Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

🦇

Bruce emptied out his new crayons onto the table. 

He’d managed to sneak away from one of the nannies. Bruce had been playing with the hose in the garden and aimed it towards her. Giggling when she shrieked and ran off, her new uniform soaked. He’d dropped the hose and ran back inside, not bothering to change out of his outdoor shoes as he hurried towards the storage room he knew his birthday presents were hidden in. 

“I would not do that if I were you.”

Bruce jumped up, his head whipping over to the voice. But he calmed down. It wasn’t Mother or Father. Just Alfie. One of the employees who were closer to the family than the others were. He was in charge of all the other staff members. 

“I’m only taking one.” Bruce justified, looking back to the mountains of wrapped gifts. Bruce knew one of the staff was tasked with buying and wrapping the presents, so even if he opened one and played with it, his parents would never even realise. They didn’t know what was under the wrappings either. 

“You’re being disobedient, Master Bruce.” Alfie said, hands behind his back and standing straight. “Nanny Evangelina found me and she was quite distraught. And now you have created more work for the poor cleaners with your muddy shoes.”

Bruce shrugged, too occupied looking for the least suspicious present. “She’ll be gone soon anyways.”

“I will have to report this to your Father.”

Now that got Bruce’s attention. “You can’t! It wasn’t my fault!”

Alfie raised a brow, “then who’s?”

Bruce pouted, “the sprinklers turned on. She’s lying if she said it was me.”

“Ah, is she? I suppose we’ll have to let her go then.” 

“Fine,” Bruce said and spotted a small enough present. “I’m turning six next week, Alfie. I can do what I want. Father can’t boss me around anymore.”

“Well, if you are so certain.”

And with that, Alfie turned and finally left Bruce alone. 

Now Bruce was enjoying his new birthday present. He’d brought some paper with him and made sure to double it in case the crayons made marks through the paper and onto the table. Mother was very angry the last time he made that mistake. 

He only got as far as drawing a little sun in the corner of his page when he heard loud footsteps near the door. 

An instant lump lodged itself in his throat. His chest fell heavy and his limbs weak. Bruce looked to the door, his Father appearing in sight. 

There were lines on Father’s forehead again. They weren’t there often. Usually the lines would be in the crinkles of his eyes, playing Bruce’s favourite Zorro games or teaching him how to swim in the indoor pool. 

But when the lines got on his forehead, Bruce wanted to cry. 

“I didn’t—” 

Bruce shut his mouth the moment Father’s eyes sharpened. He wasn’t supposed to make excuses. 

“You didn’t what?” Father pushed. 

Bruce felt his chin quiver. “I didn’t mean to, Father.”

“Didn’t mean to what?” He crossed his arms. 

The boy sniffed, feeling his eyes well up. “To steal my present.”

Father glanced over at the crayons. Bruce realised that Father probably hadn't even known.

“What else?”

“For…lying to Alfie and… and ruining Nanny’s dress.” Bruce revealed in a whisper and fidgeted with his thumbs. 

“Nanny’s dress, that’s what you did that has upset me. Poor Nanny was in tears. You do not spray people. That was very rude.” Father said sharply. 

Bruce hiccuped, tears spilling over onto his cheeks. “I’m sorry.”

Father shook his head and went towards the couch of the room, “come here.”

Bruce leaned away, “I’m sorry.”

“Now, Bruce.” Father snapped and sat down. 

Bruce, with wobbly legs, slipped off the chair and took tiny steps towards Father. “I’m sorry, please.” 

“I don’t want to hear it.”

Bruce stopped when he got close enough but that didn’t matter, Father grabbed his arm and pulled him closer. This was where Bruce’s willpower broke, struggling to get out of his grip. “I’m sorry!” 

His struggling did nothing against the grown man. Father pulled down his shorts gently, and Bruce didn’t have enough sense to be grateful he was allowed to keep his underwear on this time, before he was being laid over on Father’s lap.

“No!” Bruce screamed. No matter how many times they did this, or how many times Mother would kiss his forehead and explain that mature children didn’t cause this much fuss, Bruce could never be a good boy. He could never lay still. He always fought. His heart thundered. He didn’t know how to be good. “I’m sorry, Daddy, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

“Stop— Bruce, enough.” Father grumbled. 

Bruce felt Father pinning his kicking legs down by putting his own big heavy leg on top of Bruce’s little ones. Bruce wailed, burying his face into the sofa in front of him to muffle it, knowing he was ruining it with his tears and snot. He hoped the cleaner managed to fix it before Mother noticed.

He prepared himself as much as he could but the first spank still hurt. Bruce cried and cried as Father brought his hand down over and over. He knew he was bad. He was so so bad. Why couldn’t he just be good?

Bruce was still crying when he felt himself being shifted, Father pulling him up to sit him on his lap. The pitch of his cry sharpened when he was sat up on his sore bottom but that was a part of the punishment, wasn’t it? 

Father shushed him lovingly, wrapping his arms around Bruce and tucking his little body into him, resting his chin on Bruce's soft hair. “Shh, darling. All done now. Good boy, Brucie. Shhh”

Bruce leaned in and his small hands came to hold onto Fathers shirt, absently aware that he was ruining the ironing and getting his tears on it, but Father just pulled him closer, not caring about it when his baby was crying. 

“Oh, Bruce, I hate when you work yourself up.” Father sighed and rocked them sideways. “It’s okay now, it’s all better now.”

Bruce gasped through a sob. “I’m sorry, Daddy.” He choked out, his chest heaving. 

“Shhh, all's forgiven now. Good boy.” Father kissed the top of his head and pulled his shorts up to cover his bottom. “I love you, Brucie.”

When Father stood up, picking the boy up with him, Bruce closed his eyes as he tried to calm down while Father walked down the halls. 

“Alfred,” Father said in a soft whisper over Bruce’s head. “Can you freshen Bruce up for dinner?”

“Of course, Mister Wayne.” Bruce heard Alfie respond and kept his eyes shut as he was transferred from Father’s warmth to Alfie’s. 

“For the last time,” Father chuckled and clapped a hand on Alfie's arm. “Call me Thomas.”

“Of course, Mister Wayne.” Alfie said and Bruce heard the smile in his voice. “Come, Master Bruce. Let’s have you washed up.”

Bruce sniffed and snuggled his face into the crook of Alfie’s neck. “Sorry, Alfie.”

“It’s quite alright, dear boy.” Alfie said. “Why must you make such a fuss over something small?”

Bruce whined, “it’s not small.”

Alfie placed Bruce on the counter by the sparkling sink, Bruce winced at the pressure back on his bottom. Alfie found a washcloth, wetting it as he smiled fondly at the boy. “What isn’t, Master Bruce?”

“The punishment.” Bruce whined again. “It’s not small, it hurts.”

Alfie chuckled, tipping Bruce’s face up and wiping the tears off his face. “Does it now? Yes, love can hurt.”

Bruce pouted.

“Only parents who discipline their children truly love them, Master Bruce.” Alfred said gently, picking up a hairbrush. “You do not want to grow up to be spoiled. And either way, child, your father is so gentle with you.”

The young boy hummed, slumping as Alfie brushed his curls. 

“My own father, my, he’d never use his hand.”

Bruce perked up, he loved hearing Alfie’s stories. 

“He’d pick up a stick, a chimney poker or a cane, and he’d whack me with it till it tore my skin.” Alfie shook his head with a nostalgic smile. “You resent them at first, but he made me a good man.”

Bruce frowned, not liking that story that much. “Didn’t it hurt?”

“Of course,” Alfie put the brush away, searching through Bruce’s wardrobe for his evening wear. 

“Did you cry?” Bruce asked curiously. 

“Goodness, no.” Alfie found something suitable. “Men don’t cry, Master Bruce. If my father caught me crying then—” he paused, glancing over. “Let’s save that tale for when you’re older.”

“Oh, okay.” Bruce kicked his hanging legs back and forth. 

Alfie came closer to help Bruce out of his clothes and change. He took a quick glance and nodded. “Not a single mark on you. Your father is a good man, Master Bruce.”

Bruce smiled as he pulled his fresh shorts up. He was lucky. 

Mother opened her arms when she caught Bruce walking into the dining room. 

He ran over to her, climbing up onto her lap, nuzzling his face into her shoulder as he avoided putting any weight on his bottom. 

“Hi, darling. Your father says you were up to a little mischief.” She said, pecking the side of his head. 

“I said I was sorry,” he pouted. 

“Yes, well, you know he only wants what’s best for you.” She reminded him. “You shouldn’t have done that to your poor nanny. Miss Emilie didn’t appreciate it.”

“Miss Evangelina,” he corrected in a mumble. 

“Oh, was it? You go through so many it’s hard to keep track.”

“Do you think,” Bruce leaned back so she could look at him. “That maybe we could spend more time together while you look for a new one?”

She brushed a curl behind his ear and smiled, “my sweet baby, you know how busy your father and I are.”

“Yeah,” Bruce agreed. “But just while you’re lookin’.”

“Oh, but we already found one. I think you’ll like this one, she’s looked after lots of kids before.” Mother said delightedly. 

Bruce slumped, face falling. “Oh.”

“Oh, Thomas, you’re here. Let’s get on with dinner now, shall we?” She said, kissing Bruce’s forehead before scooting him off to stand on his own feet.

Dejectedly, Bruce held onto her offered hand as they made their way to the dining hall. 

He’d have to think of another plan to get his parents to spend more time with him. 

Two years later there was a film, and in one of Bruce’s many plans, he convinced his Father and Mother that it would be a fun evening out. 

“Master Bruce,” Alfie said softly as he sat down next to him. There was a beat of hesitation before Bruce felt a hand lay itself tentatively on his shoulder. “There is a matter at hand.”

Bruce didn’t want to talk. He wanted to turn back the clock. He wanted his mother and father. 

It was all his fault. 

“It’s the police, my boy. There’s the matter of where you’ll live now.”

That caught Bruce’s attention. Red, swollen eyes looked up at Alfie. “What?”

“You see,” Alfie’s face twisted. “There’s your Uncle Phillip Kane. If you wish, you could go stay with him and your cousin.”

Fresh, stinging tears filled Bruce’s eyes. No, no, no.

“Or!” Alfie’s hand came up placating and rushed, quite unlike himself in a panic. “Or you could stay here. But you will have no family to tend to you.”

Bruce rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand. “I can stay?”

