American comics: Damn it, I’m surrounded by those who worry about their fathers!.

Chapter 981 Bruce's Long Halloween Touching Moments

Who says Batman is only heartless?
The gentleness and sense of responsibility inherent in this young man were never completely buried by the mire of Gotham.

He just hid it so well that even he himself often forgot about it.

Peter took a deep breath, cleared his throat, and his deep, husky voice broke the brief silence. His gaze pierced through the swirling smoke and landed on Bruce's face. "Happy Halloween, Bruce."

Bruce's body trembled almost imperceptibly.

Peter's words were like a pebble thrown into a calm, deep pool, the ripples that instantly spread to the softest corner of his heart.

He looked up and met Peter's gaze.

Those deep eyes seemed to flicker for a moment in the firelight.

Bruce opened his mouth, as if to respond with the same simple blessing, but his throat felt as if something soft and warm was blocking it.

"godfather……"

Bruce's voice was lower and hoarser than usual.

He wanted to say something, but felt something blocking his throat.

Just then, Alfred pushed the door open and entered at the perfect moment.

He carried an elegant silver tray with three steaming cups of hot cocoa, exuding a rich, sweet aroma.

He then gently placed the tray on the coffee table, his movements elegant and silent.

"Hot cocoa, hopefully it will ward off some of the chill, little ladies."

Alfred spoke gently to Ceressa and Mordred.

Mordred cheered, immediately put down the gift Bruce had given her, and turned to drink her hot cocoa.

Ceresia also thanked her politely.

She carefully picked up the cup and blew on the steam rising from it.

Bruce withdrew his gaze from the girls and returned it to Peter's face.

The only sounds in the study were the crackling of the fireplace and the soft slurping of hot cocoa by the girls.

Bruce's gaze passed over Peter and landed on an inconspicuous old photograph on the study wall.

That was him as a child, dressed in a tiny pirate outfit, flanked by Thomas Wayne and Martha Wayne.

Father Thomas wore a hearty smile, while Mother Martha smiled gently as she straightened little Bruce's crooked tricorn hat.

"before……"

Bruce's voice was soft, carrying a distant and precious nostalgia, as if he were talking to himself, or perhaps confiding in Peter, "On Halloween, the manor gates were always open, and my mother would dress me up as a vampire."

A slight smile unconsciously crept onto his lips.

"They were always together, holding my hand, standing at the door, handing out the mountain of candy Alfred had prepared to each child who knocked... Father would deliberately use an exaggerated tone to scare people, while Mother would stand beside her with a gentle smile, secretly slipping an extra handful of candy to the timid children..."

Bruce paused, his gaze shifting from the photograph back to Peter's face, where a nostalgic smile was tinged with an indescribable bitterness and loneliness.

"Back then, the hall was filled with children's laughter, candy wrappers crunched underfoot, and the air was filled with the sweet aroma of caramel apples and chocolate bars. It was so lively, it didn't feel like Gotham at all."

Peter listened quietly without interrupting.

He stared at Bruce with a deep and complex look in his eyes.

He could clearly feel the heavy longing in Bruce's words, the deep yearning for the warmth of a family that had long since been broken.

This longing, like a wound that never heals, lies hidden beneath his hardened exterior.

At this moment, on this desolate Halloween night, with Ceresa and Mordred unexpectedly intruding, Bruce's wound seemed to be gently touched, revealing a rare tenderness.

"later……"

Bruce's voice trailed off, his gaze sweeping once more over the empty silver platter before settling on Ceresa and Mordred, who were sipping their hot cocoa with contentment.

"All that remains here is... silence."

Peter paused for a moment after hearing Bruce's words.

He then took half a step forward and extended his hand.

Without saying anything more, he simply patted Bruce on the shoulder lightly.

Peter's voice was low and husky, yet warm: "Sometimes, Bruce."

Peter glanced at his two daughters, who were chattering about which gift was cooler, and said, “It is these scars we have that have made us who we are, and those are all in the past.”

His gaze returned to Bruce. "Your father... Thomas, if he saw you tonight, saw you like this... he would be proud of you, and so would your mother, Martha."

Bruce's body stiffened again.

The phrase "He will be proud of you" was like a key, instantly unlocking a deeply locked gate. A surge of emotion rushed to my nose, stinging my eyes with a bittersweet sensation.

