Bruce, more unsure. It had been something of a crash course for him, the first time. He told them a week into a case that he couldn't dance enough for an undercover job. And Alfred had shown him, literally just enough to get by. That was all the boy had wanted to know, all he had been interested in. Just enough to get by. And somehow, Alfred wasn't sure he was ever going to be able to learn more. Not now, when there were so many things that boy needed to learn again, so many to unlearn. So much of his life that was just enough to get by, after the shattering. But Alfred had to keep hoping for more. Tim wasn't Jason, wasn't even Barbara. He had a chance yet.

Then there was Miss Cassandra. There was one to make Alfred smile, one to lift his heart again. There was a young woman who had learned grace from her earliest steps, learned brutality from the beginning. And she had seen him trying to teach Tim, and wanted to learn. Wanted to know how to 'make her body smile', the way Alfred's apparently did when he danced. She was like Dick in that. Bodies, movement, were more easily understood than words. Happiness in motion was inherant in them both, the expression of joy held in potentia in every dance. She had been a joy to teach, given a language so close to her own, a means of expression so familiar and powerful to her. It was just a little dangerous to try a paso doble with her, though. She had a slight tendancy to get a little too into the mood of the more ... passionate dances, and Alfred had had to hastily retreat on a number of occasions.

Alfred had taught them all to dance. He had gone through the steps with each one, given them the basics, taught them something of the rhythm. Tried so hard with each to give them something of the joy, the power. With each, he had succeeded, at least in part. There was not a one of them that couldn't at least go through the motions, and make it look convincing. It would probably have to be enough. There were times when Alfred was just happy to take what triumphs he could get. And for the times when he wasn't ... there were always the dances he kept for himself.

There was always a corner, somewhere in the mansion, always some empty space where he could be alone. Where he could listen in silence to the echoes of old laughter, and smile at the echoes of jokes told years before. Where he could trace the steps in time to music that hadn't been played in decades, singers long since faded, instruments long since gathering dust. Where he could feel the phantom touch of hands lost in time, and smell perfumes almost forgotten. Where he could feel again bodies moving with his, the flashes of old smiles, the excitement of old dangers. There had been the Russian heiress, in Paris. And the American journalist in Morocco, who'd made off with half his cash. And that wonderful shy English rose in Kiev. The Japanese flower in Singapore who'd almost managed to poison him with her pin. And the Australian darling who'd tried to convince him to elope with her, and almost gotten him killed when her fiance showed up. He could feel laughter building up through him at the memories.

And then, he'd come back. He walk back into the present, back into the lives of his family. He'd watch Bruce with Selina, with J'onn. See the passion and tenderness where once there had been only duty. See life in eyes that had absorbed death too young. See meaning in what had once been empty play-acting. See joy, at last.

He'd watch Dick, striving to fly for all his brothers, trying to bring life back to Tim's dull eyes with a joke and a pretty girl to walk through the steps with. Watch the weary young man finally dance for himself, losing himself in the motion, in his own remembered joys, and smile a smile that was as real in the present as it was in the past. And Barbara, watching from the sidelines, would smile too. Just for him. As long as Dick could fly, could move, he'd find happiness, and there would always be people to be happy just for that.

And the same with Cassandra. Even if her dances were more private, if they were silent messages to the world rather than learned rhythms. She danced as Alfred danced, in the quiet, for her own pleasure. To move in ways that would not kill. To learn emotions she had not known. To show them to those who could listen to the way she talked. And sometimes, when she danced for Tim, when she showed him how to move without it hurting, how to be with someone without needing to explain, how to be understood without needing to speak, sometimes ... Cassandra could bring light to Tim's eyes. And that was a precious thing.

Alfred would watch them. His family. He would watch them take what he had taught them, and make it part of themselves. Watch them live inside it, turn it into a mirror of themselves, speak silently to him through it. He watched their joys and their sorrows, their losses and their gains, their strengths and their vulnerabilities. But more than any of that, he watched their lives. Watched them live, beneath his care, before his eyes. Together.

Those moments were more precious to him than the happiest of memories. His silent dances were for him, so he could remember. These living ones were for all of them. So they could endure. So they could see. So they could love.

So they could be a family. Always.