“I would have to apply for your guardianship,” Alfred said with a shake of his head. “But would you not like to be with family?”

“No,” Bruce said. He didn’t know Uncle Phillip. They only met once in a family banquet, he barely counted as family. If Bruce was going to spend the rest of his life without any family, he wanted to at least do it with Alfie. “Can I stay?”

Alfie’s eyes shined wet. “Yes, my boy. We’ll stay together.”

🦇

Alfred had dealt with Master Bruce and his boisterous behaviour since the day he was born. But he had never dealt with any child after the tragedy of losing both of their parents in front of them. 

It was not any typical foster situation. Master Bruce was also mourning. Also hurt. And he was well aware that the eight year old was in a much deeper state of despair than Alfred was. So he let a lot of misbehaviour slide. 

He was Master Bruce’s guardian on paper because of his abnormally close bond with the Waynes. That did not imply that was in any way cut out for that position.

Master Bruce was quieter now. He kept to himself more. No one to beg for attention to. 

But Alfred noted that the depressive state shifted to something akin to anger. Master Bruce started snapping at the other employees more. Shouting at them and calling them names. 

Alfred decided it was time for them to leave. He had asked Master Bruce first, the boy was still his employer, and then all that was left was Alfred. 

So he began to take on the jobs of cooking and cleaning. He stumbled at first, throwing away burned dishes and tripping over all the laundry. However, as time passed, he became better. 

He also became better at managing the boy’s behaviour. At first, the majority of the issues were dismissed. Alfred’s soft heart reminding him over and over that the boy was grieving. Not only that, but he wasn’t the child’s father. He had no right over him. 

It wasn’t until Master Bruce’s teacher phoned and asked Alfred what he was going to do about the child’s behaviour. Reminding him that he was, in fact, his guardian. 

It was his responsibility. 

Master Bruce had been running down the halls. 

Alfred never asked what he was up to, but the nine year old was evidently busy. Sometimes, Master Bruce’s depression seemed to pass, an idea would pop in his head and he just had to do it. 

Letting the child be a child, Alfred busied himself with folding away clean clothes. 

“Master Bruce,” Alfred called as he heard the rushing of steps, “please refrain from running indoors.” He reminded him. 

And he was, as usual, ignored. 

He was about to finish putting away the last of it when he heard a crash. 

“Bruce!” Alfred cried, dropping whatever was in his hands and hurrying out the room. 

The boy stood still, back ramrod straight, but otherwise unharmed. 

Alfred had a hand on his chest, trying to calm his violent heart. On the carpeted floor beside Master Bruce was an antique vase. Smashed into bits, flowers scattered and water seeping into the carpet. 

A flash of anger hit Alfred. “I had informed you not to run inside.”

He watched something similar shine in Master Bruce’s eyes. “It’s my house.”

That had Alfred raise a brow. The boy never lifted a single finger to help. At the very least, Thomas and Martha contributed to the running of the household. Yes, the child was allowed to be a child. But some gratitude was expected. 

Alfred refused to raise a spoiled heir. 

“If it is your house then I will fetch you a dustpan and brush and allow you to clean your mess.” He nodded. 

The boy folded his arms, glaring at Alfred. “No. You do it.”

“Excuse me?” Alfred felt his eye twitch.

“I’m your boss, so you do it!” Master Bruce said, stomping a foot. 

That was it. 

“I will not speak to a spoiled child.” Alfred said and turned away. He marched straight to one of the Manor’s cleaning cupboards and retrieved a dustpan and brush as promised. Then he came back, the boy was still standing there, arms crossed and a scowling red face. He was expecting something, and Alfred refused to give it. He just dropped the items, and walked away. 

He went back to the room, picking up the clothes he had dropped. He was putting them all back into the basket when Master Bruce walked up to the doorway.

“Alfie?” He asked. 

But Alfred picked up the basket and turned, walking out as if he had not heard anything. 

“Alfie, wait.” Master Bruce followed him. They passed by the mess in the hall. They ended up in Master Bruce’s bedroom and in his walk-in cupboard. Alfred mechanically folded up each item and set them in their rightful places. 

“Aren’t you gonna say anything?” Bruce asked. Walking around to peer at his face. 

Alfred ignored him. 

Out of his peripheral vision, he noticed Master Bruce’s face turn red. 

“Fine!” He shouted. “Go away!” 

Despite his words, it was Master Bruce who marched off. Where he went, considering they were in his bedroom, Alfred wasn’t sure. But he kept his feet firm, determined to let this lesson stick. 

As dinner approached, Alfred placed Master Bruce’s plate in the dining room before the boy could appear and left before their paths could cross. Choosing to eat his meal elsewhere.

When he went to fetch the plate, he noticed it was hardly touched. The boy wasn’t starving otherwise he’d have finished his food. Master Bruce’s mind must be elsewhere and Alfred hoped it was on this lesson. 

Alfred did not go to remind Master Bruce of his bedtime, nor did he tuck him in. 

The next day, Alfred ensured that whenever he heard the nine year old’s feet, he had somewhere else to be. Avoiding the child entirely. He still placed every meal on the table, but otherwise made sure there was no interaction. 

The third day, Alfred was in the kitchen making lunch. The pot so loud, he failed to hear Master Bruce until the child was near him. 

Alfred made sure to go around the kitchen, not paying him any attention. 

“Alfie?” Master Bruce said, his voice small as he fidgeted with his hands, a clumsy plaster on his finger. Alfred shoved away his concern. “I cleaned the mess.”

The meal was ready to be set to simmer, Alfred turned the flame low and put on a timer. 

“I’m really sorry.”

He wiped off his hands.

“Alfie?”

And left the kitchen. 

The fourth day, Alfred found a piece of paper on the kitchen counter. 

An amateur drawing of two stick figures, so obviously him and Master Bruce, holding hands. A little sun in the corner. 

He felt the presence of Master Bruce standing by the entrance. 

And as much as it hurt his heart, Alfred knew he needed to make a strong man of Master Bruce. 

So, making sure those eyes were still on him, he picked up the paper and tossed it in the bin. 

The fifth day, Alfred felt true pain in his chest. But he had to be strong. He had to be a good guardian for this boy. Good guardians disciplined their children. This was nothing compared to what his own father and teachers would do to him. 

He was in the conservatory when Master Bruce found him. Dusting the rarely used furniture. 

“Please,” Master Bruce was pulling on his coat, tears running down his face. “Please, I’m sorry. Please, just talk to me!”

Alfred lifted a cushion and fluffed it. 

“Alfie!” Master Bruce shrieked through his heaving chest. “Look at me! I’m here! Please, look! I won’t be spoiled anymore. Alfie, talk to me, please.”

Ignoring the child tugging at his clothes, Alfred bent over to dust some shelves. Trying to dismiss the pain in his gut. He also needed to remind himself to have Master Bruce trim his nails. They were getting quite long. 

“I’ll never ever do it again. I won’t run inside anymore. I’ll never ever ever do it! I’ll clean up my messes always. I’m sorry, Alfie, please, just look at me!” 

Deeming the conservatory clean enough, Alfred walked away. 

Master Bruce shrieked and fell on the floor, crying in his hands. 

As Alfred swallowed down the lump in his throat, he thought that the boy needed to learn to grow up. 

The sixth day, Master Bruce followed him in the shadows. Keeping to himself. Alfred pretended he wasn’t there. 

On the seventh day, Master Bruce did not seek out Alfred. 

By the end of the week, Alfred decided it was time. 

He went into Master Bruce’s bedroom early in the morning. The child was still asleep, curled up in his rather large bed. 

He sat himself on the edge, and ran a hand through Master Bruce’s curls.

Master Bruce’s face twitched, but as he continued to card his fingers through his hair, the child blinked awake. 

Abruptly, he became aware and shot himself upright, large wide eyes staring at Alfred. 

Alfred suppressed a fond chuckle at the reaction but allowed himself a small smile. “Did you have a good sleep, Master Bruce?”

Master Bruce’s jaw dropped and the next thing Alfred knew, the child had thrown himself onto Alfred, small arms wrapping around to cling to him. 

Alfred caught himself from falling back, arms coming around to brace his employer. “Oh, dear!”

The child was sobbing loudly, fat tears rolling down his cheeks as he wailed. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry!”

Alfred tsked and pushed Master Bruce away gently. “Calm yourself, child. What a few days of no attention has done to you. Tell me, what have you learned?”

Master Bruce’s eyes widened, anxiety evident on his face as his brain searched for the right answer. As if he was worried that Alfred would repeat the punishment. 

Good. It worked. He was rather proud of himself. That pride did little to soothe the ache of doubt in his chest however. 

“I… I was running in the halls and— and then I also broke a vase and then I was rude. And I shouted at you. And I didn’t listen. And I was spoiled. And… and…”

“That’s quite enough,” Alfred said, feeling bad for the poor boy. “And you made quite a fuss over something so small.”

Master Bruce sniffed, “what?”

“Men don’t cry, Master Bruce. Especially not for something as insignificant as no attention. That is the type of reaction you’d expect from a little girl.” Alfred once more shifted Master Bruce away, the boy still trying to cling on. Alfred pulled out a handkerchief, wiping Master Bruce’s round cheeks. “If you ever dislike something, I expect not to see you make such a commotion but rather take the punishment like a man.”

“But I’m not a man.” He frowned. 

“You need to practice being one.” Alfred said, “no one becomes an adult overnight. And it’s my job as your guardian to help you get there.”

“So… so when I didn’t follow you yesterday…”

“I was proud you had finally gotten bolder.” Alfred smiled. “Next time, you should try not to make such a fuss.”

Master Bruce’s chin quivered. “Next time?”

“As I said, no one becomes an adult overnight. It takes time and practice. I’ve been letting your misbehaviour slide for too long.” Alfred said and stood up. “Come, shall we have breakfast together?”

Rubbing away the remnants of his tears with the back of his hand, Master Bruce nodded and slid off the bed. 

Before he could reach for Alfred’s hand, the butler pulled it away. Master Bruce was getting far too old for hand holding. 

🦇

It was a cold day, windows rattling and snow building up in the roads. Alfred had been enjoying the cosy weather, letting Master Bruce indulge in festive fun. 

He’d so far made hot chocolate and together they created a gingerbread house. Alfred changed the young Master’s wardrobe to include more winter themed sweaters. They even built a snowman outside. 