He lowered his eyes almost immediately, his thick eyelashes casting a small shadow under his eyes, concealing the almost uncontrollable emotional fluctuations he experienced in that instant.

Bruce took a deep, almost inaudible breath, forcibly suppressing his surging emotions deep within his heart.

When he looked up again, the turmoil in his eyes had subsided, returning to its usual depth and calm. But beneath that calm, something hard seemed to be quietly being warmed.

Bruce looked at Peter and thanked him with a complicated expression: "Thank you, Godfather, and Happy Halloween."

Peter withdrew his hand and patted Bruce's arm: "Alright, kid, have fun on the holidays, the hot cocoa's going to get cold."

Bruce nodded slightly, a relieved and warm smile finally appearing on his lips.

He walked to the coffee table, a smile playing on his lips, and began to talk to Ceresa and Mordred.

The chill of Gotham seemed to be completely shut out.

The long and desolate Halloween night at Wayne Manor was finally filled with a belated warmth.

Alfred walked over to Peter, glanced at Bruce who was talking to the two little girls with a smile on his face, and said to Peter with relief, "This is the happiest Halloween I've seen the young master have since he lost his parents. Thank you, Mr. Patrick, you gave the young master an unforgettable Halloween."

Peter smiled at the butler. "Me too, this is the most unforgettable Halloween for me."

Standing at the window, Peter's gaze passed over the darkness, looking towards the Gotham night shrouded in Halloween.

Tonight is going to be a really long Halloween!

Late at night.

As Halloween draws to a close, Kent Farm.

Clark, who had just finished attending Halloween at his godfather's house, returned home to rest.

So much has happened on this long Halloween night, and his emotions are still running high.

Lying in bed, Clark finally drifted off to sleep in the early hours of the morning.
As soon as he entered a dream, a different dreamscape unfolded before his eyes.

On a summer night in Kansas, the air is thick and sticky, as if it's soaked in honey.

A well-worn but gleaming Ford pickup truck drove smoothly along the road leading to Smallville High School.

The car headlights cut through the deep twilight, like a stubborn firefly, heading towards a grand ceremony marking the end of youth.

Clark sat in the back.

He wore a slightly stiff-tailored black tuxedo, his bow tie carefully adjusted by his mother, Martha.

But now Clark felt like this thing was an invisible rope, making it hard for him to breathe.

Clark's broad shoulders tucked in slightly, as if trying to shrink himself even smaller in the limited space, his slender fingers unconsciously twisting together.

The familiar fields and fences rushing past the window could not soothe the unease deep within his heart.

Tonight is the school's graduation ball.

A night filled with hormones, neon lights, and unrestrained laughter for most teenagers in Smallville.

But for Clark, the meticulously decorated stadium, the deafening music, and the crowded people under the rotating colored lights all felt like a huge and unfamiliar alternate dimension.

He felt out of place, awkward and heavy, at the ball.

He could hear the faint rumble of bass cannons coming from the stadium in the distance, imagining the smell of sweat and perfume mixed inside, and the clamor of "ordinary people" that he could never truly belong to.

A familiar sense of loneliness crept in like cold vines.

The inside of the car is another world.

It was warm, safe, and filled with an atmosphere that Clark knew and relied on.

Father Jonathan Kent held the steering wheel firmly.

Through the rearview mirror, he clearly caught the lingering tension and loneliness in his son's eyes.

Jonathan decided to talk to his son.

"Hey, Clark."

Jonathan's voice broke the silence in the car, "Don't let the lights and noise fool you, remember who you are."

He paused, his gaze fixed firmly on his son through the rearview mirror. “I’ve seen how you soothe a frightened calf, how you help the neighbors reinforce the roof of their barn before a storm, how you quietly pick up a mailbox that’s fallen over by the roadside… You understand the weight of responsibility and kindness better than anyone else, and that’s far more precious than a dance.”

Clark looked up and met his father's eyes in the mirror, eyes brimming with undisguised pride.

“Your mother and I,” Jonathan’s voice was slightly hoarse, “and your godfather, we watched you grow up, we know what’s in your heart. It’s not cowardice, Clark, you still don’t know how to use your power.”

(End of this chapter)