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Here is the thing about removing spray paint. It is hard.
He tried all of the methods. He dumped every chemical that was stocked away in the closet at it. He scrubbed with green scratchies, lemon juice and rubbing alcohol. It sort of worked, he worked slowly at it with some kind of putty knife -he’s not sure what it is, he got it from downstairs- and it’s scraping off. Then he looks over at his looming vandalism masterpiece. It’s going to take too long.
This acetone stuff though, it’s promising. He’s not sure what to do with it, he dumps it on the spray paint and lets it sit. Then he comes with a rag. It’s working, but also horrifyingly it’s taking off the varnish. It basically smears stuff around.
At this point the most logical solution is to sand and polish the floors. But that also requires a lot more than he realized. He doesn’t know much about carpentry, he just never had to. When something needed fixed someone was called and he would hole himself away until they were gone.
Maybe paint stripper will work, he has used it before for other projects in the basement. It is quite nasty though, it requires proper ventilation, which he learned after Alfred happened upon him using it and gave him a stern talking for being such an imbecile. The fumes would be strong and surely draw the attention of someone. As if the nauseating smell of acetone hasn’t caught the attention of someone.
Alfred is going to come home and kill him. Maybe he should buy some tool online. A sander or something. He has to be the one to clean this up. In the moment, mind fogged by the accusations, his world being wrecked and torn and thrown upside down, there wasn’t anything to lose. Now thought he sees clearly, he could lose his life or worse Alfred. This could be the thing that makes him throw his hands in the air and give that weary sigh. It makes Bruce scurry ever faster in finding a solution.
He doesn’t have time to order some hopefully magical tool. With the flooding and the shortages, a sander to fix his idiotic mistake isn’t important. Instead he grabs sandpaper from downstairs, and he scours for any kind of stain. He’s never been into wood crafting so his best chance is the maintenance closest. He gives poor Dory a good old scare when it isn’t scrawny and frail Fredrick coming from the dark hallway.
Bruce looks back at her wide eyed with several cans (most of them half empty) teetering in his grasp. One tucked under his chin to keep the stack from falling. It’s late, or more appropriately early. As much as he would love to crash into his bed, he can’t sleep. Insomnia. He knows it too well. Dory probably just woke up, and she looks upon him worried and frowning.
He skitters away before she can say a word. He locks himself away, the staff leaves him alone anyways. They know he has odd hours, he is just eccentric to them. The child that they still have to pick up after. They never really see him often, because he is always locked away.
He lets out a breath of relief, door closed behind him, and cans tumbling to the floor. The morning is filtering into the room. The soft gray light refreshing him with energy. He works in the silence. The city has been quieter in the past couple weeks. The seas claiming her, down below, far below, the water sloshes at their feet, up here he is dry. Up here he hangs with the confessions.
He sands away at the evidence of himself on the floor, sands away the spiraling thoughts expanding across the floor, leaving only Bruce Wayne in the center. It’s time consuming and meticulous, but a lot easier than microwaving whatever solution the Ms. Sunshine blog has to say.
His hip absolutely screams with him on his knees scrubbing away at the remains of the corruption, at the ruined legacy. He was so naive. He burnt the photos, he has copies somewhere deep on one of the many hard drives.
Even if he knows the truth, others don’t. The Riddler didn’t, and it’s his words that they heard. Falcone is dead; he can’t prove his family’s innocence. Alfred was right, how far he has let their legacy fall. He sands away at the proof of his sins.
He’s tired and his whole body aches, and he’s been going out every night. He’ll be damned though if Alfred comes home to the half sanded floor and the many swatches of stains. Even if it means he locks the house staff out as he leans over the floor pushing the rag with stain around.
The internet is really useful for things like this. He can synthesize antidotes, build cars, fight proficiently, but he can’t for the life of him know how to stain a floor. He needs some kind of varnish to go on top of it, but he doesn’t have time for that. He’ll have to do that at some point later.
He has made a deathly mistake. Finding a matching stain is nearly impossible. Sanding the floors has rubbed away all imperfections, it makes them look fresh and new. It sanded away the scars of use. Bruce wishes he could sand away his own scars, but he knows that Alfred knows those scars. Alfred will know something is amiss, and he should be fine to come home soon. Days. He may come home tomorrow.
He really should have just stuck to the scraper and the whatever concoction, he’s created even more damage. He seems to have a pension for that. It’s too late now, might as well keep going.
He just chooses the best match and hopes that there is enough left.
Stains dry a different color. It’s false marketing if you ask him. He only sanded the areas with the paint, to keep as much of the old intact. To keep the remains of his family, and to help stretch the stain. It looks like a wreck. There is dust everywhere, and his body is aching ready to collapse just out of sheer necessity.
He can’t stay awake any longer, so he crawls to his bedroom quickly to not draw attention succumbs to the sheets. He should have been the one to bring Alfred home, but he was asleep. He groggily pulls himself from too short of a sleep, his mind too boggled to think straight. Panic sets in when he sees the wheelchair parked outside of Alfred’s room. Dory comes from behind, almost startling him, “He came home this afternoon.” Maybe if Alfred just doesn’t come in to the room then he’ll avoid his wrath. Yeah that’s real wishful thinking.
Bruce pleas him to stay on bed rest, all he gets is a stern glance. Just as much as he can’t stop Bruce, Bruce can’t stop Alfred. Maybe that is where he got his stubbornness from. It’s absolutely infuriating, because if Alfred gets hurt when he is out Bruce is going to feel bad.
“What in tarnation have you done?” Bruce looks sheepishly at him. Hands clasped behind his back, giving him the best smile he has put upon in years. Like a young school boy trying to hide his mess.
Alfred looks with dismay at the blotchy attempt of covering his moment of impulse. It didn’t matter at that moment, nothing mattered anymore so what did it matter if he used the floor like a massive canvas. Now though he deeply regrets it standing under Alfred’s extinguishing gaze.
Alfred has a rug brought in to cover it, and Bruce looks emptily because why did he not think of that. He sinks in his chair, but he catches the small snort and amused smile of Alfred. He’s making fun of him, of his desperate attempts to cover his crime. Bruce wishes he could sink even further, to the core of the Earth.
Alfred never does have the floors properly refinished, instead he leaves the stains of Bruce’s touch on the floor of this castle. A spot in the tower that is finally Bruce’s.