It was a joy to see the ten year old allow such frivolities. The young boy missed the last few Christmas years, preferring to stay in his darkened room. But this year Alfred persisted. He did not want Master Bruce to grow up and resent how much he missed out on. 

Alfred still wasn’t able to convince the young Master to invite his school friends for a Christmas party but perhaps one day the table would be full again.  

Master Bruce had been in a lovely mood this morning before the kitchen radio chimed in an advertisement to do with spending ‘Christmas with families’, so the child was now back to his gloomy self. 

Handily, Alfred had purchased a Christmas special of Zorro. 

“Really?” Master Bruce grinned, “I thought they were going to stop making new films.”

“I suppose their audience convinced them to reconsider.” Alfred suggested. 

He’d never admit to Master Bruce that he had written to the producers the day the weepy boy told him, adding a small check that should keep their motivations high. 

“Will you watch it with me?” Master Bruce asked. 

Something in Alfred’s heart tugged to say yes but… it was too personal to do so. “You see—”

“Please, Alfie?” Master Bruce tilted his head with a hopeful look. “It’ll be fun?”

Alfred sighed, mind and heart battling. “Oh, alright. Just this once.”

Master Bruce bit back a cheer but he grinned, getting comfortable on the couch. Alfred went over to the single armchair. They should maintain some boundaries. 

The film was a success to Master Bruce’s mood. Alfred smiled to himself as he washed the dinner’s dishes. He could hear the boy’s shouts and cheers as he jumped on furniture, having donned his Zorro costume. 

It was adorable when Master Bruce had first worn it years ago, back when his parents were still alive. They offered to buy him the real thing but he was more than content in the silly home-made costume that he had made himself. Having found a silk pillowcase for a cape and an old black cowboy hat. He’d even cut out a flimsy domino mask from a T-shirt, much to Alfred’s disdain. 

Drying off his hands, he realised it was late and Master Bruce had to go to bed. He went to the television room to remind him but frowned when the boy wasn’t there. 

“Master Bruce?” He called out and walked down the corridor. “Master Bruce, it is time for bed.”

Checking through each room he passed, he finally got to the library when he spotted Master Bruce. 

Except Master Bruce wasn’t jumping on the couch or sliding his socks on the wooden floor. Instead he was high up. High on the bookcase. Too high. 

“Master Bruce!” Alfred shouted. 

His voice startled the lad who wobbled, wide eyed, but thankfully he steadied himself. Master Bruce then hurriedly climbed down the shelves. 

“I was only playing.” He was quick to lament. “I wasn’t going to fall.”

But Alfred was too busy trying to breathe. His heart thumping through his ribcage. Images of the boy’s head open on the floor. A small grave beside his parents’. 

“Alfie, I’m okay. I didn’t mean to.”

“What,” Alfred forced himself to say. “Do you think you were doing?”

Master Bruce had the decency to look down at his feet, pulling off his pillowcase of a cape and tugging his hat off. “I was pretending to be Zorro. Fighting bad guys. You know…” 

Zorro. It was all Alfred’s fault. He’d gone and encouraged Master Bruce to enjoy such childish things like films about masked vigilantes. 

Whatever was on Alfred’s face had Master Bruce clutching the Zorro hat in front of him, as if it was a shield between him and the world. 

“You do not,” Alfred snapped. “Put yourself in danger like that.”

That was when Master Bruce scowled, looking back up at Alfred. “I wasn’t in danger, I knew what I was doing.”

Alfred’s head was swimming. Master Bruce thought it was alright. He would do it again. He would slip. He’d end up dead. Alfred would lose his the little boy. 

He barely realised it when he grabbed Master Bruce by the wrist and stormed off towards the boy’s room. The costume left behind. 

“Alfie!” He shouted and Alfred felt a small hand try to pry his stronger one off. “Ouch, let go!”

Instead, Alfred dragged him down the halls and up the stairs. An ex-soldier was not defeated by scrambling little fingers. 

Each step felt like a march through ice; his heart twisting when he imagined what it would’ve been like had Master Bruce slipped. 

By the time they had arrived at the bedroom, Master Bruce had stopped struggling and instead was trying to keep up with Alfred’s large steps. The flimsy Zorro mask had fallen off at some point on their journey. Alfred hit the light switch with a loud sound that had Master Bruce flinching. The child perhaps thinking some other punishment was to occur. Perhaps a repeat of Thomas’ preferred method. But no, Alfred was not in that position. He was not the boy’s father. 

“In.” Alfred ordered stiffly, pulling the child into the ensuite bathroom and placing him in front of the tub. 

Master Bruce stared at him in utter confusion. “Huh?”

“In.” Alfred repeated and put his hands on Master Bruce again, helping him to quickly climb into the tub. The lad stumbled in fully clothed, slipping once on the sleek porcelain. Alfred pushed down on his shoulder until he was sat and then without warning, before Master Bruce could question him, turned on the shower. 

The child yelped, flinching away from the cold water hitting his face but there was not much space to move anywhere. 

Alfred adjusted the shower head so it sprayed directly onto Master Bruce. Next, he turned on the bath tap and fitted in the plug so that the water would fill. 

“Alfie!” Master Bruce scrambled to stand. 

Alfred whipped his head towards Master Bruce. 

He did not know what look he had on his face, what his eyes showed, but whatever it was had Master Bruce flinching harder than the cold water had and the boy sat back down. 

“You are too old for make-belief fairytales, Master Bruce.” Alfred informed him. It was his own fault the child did not know. “You will no longer perform these dangerous stunts such as… climbing and jumping on furniture. Do you understand me?”

Master Bruce stared up at him. His arms having come around to hold himself as tiny trembles took over his body. The shower water hitting his skin, his clothes getting soaked. The freezing water filling the tub slowly.

He looked up at Alfred like he was confused. Like Alfred was in the wrong. 

The butler took a step closer. “Do you understand me?”

The shaking grew stronger but Master Bruce still nodded his head. 

A weight felt like it had lifted off of Alfred’s chest. The fear dissipating somewhat. 

But he still needed to make sure the lesson would stick. 

He went towards the bathroom window and shoved it open, letting the cold December wind in. Then Alfred made his way to the door. He turned to look at Master Bruce, the boy watching with wide, teary eyes. But he wouldn’t cry. Alfred knew he had matured enough to not cry anymore. 

“Stay.” He ordered, and shut the door behind him. 

Alfred watched the clock, having sat on Master Bruce’s bed. He wanted to burst in, to pick the child out of the freezing tub. But he needed Master Bruce to know he was wrong. He never wanted to feel that fear again. 

Once an hour had passed, Alfred’s eyes finally darted away from the clock. It had been long enough. He wanted Master Bruce’s punishment to be over. It was hurting him just as much as it must be hurting the lad. 

He found Master Bruce’s pajamas and set them aside. As he approached the bathroom door he noted the water seeping out from the crack of the door. “Oh, dear Lord.”

He opened the door. “You hadn’t thought to turn it off?”

Master Bruce quickly rubbed his face despite the shower directly spraying it and turned his head slightly to look at Alfred. The eleven year old was holding himself tight. Teeth chattering loudly, body shaking violently. 

“I d-d-didn’t think I w-was allowed t-to.” He stuttered. 

Carefully, Alfred stepped through the water and turned off the shower and tap. He made a face when he felt the water soak into his socks. A strong breeze blew in and he shuddered, closing the window next. 

“Come, child. I am sure you learned your lesson.” He said, grabbing a towel and approaching the boy. 

Master Bruce nodded through his tremors and reached out, holding onto Alfred’s forearms for balance as he climbed out. 

Alfred was cautious not to let the splashing water fall on him and as soon as Master Bruce was unsteadily standing, he let go, suppressing a shudder. The child was too cold to touch so Alfred wanted to avoid it. Master Bruce followed him out, teeth clattering and arms tight around himself. Alfred gestured to the clothes on the bed. “Change, dear boy. Leave your wet clothes in the bathroom. It is too late to deal with the mess now.”

Stepping out, Alfred sighed. He wished it wasn’t so challenging to be a guardian. He simply wasn’t good enough. He didn’t know what life lesson he missed that could explain how to raise a child. He frowned as he felt himself grow cold from his wet socks. He was not a fan of being cold. 

He knocked once on the door before letting himself back in. Master Bruce was stood still, hair wet but clothes dry. Still shivering violently. 

Alfred grabbed the towel he forgot to give the boy and approached, rubbing it into his hair. Master Bruce leaned in but Alfred shifted away as he dried him, the child was still much too cold to touch. 

Deeming him dry enough, Alfred gestured to the bed. Master Bruce wasted no time climbing in, trembling and shaking. 

The child’s eyes were red. Alfred supposed that showers tended to do that. 

Alfred settled down next to Master Bruce and pulled the blanket up to his chin, tucking him in. “There,” he breathed. “Oh, my boy. You worried me terribly.”

“S-sorry.” Master Bruce whispered. 

“I don’t want you having any more ideas like that. You could’ve been hurt.” Alfred waited a beat before trying his earlier triggering statement. “You do not put yourself in danger like that.”

Master Bruce swallowed thickly and shook his head frantically. “I won’t. P-promise.”

“Good.” Alfred sighed and bit the inside of his cheek. He wanted to show affection to the child, the little bit of care that tended to have Master Bruce look at him in his childlike wonder. He held himself back, he didn’t want either of them to get attached. 

But… perhaps as it was the Christmas season. 

Tentatively, Alfred lifted a hand. Master Bruce watched it carefully. The man brought it to the boy’s forehead, his skin somewhat warmer now. He ran his nails through Master Bruce's hair, scratching his scalp lightly. 

The swollen, red eyes flickered, blinking suddenly sleepily. 

In the tender moment, Alfred hummed. “I have discarded your costume.”

The sleepy eyes widened, now attentive. “What?”

“It was making you reckless. I need you to be safe. You’re much too old for things like that.” Alfred said softly. 

Master Bruce only stared at him, not yet understanding. 

“Bruce,” he said, dropping the formality. It appeared to be effective as the child blinked. “I can’t lose you. I can’t bury you.”

The lad blinked a few more times before nodding solemnly. “I won’t play like that anymore.”

Finally, all of Alfred’s fear flew away. They would be okay. “I will see you tomorrow, my child. Rest for now.” He promised, running his hand once more through his curls. 

Master Bruce did not say anything more and Alfred assumed he must’ve been falling asleep. Turning on his nightlight, Alfred left him be. Trying to convince himself that the tightness in his chest was not paternal love. 

🦇

“Good afternoon, Master Bruce.” Alfred greeted as the boy slid into the backseat. “How was school?”

“Fine.” He mumbled, glaring out the tinted window. 

Alfred started the car, joining the traffic in the road. “Good heavens, say no more.” He teased. “Fine? Fine? We need to alert the president.”

Through the rearview mirror he caught the eleven year old’s lip twitch in a smile before Master Bruce corrected himself, sitting straight. “Quit it.”

“However can I? Your day was ‘fine’! We should put up a banner. Shall I arrange a cake?”

Master Bruce coughed, trying to catch his laugh. “Alright, it was a good day. Okay?”

Alfred chuckled. “I’m glad it was, Master Bruce. Did you enjoy your lunch?”

“Mmhmm,” he hummed tiredly. 

“Good.” Alfred smiled fondly. “Rest up, Master Bruce. Enjoy a nap. You have the upcoming weekend to recover.”

“Mmhmm.”

The weekend passed with no commotion. Master Bruce was in a regular mood, nothing interesting to note. It was the usual pace that Alfred had come to cherish in his role as a guardian. Doing his little household duties but also minding the boy, waking him up; preparing food to his liking; laundering his clothes and overthinking his birthday for next month. There was never any rest, but Alfred so enjoyed the feeling of laying in bed after a full accomplished day. 

Monday came along, another typical school day, and Alfred had just returned from the grocery store when he heard the landline ringing. 

Dumping the brown bags down, he cleared his throat and lifted the phone. “Wayne Residence, this is Alfred Pennyworth speaking. How may I be of assistance?”

“Hello, Mr Pennyworth, it’s Bruce’s English teacher. We met earlier at the start of the school year?”

Alfred steeled himself. School calls never went well. It always had him ending with him retrieving Master Bruce from school. A bruise or two painting the child’s skin from some fight. It always raised an argument between them, Master Bruce’s gloomy manner returning full force no matter what. The child could never control himself when his peers teased him. He needed to learn he could not punch his way through life. 

“Miss Miller, I remember. Has something occurred?”

“Bruce‘s class had an assignment that was due last Friday, an essay to include descriptive adjectives and adverbs, so I have a baseline of all the children’s understanding. Unfortunately, Bruce failed to provide any material. He hadn’t even started his essay.”

“Oh?” Alfred frowned. “He never mentioned this.”

“That’s troublesome,” Miss Miller agreed. “I gave him the benefit of the doubt and extended his deadline to this Monday. But it appears he thinks that his schoolwork is optional.”

Alfred was unable to keep the flush of embarrassment off his face. “I apologise, Miss. I had no idea.”

“Perhaps you should try to take more responsibility in making sure that Bruce manages his homework? I know you’re not his parent but you have taken a guardianship role, right?”

The flush intensified. He could almost picture Thomas in the corner, Martha on her favourite armchair. Both of them leading upon him in disappointment. Realising who they left their treasured son with. “I will make sure the assignment is completed.”

“Is by the end of this week satisfactory?”

“Indeed.” Alfred said, trying to make himself appear less irresponsible. “I apologise once more.”

“Children tend to slip from our grasps at times. They just need to be reminded of who is really in charge. Have a good rest of your day, Mr. Pennyworth.”

“And you M—” she had hung up. 

Alfred set the phone down, trying to calm away his embarrassment. How could Master Bruce have done this? Does he not realise how degrading it was to be spoken to like that? All for some adjectives?

Something would need to be done. 

That afternoon, Alfred picked Master Bruce up. He remained quiet. Not trusting himself to speak. 

He noticed Master Bruce’s gaze flicking over to him throughout the drive, not offering any words himself. 

When they arrived home, Master Bruce collected his bag from the car and followed Alfred into the kitchen. This was about the time Alfred would provide him with a snack before dinner. 

And on the table was Master Bruce’s snack. A plate with celery and peanut butter. But next to it was also a pencil and lined paper.  

Master Bruce sat on his chair uncertainly, watching the butler as he glanced at the blank page. 

“Miss Miller phoned,” Alfred revealed and immediately Master Bruce tensed up. “Do you know why?”

Master Bruce squirmed uncomfortably. “I already told her I’d do the essay, I just didn’t want to do the one she gave.”

“Do you have any idea how embarrassed I was?” Alfred scolded. “My ward looking like an irresponsible fool and who else’s fault would it be other than mine?”

“It has nothing to do with you!” Master Bruce argued. 

“Do you not know how the world works yet? It has everything to do with me! How you act outside of these Manor’s walls reflects on the man raising you.” 

“It’s a stupid essay!”

Alfred felt himself go cold. His scowl stern. “Do not use that language.” He turned around. “Eat your food and make a start on your assignment. I want to see at least a paragraph before you get out of your seat.”

What if others heard Master Bruce using bad language outside? Would they blame Alfred? Would they remove Master Bruce from his care? Claim he wasn’t a fit guardian?

The sound of a plate being pushed away reached Alfred’s ears. 

“I won’t do the stupid essay and I don’t want your stupid food!”

Alfred whirled around, his glare wide and angry. 

He had the sudden urge to correct the child. The need to shout and lose himself to get his point across. 

But then Master Bruce flinched away from his stare alone, and Alfred remembered himself. 

He took a breath to steady himself. He could never hurt this brilliant child. 

But he had to fix this somehow. He could not deal with another phone call. 

So he came forward and picked up the plate. “Very well.” He said to the child that was leaning away from him as far as possible. Expecting something else. “If you do not want my food, then you shall not have any until I see at least one paragraph.” He informed and stepped away. 

Hunger was a stern teacher. It was better that Master Bruce learned respect and discipline with him, rather than in the cruel outside world where failure meant more than a few tears. 

There was the sound of the chair legs scraping the tiles and then young feet running away. But Alfred ignored it, tossing the celery in the bin. 

As the night approached, Alfred heard uncertain steps make their way to the dining room and stop at the doorway. 

From where he was sitting in another room, Alfred turned the page of his book, not really taking in the words. 

He listened as the footsteps turned away, heavier, and went back to the bedrooms. 

Alfred wasn’t a liar. The dining table was bare. 

That morning, Master Bruce once more peeked into the dining room to find an empty table. 

Solemnly, he slid into the car, ready for school. 

Alfred reached his arm out, a few dollars in his hand. “Money for your lunch.” 

Cautiously, Master Bruce took the lunch money. “I thought…”

“I remember saying that I would not give you food. You may provide yourself with some.” Alfred turned the car on. He wasn’t a villain. He also could not have teachers questioning his guardianship if Master Bruce had no lunch for the first time. 

When the end of the school day came, Alfred waited for Master Bruce to join him in the car. 

The boy’s face was upset, his lips tilted down. 

Alfred ignored this, knowing full well this was the consequences of Master Bruce’s own actions. Saying nothing, Alfred drove them home as Master Bruce made himself comfy against the car door. 

They were nearly home when a very loud sound echoed in the vehicle. 

Alfred glanced at Master Bruce through the rearview mirror, watching the child blush as he made a ball of himself in embarrassment, his hands clutching his loud stomach. 

“Did you not have your lunch?” Alfred asked worriedly. 

Master Bruce turned more red, time stretching before he finally answered. “The other kids laughed when I joined the school lunch line.”

“So you did not eat?”

“I told the teacher I needed the bathroom.” He whispered. 

Alfred sighed, upset that Master Bruce had chosen to let the taunts get to him and hide in the bathroom stalls. “In that case, you better finish that first paragraph so that you can have some food. It’s been over twenty-four hours now since you last ate.”

Master Bruce said nothing. And when they arrived back at the Manor, he went straight to his bedroom, the blank paper still on the kitchen table. 

Silly stubborn boy. 

It was late. Alfie would definitely be asleep by now. Still, Bruce slipped on some socks. Not taking any chances. 

He tiptoed out of his room, holding his breath when he got close to Alfie’s bedroom. Bruce carefully went downstairs, grateful that the Manor had tiled stairs that wouldn’t creak. 

He knew he was being bad. He knew he would get in so much trouble if Alfie ever found out. But he couldn’t help but be bad. He drank lots of water but even then his stomach felt like it was caving in like… like the thing that the astronomer guy had just named… oh, a black hole! Space was super cool, especially the whole Cygnus X-1 deal that was all over the news. One day, Bruce would see a black hole in real—

A painful grumble ripped itself out from Bruce’s stomach and he bit his lip, hoping Alfie didn’t suddenly jump out of a corner from how loud it was. 

He knew he was bad. But he was so hungry. 

And he didn’t wanna write that essay. 

Alfie wouldn’t notice if a little bit had gone missing. Just a few biscuits. Bruce knew he was being bad. He was a thief. A criminal that Zorro would beat up. But maybe Zorro would understand…

Finally in the kitchen, Bruce made his way to the pantry where he knew Alfie stored the plain biscuits. He’d never realise those were missing. Bruce slowly, quietly, went to open the door. 

But it didn’t open. 

He tried to jiggle the handle one more time. 

His heart fell. 

Alfie had locked the food away. 

Bruce caught the whimper in his throat, clicking his jaw shut. Making sure not a single sound fell out of his mouth. Frantically, he rubbed away the tears from his eyes. Alfie couldn’t know that he cried. 

He looked over to the blank page on the table and bit his lip painfully. 

He didn’t want to write about it. 

Alfred frowned in concern when he noted the paper still had nothing on it. He shook his head and went to collect his jacket. Master Bruce came down the stairs, school bag in hand. Eyes red and swollen. The poor lad must be having trouble sleeping. Maybe nightmares again.  

Something tugged in his heart, it would be forty-eight hours this afternoon with no food. It hurt Alfred when Bruce was upset. He knew a little hunger was not about to kill anyone, but the boy was dragging his feet. 

Maybe… a little bit of toast would suffice. 

“Master Bruce,” Alfred sighed. 

The child kept walking towards the garage, acting as though Alfred hadn’t spoken. 

He cleared his throat pointedly, “Master Bruce.”

But Master Bruce kept walking, a scowl on his face.

With large steps, Alfred reached the child, grabbing him by the shoulder. “You will answer when I speak to you.”

Master Bruce pulled away, scowl hardening. 

“I said—”

“Why do you get to ignore me when you’re mad and I can’t?” The boy snapped. 

Alfred’s jaw dropped at the blatant disrespect. “I am the adult. You are the child. We are not friends. Do not speak to me in such a manner.”

“Then let me not speak.” Master Bruce frowned. 

“Enough of this attitude. To think I was going to forgive your earlier behaviour!”

“I don’t want your crappy forgiveness!”

Immediately, Master Bruce’s lips shut tight. As if realising his mistake. 

Alfred took a breath. And another. He put his hand in his pocket. Unsure what he would do with it otherwise. 

“Car. Now.”

The child ran off. 

Master Bruce needed to learn. Evidently, Alfred couldn’t give in. Not just yet. 

It was Alfred’s own fault that Master Bruce had developed such a bad attitude. Surely, children never behaved like this with their adults. So undignified and rude. Alfred couldn’t believe the words Master Bruce had used. Alfred would never have sworn even the most innocent curse word in front of his own father. He’d be whacked straight across the mouth before he could finish it. 

Though of course, the day Alfred raised a hand on Master Bruce would never come. Never would he harm his this child. 

But he knew, once Master Bruce flopped into the car that afternoon, limbs hanging clumsily, that the boy had not bought himself any lunch again. 

With a tut Alfred drove home in silence, occasionally glancing at the lad who had closed his eyes, skin slightly grey. 

When they reached home, Alfred had to wake Master Bruce up, closing his car door shut with a bang. It jolted the young Master up who blinked around in confusion as he gathered his bearings. 

Once he climbed out of the car, Alfred withheld a groan of frustration and laid a hand on the child’s shoulder, leading him back to the kitchen and the table with the blank page. 

“Begin.” Alfred ordered. “This is not negotiable.”

Master Bruce sat down gracelessly, picking up the pencil and staring at the paper. His hand was shaky from fatigue. Alfred turned around, grabbing a small saucepan and setting it on the stove, pouring in some milk and oats. 

When the mixture was ready, Alfred turned, Master Bruce’s pencil was on the lined paper, but he still hadn’t written a single letter. 

“Now.” Alfred demanded, word harsher than he had anticipated. 

Master Bruce’s shoulders rose up to his ears in a startle. 

Alfred shook his head and poured the contents into a bowl, plopping in a spoon and putting it down next to Master Bruce’s paper. 

Master Bruce’s gaze went to the bowl and Alfred watched as his nose crinkled. 

“I don’t like porridge.” He admitted.

“I know,” Alfred said, recalling the one time Master Bruce had consumed the same porridge once when he was sick and proceeded to vomit it out. “But if you were truly hungry, then that wouldn’t stop you.”

Master Bruce’s lower lip quivered for a moment and he bit his teeth, ducking his chin to his chest. 

“Write.” Alfred said. 

There was a moment before Master Bruce sniffed. Glancing up at the page with a hiccup. 

Finally, finally, the boy started to write. 

All it took was two days of keeping away food, and the child was remembering his good behaviour. 

Alfred sighed in relief, turning away to clean the dishes used to make the porridge. 

“Done,” Master Bruce's small voice revealed in a whisper. “I wrote a paragraph.”

Alfred checked over his shoulder, seeing that Master Bruce had indeed written a few lines of an introduction, his handwriting a little clumsy. 

“Well done, dear lad.” Alfred said just as softly. “I knew you were capable.”

He continued with the dishes, washing away the suds. 

“I… I wrote a paragraph.” Master Bruce repeated. “Can I please eat something?”

“You have your porridge.” Alfred reminded him, keeping his back to the boy. 

“But… I can’t eat that.”

Alfred shrugged, “if you were actually hungry, you would eat anything.”

“Alfred… I can’t. I really can’t.”

Minutes passed until Alfred heard the chair pushed back and Master Bruce retreating away. Alfred checked, drying off the pans, the bowl of porridge had remained untouched. 

No, there was only so much Alfred could give in. 

Hours passed and Alfred hadn’t even eaten his own meal, heart heavy over the fact that his ward was still hungry. But this time it was for no reason other than his own stubbornness. One could not survive on this earth being picky, no matter how much money they may have. 

It was past dinner time when Alfred heard dragged footsteps coming into the kitchen. He was sitting on the table writing a new grocery list for tomorrow’s shopping when Master Bruce walked inside. 

Wordlessly, Master Bruce pulled himself up on the chair and slumped, staring at the now cold porridge in front of him. Alfred said nothing, only reaching forward to take a scoop of porridge into the spoon and offer it to Master Bruce for him to take. 

Master Bruce accepted the spoon, his hand trembling with it, and stared at the glob of oats. 

Alfred watched as the eleven year old took a deep breath in and the food finally touched his lips. The butler kept in the sigh of relief, instead watching Master Bruce nibble at the edge of the spoon, eating a tiny bit of the porridge.

Before suddenly dropping the spoon back into the bowl with a loud clang, both hands coming to his mouth in an attempt to hold in a violent gag. 

Alfred tsked loudly, getting up to fetch a glass of water. “It is only porridge, Master Bruce. A fine nutritious dish. There is no need for such dramatics.” He set the water down, Master Bruce drinking it immediately. “A man is not choosy.”

Master Bruce’s face was red and his skin had a sheen of sweat. With bloodshot eyes, the child picked up the food again, and this time shoved the entire thing in his mouth. 

Alfred sat back and watched as Master Bruce shoved in spoon after spoon, as if trying to avoid tasting it. The thick porridge went down heavily, Master Bruce’s gags also delaying him from eating it quickly. Alfred had seen soldiers choke down worse rations without any theatrics. 

For once, Alfred made no comment to the tears sliding down Master Bruce’s stuffed cheeks. Excusing it as sweat for the child’s own dignity. 

All that effort and Master Bruce had only managed half the small bowl, the child pushing it away even though there was no chance he could be full. 

“Very well done, Master Bruce.” Alfred praised gently. 

The child breathed heavily, his hand grabbing the piece of paper and pencil, crinkling it as he did so. “Can I write the rest up in my room?”

Alfred smiled. “You may.”

That was all the permission he needed to scurry off. Alfred huffed an endeared chuckle. He was a sweet boy, silly but sweet. 

Alfred prepared Master Bruce’s favourite for breakfast. Eggs sunny-side up; a hot, juicy sausage and lightly toasted bread with a side of orange juice. 

The man smiled at the brightness on Master Bruce’s face when the child saw the dining table finally had a meal on it once again. 

The boy rushed over, dropping his school bag. “Thank you, Alfred!” He said and picked up his fork. 

“You’re very welcome, Master Bruce.” Alfred said, holding back from showing as much affection as he wanted to. 

He left to grab the car keys and his jacket instead. When he returned, Master Bruce was scarfing down the breakfast, barely leaving any room for breathing. 

Concerned, Alfred picked up Master Bruce’s plate and pulled it away.

The child froze, wide eyes looking up at Alfred, fork suspended in midair. 

“Slowly, Master Bruce.” Alfred reminded him, exasperated. “You’ll make yourself sick.”

He gave the plate back. With a small shake in his hand, Master Bruce continued eating. This time at a reasonable pace. Although his other hand had come up and was holding the plate rather tightly.

“I took the liberty of storing your lunch in your school bag. Have you written more of your essay?”

Master Bruce nodded frantically. 

“Good,” Alfred once again tried not to show too much affection, instead he fixed Master Bruce’s collar unnecessarily. “I’ll meet you in the car, lad.”

Master Bruce nodded again, shoving more toast in his mouth like he would never eat again. Alfred rolled his eyes at the dramatics. 

Master Bruce came to sit on the kitchen table, his after-school snack of celery and peanut butter ready for him. 

“Your last evening before your assignment is due.” Alfred reminded him. “Will it be completed?”

Master Bruce nodded fervently, taking a bite of his food. 

Alfred came up next to him, taking his fingers through Master Bruce’s hair to set it down again, his hair gel losing control after a long day. “About your choice of words this week, is there anything you would like to say to me?”

Master Bruce, chewed on his bite, his other hand coming to grip onto the plate of celery sticks protectively. He swallowed and his chin ducked down. “I’m sorry for swearing at you, Alfred.”

Alfred smiled. “Quite alright, child. Don’t do it again.”

Master Bruce came down the stairs, his school bag dragging behind him, eyes heavy. 

“Did you not have a good sleep, Master Bruce?” Alfred asked. 

Master Bruce shook his head. “But I finished my essay.”

Alfred refrained from making any comments on how it was technically a week late. That was not something a guardian should do. 

Later in the day, once Alfred was back after dropping Master Bruce and was vacuuming the carpets, the phone rang. 

Tension filling his veins, Alfred swallowed thickly and turned the machine off, he had a sinking feeling of who it may be. Darn it, he should have checked to make sure Master Bruce had actually finished his essay. But it wasn’t like the child to lie. 

The phone rang again and Alfred cleared his throat before he answered. 

“Wayne Residence, this is Alfred Pennyworth speaking. How may I be of assistance?”

“Mr Pennyworth, it’s Miss Miller from Bruce’s English class.”

A heavy weight built in his gut. To be judged based on his ability as a guardian twice by the same person made him feel rather dizzy. He grabbed onto the edge of the table and took a breath. “Miss Miller, did Master Bruce not complete his assignment? He ensured—”

“Oh no, he did.” She cut him off. 

Alfred paused. “He did?” Then what on earth was she calling him for?

“I just knew I wouldn’t get a chance to catch you after school so I wanted to give you a call. Bruce’s essay was astounding. Such talent in his descriptions. The adjectives and adverbs of the scenes really made the reader feel as though they were stepping into the page.”

“Oh,” a tidal wave of pride crashed into Alfred, tumbling away that earlier anxious weight. “I see.”

“He insisted that he hadn’t wanted to write it but that you were able to persuade him. I acknowledge that this time last week I may have been rude to you and I wanted to apologise if I might have offended you.”

“Ah, Miss Miller, not at all.” Alfred said. “It honestly showed me a gap in my own teaching. I never want Master Bruce to fall behind. I am glad the essay was satisfactory.”

“It was, didn’t you read it?” Her tone curious. 

With a start, Alfred slowly came to the realisation that he never asked what the title of the essay was, he only knew that it had to include some specific grammar tools. “I’m afraid I had to admit that I did not. What was the inspiration of the essay?”

“Well, with Halloween coming up, the title was ‘My Scariest Day.’ Bruce did a brilliant job. It sounds like something straight out of a horror movie.”

The wave of pride drifted away, replaced now with a numb blanket. Memories of Master Bruce declaring he wouldn’t touch the essay, that he would do any other title. “Was it?” He heard himself ask in the distance. “I’m happy to hear he completed it.”

“Yes, well I have to be going. Have a nice rest of your day. I hope you don’t mind me saying this, but you’re doing a good job, Mr Pennyworth. Take care.”

The line went dead before Alfred could think of a reply. Dazed, he put the landline down, staring at the back of his hand. Mechanically, he picked the vacuum back up, turning it on. 

It’s not as though he would’ve made Master Bruce write such a story if he had just shared the title. If he opened up to Alfred and had told him, maybe Alfred would have had a conversation with his teacher. 

But no, that could not be done. Master Bruce needed to learn that he had to face his fears. Alfred wouldn’t be around forever, fighting his battles. He needed to make sure he molded Master Bruce into the strong man he was slowly becoming. And look where this challenging week had gotten them, a personal phone call from the school to praise the child. 

Master Bruce needed this. With time and grit, they’d get him there. 

Thomas and Martha wouldn’t have accepted anything less. 

🦇

When the newspapers arrived, Alfred threw them out. 

In no way was he about to entertain such headlines. Questions wondering where the Wayne Heir was hiding. Why he hadn’t been seen in any socialising events. As though he was not a child. 

Apologies - a teenager. 

Any implication that Master Bruce was a child ended up in an annoyed huff and a hormonal “I’m fourteen now! I’m an adult in four years!”

Teenager or child, Alfred did not wish for Master Bruce to thrust himself into the fanatical galas. With drinks and dancing and more, no matter how civilised the attendants were. 

“You are in need of a haircut.”

Master Bruce looked up, limp hair falling in front of his eyes. “No, I don’t.”

“Hm,” Alfred set the iced tea on the side, getting comfortable on the picnic blanket. “What are you reading now?”

Another new book was in Master Bruce’s hands. “It’s from the public library.”

Alfred frowned, trying to remember. “Is it about those Chinese monks, again?”

“Tibetan monks, yeah.” Master Bruce corrected, turning a page. 

Alfred waved a hand. “It is all the same to me. I do not understand why you have taken such a keen interest in them.”

“Maybe one day, I’ll go find them and become a monk,” he chirped, smiling because he knew how much the notion would bother Alfred. 

Predictably, Alfred tsked and ruffled Master Bruce’s flat hair, “at the very least then your hair will be cut off.”

Master Bruce pulled away with a little ‘hey!’ Swatting Alfred’s hand away and trying to hide away his smile. 

More newspapers, more rubbish.

“Alfred?” Master Bruce called for him, wandering down the stairs.

“Yes, Master Bruce?” Alfred asked, straightening up from where he was polishing the banister. The teenager’s nose crinkled at the sharp smell. 

“I don’t have any suits that fit me anymore.” He pointed out, scrutinising the polish bottle, picking it up to read the ingredients. The child was so unusually interested in chemicals these days. Very useful for his upcoming medical career. 

“I suppose not,” Alfred thought hard, the last time Master Bruce had worn a suit was nearly a year ago at a photoshoot. Alfred insisted on one annually, just as the Waynes had. “May I ask why the sudden interest?”

Master Bruce started to fidget with the polisher, frowning at it. “I was thinking about turning up to the new art gallery’s ceremonial opening this weekend.” 

Alfred blinked, setting down the cloth on the step and walking up the stairs that separated the two of them. Getting closer, Alfred sat down on the step, letting Master Bruce hover above him. “Who did you speak to?”

“Nobody!” Master Bruce defended automatically and then ducked his head, picking the bottle label with his nail. “A few of the mothers who were volunteering at school said it was about time to show my face.”

He did not like it, the child was still a child. Alfred had seen the way the paparazzi and the businesses hounded Thomas. The way the man had two faces, one for the cameras and the real, exhausted one for the family wing. And Thomas was a grown man with a career. Master Bruce was only a little boy. 

No; not a boy. Master Bruce was shifting, growing into a young adult. Sprouting up in height and having to get rid of old clothes. Collecting more and more books ranging from Sherlock Holmes to Greek Mythology. Old enough to make his own ideas. About the same age Alfred’s grandfather was when he opted to lie his way into the Great War. 

“And is this something you are certain you want to do? Reveal yourself to the public?” He wanted to make sure. “Once we start there is no taking it back. The upper classes are not kind.”

“I know that,” Master Bruce said, stubborn as always. “I just wanna… ease into it. Just do all the art gallery stuff this year and then see what happens next year. I don’t even know anyone I’m supposedly doing business with.”

Alfred tried to hide his smile. “That is because it is not you who is doing business with them. It is the Wayne Enterprises board.”

“It’s my money.” He stated and then frowned, looking at Alfred in a question. “Right?”

“Right.” Alfred said. “It sounds as though you have made up your mind.”

“Just this art stuff.”

“That would be attending the opening ceremony, correct. But that would also mean one or two galas.”

Master Bruce’s brows rose up, “I remember those. I remember…”

Alfred smiled warmly, holding back from laying a hand on Master Bruce’s shoulder, from comforting the boy like he wanted to. “You remember sticking to your mother’s side, yes? Your hand would never leave her dress.”

The young boy scowled, bending down to place the bottle back on the step. “So the suit?” He changed the subject. 

Alfred allowed it. “I will remeasure you and send for a suit this afternoon. Will that be all, Sir?”

“Hm.” Master Bruce said, turning and climbing back up the stairs. Acting older than he was. An obvious act that anyone with eyes could see. Alfred would let it be; he was only here to guide the boy, not tell him what to do. 

If the child chose to face the world, Alfred could only watch. 

They were both sat across from each other on the dining table, eating their meals. It was one of the blurred lines Alfred would cross, finding that the best time to gain any attention from the teenager was during dinner, despite how unprofessional this was. 

“I asked for a suit.” Master Bruce said. “One suit. Why are there four?”

“You are Bruce Wayne, Sir.” Alfred reminded him. “Never can you be seen wearing the same clothes twice. If you intend on attending more than one event then we must be prepared.”

Master Bruce made a face. “That sounds excessive.”

“You are a billionaire, what you do within the comfort of your home is your choice, you may rewear that preposterous sweater as much as you want—”

“Hey!”

“But in public you must act the part.” Alfred said. “Now,” he wiped his lips with his napkin and set his dishes to the side, bringing the notebook back out. Master Bruce straightened to attention. “The Mayor will be cutting the ribbon. Beside him will be…”

“Louise Hampton, owner of the gallery.” Master Bruce answered correctly. “The curators there are also of importance, Madeleine Carroll and Gunther Wagner.”

“Yes, the German.” Alfred noted in slight displeasure. 

Master Bruce, as usual, ignored him with an eye roll. “Madeleine is married to Phillip Carroll, he bought the job position for her. But I’m not allowed to say that because it’s rude.”

“Yes. Any other guest of importance?”

“A lot of the board members for WE will be there. Like Jefferey, Williams, Marshall and Wood. There is talk that Uncle Ca— Falcone might also be there.” Master Bruce quickly corrected, a dust of a blush on his cheeks. “There will also be Robertson and Campbell who sponsored the gallery. And the police and… and will Officer Gordon be there?” 

Alfred blinked at the abrupt question. “Jim Gordon? I am not sure. Why the interest?”

“Oh, no reason.” Master Bruce said and picked at the remainder of his food. “Everyone’s families will be there too. It’s a family friendly event considering it’s in the afternoon. There will be spouses and children.”

“Very well done, Master Bruce.” Alfred went through the list. “It seems you have recalled everyone of importance and I am sure you will recognise anyone we have yet to mention.” He tapped his pencil on the paper. “What do you do when someone strikes up a conversation? Asks how you are, where you have been?”

“Direct the questioning back to them. Make them the talker.”

“Yes,” Alfred nodded. “You will still be the youngest person there of importance. People will respect that.”

“Right,” Master Bruce said, his face falling. 

“Is anything the matter?” Alfred pressed. “Do you still wish to attend?”

“Well, yeah.” Master Bruce said, shrugging a shoulder. “Everyone’s been talking about it.”

“Ah,” Alfred nodded. “You have read the news?”

“There were newspapers in the public library. I know you throw ours away when you don’t want me to see something.”

Alfred sighed, fond. “You are indeed a silly boy, Sir.” He pushed his chair back, getting up. “Finish your dinner. Even teenagers need nutrition to grow.”

With another roll of his eyes, Master Bruce took a bite, looking much younger than Alfred was comfortable with. 

The young sir had needed assistance in getting ready. Alfred was more than willing to help, setting his suit so it laid crisp and reminding him to clip his nails. 

“Maybe I should shave.”

“That would require having hair, Sir.”

Despite Master Bruce being more than capable of it, Alfred knelt down, tying his shoes up. No chances of tripping and accidents that would haunt the boy for generations. 

“Cufflinks are dumb.”

“Cufflinks are sophisticated.”

Alfred combed and gelled down his hair, laying it down in a more chic manner than Master Bruce did for his prep school. 

“There’s more gel than hair.”

“You must look the part.”

Stepping back, Alfred tapered down his aching heart, holding in a sigh at how grown up the child looked. He’d known Master Bruce since before he was even born. And now, here the same child was, resembling his father more than himself. 

“There,” Alfred nodded, eyes wrinkling, “a perfect suit of armour.”

Master Bruce looked at himself in the mirror, reaching a hand up to his hair. Alfred batted it away before Master Bruce managed to ruffle it up. “Armour is not supposed to be comfortable.”

“Seems extreme.” Master Bruce grumbled. 

“You are a Wayne.” Alfred reminded him again. “You must be extreme.”

They gathered into a nicer car, more exquisite than their usual vehicle. Alfred made sure to straighten out his own suit, ensuring his gloves were on and his hat that was rarely ever worn these days was secure. 

“You’re not wearing a new suit.” Master Bruce realised. 

“Yes,” Alfred said, starting the car. “I am just your butler, young boy. I am of a different status. My clothes will reflect as such.”

Master Bruce sat back, the usual frown appearing. The boy would grow with wrinkles. “I don’t like that. You’re my butler. Can’t I have it so you also have to dress up?”

“One child’s opinion will not change how classism has worked over the centuries.” Alfred said. “Perhaps if you desire such progressive movement, you should build yourself into a man who can do so.”

Predictably, Master Bruce grumbled about being called the child he was. 

No, not a child, not really. He was a man. A young man. Once this afternoon was finished, the world would have set their eyes on him. 

Alfred was sure that the teen knew what he was walking into. He wasn’t daft. 

As they approached the gallery, Alfred had to slow down the car. Going through the security checks and driving where he was guided. Cameras flashing bright despite the afternoon Sun. Reporters screeching and people pushing against the barriers to get a glimpse of any celebrity that happened to walk by. 

“There’s a lot of people.”

Alfred glanced back through the rearview mirror. The voice was not like Master Bruce’s. This one was smaller. Shakier. 

“Why, yes.” Alfred raised a brow. “What else did you expect?”

“I don’t… there’s a lot.” He said again, shrinking down his seat, looking out the tinted windows. 

Something in Alfred was blaring at him. An alarm that was urging him to just turn the car around. Rush Master Bruce back to the safety of the Manor walls. 

But then the child would learn. He would think he could pout and the world would kneel to him, fulfilling his every demand. Alfred had to teach him. The child should have realised what he was signing up for. He was a bright boy, he should have anticipated this. 

“Do you not recall your previous events? Don’t bite your lip.” Alfred asked as nicely as possible. 

The young Master was quiet. Then he said, “that was years ago.”

Yes, an eight year old hiding behind his mother’s legs. But Alfred had assumed that Master Bruce would still remember the people and lights. He was usually so clever. 

“Maybe,” Master Bruce winced at a camera flash. “Maybe we should have a code?”

“A code?” Alfred asked as he parked.

“Yeah, like… like in movies. I’ll say something like ‘it’s colder than usual’ to you and then we leave.” Master Bruce suggested. 

Alfred tried not to show his irritation at the childish idea at this very mature function. “The real world, Master Bruce, is not like the movies. There will be no codes to save us just because we are a little uncomfortable.”

He watched Master Bruce tense, hands coming to grip the seatbelt like it could protect him. 

“Pull yourself together,” Alfred rushed. They had sat inside for too long. “It is time to show ourselves. Remember your training. Who is who. Smile and listen to others.”

Master Bruce straightened up, just a little bit, but enough. 

“Come, wait for me to open your door. Undo your seatbelt.”

Alfred opened the driver door. Immediately flooded with a wave of flashes and bright lights, people huddling around the car to see which celebrity was going to step out. He rounded the car, slow as possible to give Master Bruce longer time to prepare himself. He knew his ward was watching through the window. He put a hand on the handle and the other behind his own back professionally. Then with a stiff lip, he opened the door.

A second passed and Alfred’s anxiety shot up in fear that Master Bruce was about to embarrass himself, but then the brave soldier stepped out of the car. His smile weak and wavy, but present. 

“Is that a kid?”

“Is that Bruce Wayne?”

“Fuck off.”

“No, it is!”

“Mr. Wayne! Mr. Wayne, over here!”

“Mr. Wayne, give us a smile!”

“Bruce Wayne! Look at the camera!”

“Bruce!”

“Mr. Wayne!”

Alfred felt the smaller body shift closer to him, as though it was acceptable to come so near to the butler. 

In his professionalism, Alfred stepped away subtly. He could not lay a hand on his employer. 

Thankfully, a security guard broke through the crowd. “Right this way, Mr. Wayne.”

Waiting a few steps, watching the boy’s robotic steps. Alfred followed through, the barbaric screams washing over him as he folded his hands behind his back. He could only watch. And even that was overstepping the invisible boundaries. 

Master Bruce turned his head, looking over his shoulder and Alfred made eye contact. Trying to reassure his ward. Finally, they made it inside the gallery. Fragments of red ribbon on the ground showing that they were fashionably late enough to have missed the main event. But this was good for Master Bruce’s first time, he could linger; socialise, and then Alfred could take him away back to the Manor. Away from all these stares and cameras. 

As soon as they were inside and away from the paparazzi, the noises died down slightly. Not entirely, there was still chatter and laughter. A small smell of nauseating sweetness from the alcoholic beverages. Sophisticated champagne to suit the afternoon hour. 

“I can’t believe my eyes,” a tittering voice came over. “Bruce Wayne? You must be him.”

Never before had Alfred seen such a mask on Master Bruce. His eyes dimmed but smile polite. It was disturbing. It was perfect for him. 

“I am,” he took the older lady’s hand. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Mrs Wood.”

“What a gentleman,” she cooed. “Stanley, Stanley come see! It’s Bruce Wayne. Martha’s boy?”

Her husband joined, his hand on her lower back as he assessed Master Bruce. “Of course. A splitting image of Thomas, isn’t he?”

Master Bruce’s shoulders stiffened and Alfred tutted to himself at the behaviour. He was aware the comment was unnecessary but Master Bruce should have better control around vultures less they take advantage. 

“Isn’t he just?” Mrs Wood said adoringly. 

“So, sonny. What cave did you dig yourself out of?” Mr Wood clapped a hand on his shoulder. 

Master Bruce smiled, his expression wavered. He needed to work on his composure. “I have been busy in my academics.”

“No need for that with all your inheritance.”

“Oh, Stanley, shush! Brucie is going to grow up to be a handsome doctor just like his daddy!”

‘Brucie?’ Alfred witnessed Master Bruce mouth to himself. 

Mrs Wood waved her hands, much too hyper in Alfred’s opinion. “Oh, come. Come, Brucie! I need to show you to the others. Martha’s not around to look after you, bless you, but I am. We were like sisters back in the day.” 

Once again, Master Bruce’s stance tightened at the insensitive words. But Mrs Wood had already pulled Master Bruce in a side hug, holding him close as she dragged him through a mass of socialites. 

Master Bruce turned his head with great difficulty, anxiously looking towards Alfred for help. 

And Alfred wanted to rush forward and yank his the child away from the woman’s talons. But he kept his feet firmly rooted where they were. Watching Master Bruce get lost in the crowd of much older men and women. This was the life he was born into, and it is the life he shall have. Alfred could not change it. 

Instead he stood aside with his back to a wall, hands folded and chin up as he observed. Master Bruce had been brought into a gaggle of older ladies laden in too much perfume and jewels. They all seemed to be overly familiar, all of them having known Martha, having been the same age as his mother. They pulled Master Bruce this way and that, pinching his cheeks and talking to each other about him as if he wasn’t right there. 

Time passed and Alfred kept his feet planted even when Master Bruce was passed towards the direction of WE board members, the men shaking his shoulders and laughing much too loud. Alfred felt his eye twitch as he witnessed one of them offer Master Bruce a full glass, which the fourteen year old refused. 

Master Bruce, throughout everything, kept shifting away. Eyes constantly flickering from person to person, everyone standing taller than him. Twitching away from fingers that only tightened to stop him. Shoulders rising up to his ears. His own fingers fiddling and his trimmed nails digging into his palms. 

The boy needed to learn to hide his thoughts better. 

To Alfred’s confusion, Master Bruce was walking away from the groups of people. Head down as he quickly stepped into a corner. Hiding in a dark shadow. 

Tutting, Alfred moved from his spot for the first time since he arrived. Briskly walking to join his ward. 

Master Bruce was behind a pillar, hidden from peering eyes. He was hunched over, arms wrapped around his stomach and his body heaving with breaths that were far too quick. 

At first, Alfred feared he was harmed. Only to come to the conclusion that no, Master Bruce was choosing to behave dramatically once more. And whilst Alfred wanted nothing more than to whisk him away, Master Bruce could not be Thomas’ son if he could not handle a few uncomfortable moments. 

He tsked loudly, successfully catching Master Bruce’s attention. 

“Alfie,” he gasped. 

“Take a breath, Master Bruce.” Alfred reached for his handkerchief. Dabbing away Master Bruce’s sweat and hoping no one noticed them. “You cannot behave this way where people can see you.”

“I can’t do it,” Master Bruce quickly told him. “I want to go home. I’m done.”

“Do you realise what the newspaper headlines will be tomorrow?” Alfred whispered, checking to make sure no one saw them. “They will be making a mockery of you. Teasing you for running away. You are already at a disadvantage for being the youngest and newest attendant. The paparazzi will ruin you if they catch you breathless.”

Master Bruce straightened, but his hands twisted together rather painfully. “Please. Alfred. Get me out.”

He wanted to. Lord, he wanted to. But he knew what those beasts would say tomorrow. 

“If I did, your parents would be disappointed, child.” He explained gently. 

Master Bruce’s chin wobbled. 

If the boy cried, Alfred would simply give up. Everything would have been for nothing. 

“Get yourself together.” He said firmly but kindly. “You are wearing your armour. Fake a smile. Have you congratulated the owner? Mr. Hampton?”

Master Bruce shook head, biting his lip tight. 

“An oversight. Easily fixed. Go and find him, congratulate him on the opening. Then in twenty minutes, it would have been appropriately long enough for your first attendance.” Alfred took a deep breath to calm himself. “Understood?”

Master Bruce nodded. 

“Good, now go.” Alfred said and stepped back, finding a new space to hover in. 

Like the strong young man that he was, Master Bruce emerged from the shadows and walked without pause towards Louise Hampton. His chin high and back straight. Despite the little fidgeting on the cufflinks, he was doing a fine job. 

Alfred was deeply proud. 

As soon as they got back in the car, Master Bruce slipped down as far as his seatbelt allowed him. And the moment they were in the confines of the Manor, he was tugging at his tie and suit jacket, rushing off up the stairs clumsily. 

Alfred had to admit even his own body slumped in relief knowing that the afternoon was over. A shine caught his eye and he knelt down to pick up a cufflink that had fallen in Master Bruce’s haste. 

Maybe he should prepare a nice meal for tonight. That would lift their spirits. 

“I don’t want to go tomorrow,” Master Bruce whispered when Alfred came to wish him goodnight. 

“You will feel much better in the morning.” Alfred reassured him, turning on the lamp. The child was getting too old for it, but Alfred supposed no one would know. “The gala is not until the evening. Then one more event and the art gallery celebrations are over.”

“But…” Master Bruce shook his head. “Okay, Alfred.”

“Good,” Alfred said and placed a gloved hand on Master Bruce’s forehead. “Rest. Tomorrow is a new day.”

Master Bruce was stiff this time round. Alfred tied around the silk tie, ensuring that every inch of Master Bruce’s suit was pristine. 

“You now know what to expect.” Alfred comforted. “That puts you in a better position than yesterday.”

Master Bruce was quiet. Stiff with a prominent pout on his face. 

“They weren’t nice.” He said quietly. 

“No,” Alfred agreed, adjusting Master Bruce’s suit. “They were not. And they never will be.”

“Why not?”

“They’re your competitors.” Alfred explained. “Or your allies. Either way, their only aim is to get close to you to use you. Therefore, your only aim is to get close enough so that once you are an adult, you have enough ammunition to use against them.”

Master Bruce’s brow furrowed. “That sounds mean.”

Alfred huffed a sigh. He knew his next words would come back to bite him. “Think of it as… a spy mission.”

Master Bruce’s eyes widened, not having expected such silliness from Alfred. In fact, Alfred himself was trying not to wince at the fantasy. “Think of it as though you need to gather information. Do what it takes so that one day you may one up them.”

Master Bruce’s lip turned in amusement. “Okay.”

“Right.” Alfred stood up and collected his chauffeur hat. “It will be a slightly different lay out from yesterday as this is an evening gala. I will let you out of the car and you will walk down a carpet. On either side will be reporters and paparazzi. Do not speak to them. Head straight inside and towards wherever the help staff guide you to. Also, remember that as this is an evening event there will be more drinking and more foolishness. Do your best to ignore it.”

Alfred grabbed the keys and they began to walk to the garage. “Keep an eye on your watch, when two hours pass that is more than long enough. You may come back out to find me.”

Master Bruce’s steps faltered to a stop. “You mean, you’re not coming in?”

Alfred turned, frowning in confusion. “Of course not.”

Instantly, Master Bruce made a similar gesture as he had in the shadowed corner last afternoon. He hugged his stomach, stepping back and taking a rather exaggerated breath. “Why? You— you came in at the opening.”

“That was an afternoon event.” Alfred explained. “This is much more formal.”

“So?!”

“Calm your tone, young sir.” Alfred corrected firmly and then spoke more gently. “Work staff do not attend such ceremonies.”

Master Bruce shook his head. “I can’t do it alone. I can’t talk to all those people.”

Alfred tsked, “do not shake your head, you will loosen the gel.” Alfred crouched down, looking up at the boy. “You are a Wayne, Master Bruce. You cannot embarrass your name by going against your word. I have already sent in your reservation. What would people say?”

“Then take it back!” He cried out. 

“That is not how it works.” Alfred hesitated but then placed a firm hand on Master Bruce’s shoulder. “Inside these walls, we may be… something more, something like a friendship. But outside, you are my employer and I am your employee. You are my boss and I am just your butler. Nothing more, nothing less. Every single person will think it odd if they saw me interact with you outside of professional necessity.”

Alfred looked deeply into Master Bruce’s distressed eyes, “do you understand?”

His ward gulped, breathing ferociously fast. But he nodded. 

Thank goodness, Alfred did not want to literally drag the boy in. 

“Very good, Chum.” Alfred tried to smile reassuringly. “Let’s head on.”

“Don’t forget,” Alfred said as he pulled the car in. “You’re here to gather information, Agent Wayne.”

He swiftly got out of the car. Trying not to look too closely at the teenager attempting to blend in with the car seats. If he did, Alfred was scared he might give in and drive Master Bruce right back to the Manor. Away from the screeches and flashes and rudeness. 

Alfred opened Master Bruce’s car door. Dutifully keeping to one side as Master Bruce stepped out. 

The dark night made the camera flashes even more staggeringly bright. Alfred caught sight of Master Bruce flinching, bringing a hand up to protect his eyes. 

Alfred cleared his throat loudly, proud that Master Bruce understood and forced his hand back down. 

Master Bruce finally took the first step forward, perhaps realising that the faster he went inside, the quicker he could get away from the paparazzi and their obscene behaviour. Shoulders tense, hands clenched, eyes down to avoid the flashes.

The child was halfway there when he turned around, eyes searching, looking for Alfred. 

With his heart tight in his throat, Alfred diverted his own gaze quickly. There were too many cameras around that may capture the unprofessional gesture. 

Not only that, but if he let Master Bruce have that moment of vulnerability then the child might crack. He couldn’t let Master Bruce crack. 

When he looked back, Master Bruce was gone. Right into the battlefield. 

If Alfred believed in a higher power, he would have spent every second praying. Instead, he sat still, eyes trained on the time. Waiting for Master Bruce to return and thinking about every single thing that could go wrong. 

Maybe he should not have said two hours. Perhaps an hour would have been enough. It was a school night, after all. And there was still one more event tomorrow evening. But no, headlines were already criticising Master Bruce’s age. He had to make sure his ward seemed older than he was. 

What if Alfred was wrong? Maybe he should have followed Master Bruce inside. Let the tabloids talk. But no, the young man was capable. More than capable. He was a Wayne. He had more talent than any of those imbeciles inside. 

Two hours on the dot, Alfred caught sight of a small figure walking briskly up to the car. A little shadow amongst the heavy lights. 

Holding himself back from scrambling, Alfred got out of the car, opening up Master Bruce’s door, remaining professional in case anyone was watching.  

Once they were both sat, Alfred turned the key and immediately drove themselves away, feeling more and more relief sink in the further they got away from the venomous socialites. 

He glanced back at the boy. Master Bruce was disheveled. Sinking down in his seat. His hair was ruffled into a mess and he was biting his lip raw. Master Bruce’s fingers were trembling and he was hugging himself around his stomach as tightly as he could. 

“Well done,” Alfred said softly. “You did it, Master Bruce. Just as I knew you would. I know your parents would be so proud. If only you realised how capable you were.”

Master Bruce stayed quiet, barely reacting. 

“Or shall I say, Agent Wayne?” Alfred joked light heartedly, desperate for that look on his face to fade away. 

Still, the teenager said nothing. Any other day, Alfred would have scolded him for his rudeness. The outside world would not have put up with it. But for once, Alfred left it be. 

They were nearing Wayne Manor when Master Bruce’s voice crackled shakily. 

“I didn’t like it.”

Alfred tried not to let his heart fall further than it already had. “I am sorry you feel that way, Master Bruce. These events are rarely comfortable. I recall your own father disliking them.”

Through the rearview mirror, Alfred caught Master Bruce’s grip on himself tightening further. As though if he made himself small enough then he might disappear. Perhaps he should not have brought up his late father, considering the socialites would’ve talked about the boy’s parents as well.  

“They kept…” Master Bruce battled for his words. “They wouldn’t stop… they wouldn’t stop touching me.” He admitted in the quiet. 

Alfred took a solid breath through his nose. Determined not to react. “Oh?”

It was as though a dam had broken. “They kept— they kept touching my hair and shoulders and saying these weird things about how grown up I am and how much I look like my father and how I’m handsome. Handsome? And they kept putting their hands on my back and wouldn’t let me move away and someone insisted—” Master Bruce’s breath hitched but he soldiered on. “She pulled me onto her lap and told me off when I tried to get away and so many people laughed and called me cute but they were looking at me wrong and I… I didn’t like it.”

A pool of acidic lava filled up Alfred’s gut. The vivid imagery of his child being prodded and poked and manhandled as if he was a doll rather than a human being. Those… vultures. 

No. No, he was forgetting himself. This was exactly the kind of unprofessional feeling he was trying to avoid from the very beginning. He was the butler, nothing more. And Master Bruce had said so himself, he was a young man. He was fourteen. Men at fourteen accomplished great things once. Master Bruce was no ordinary man, he was strong. 

Would anything have been different had Alfred been in the room?

“Men?” Alfred had to ask. His voice heavy. Dangerous. 

Master Bruce paused and shook his head. 

“Women?” Alfred confirmed. 

At Master Bruce’s nod, Alfred did his best to lower his shoulders and take a breath, counting to ten. He has always been a good actor. He could manage this. He did not want to give Master Bruce the wrong idea. Manipulate him into thinking this was worse than it was. 

“So, to be clear.” Alfred said, twisting his tone to be light. “You had several women come up to you, behave in a friendly manner and compliment you?”

Master Bruce went still, impossibly sinking lower in his seat.

“Master Bruce,” Alfred forced a teasing smile. “Do you realise what every single man your age in this country would sacrifice just to be in your position?”

The fourteen year old looked away, chest shuddering. 

“You lucky boy, I let you out of my sights for one night and you already get not just one but several beautiful women to fall for you.”

Master Bruce fell near limbless, eyes glazing over. But Alfred looked away before he could see anything else. He didn’t have the heart to. 

Instead, he forced a chuckle as they pulled up to the Manor gates. “You sly dog.”

Once the car was parked, Master Bruce stepped out, wrapping his suit jacket tighter around himself. A different reaction compared to how he was throwing it off yesterday. 

The child scampered away but Alfred stayed in the car, turning it off as slowly as possible as he tried to keep his own wits together. Swallowing down bile as he tried his best to justify his choices. 

The next day there were no complaints. There was no begging. No negotiations. Master Bruce simply went to school on Monday morning and emerged from his room that same evening with a new suit on. 

Alfred manually overrode any worries with his pride. Master Bruce was shaping up to become the same man as his father before him. A billionaire philanthropist with Wayne Enterprises in one hand and a medical degree in the other. 

Alfred smoothed down Master Bruce’s suit jacket. Smiling down at him. The teenager was expressionless. Going through the motions beautifully. 

“Ready?” Alfred asked.

Master Bruce looked up at him, nothing on his face betraying his thoughts. He was doing so much better in only a matter of days. 

“Is there any use in saying ‘no’?” Master Bruce said, his tone flat and simple. Then he walked off towards the garage, leaving Alfred with a twisting root of discomfort in his gut. 

No matter what he tried, Alfred was unable to get any more conversation from the fourteen year old. The drive was silent save for the butler’s own ramblings. But this was good, it had to be good, Master Bruce was growing stronger. 

“Two hours.” Alfred said as they approached the building. “I’ll be here.”

Master Bruce finally glanced up, no expression in his eyes. 

Alfred waited in the car. Simultaneously more and less worried than he had been in this exact situation. 

Now both Master Bruce and Alfred were aware of what to expect. It decreased Alfred’s worries that Master Bruce would have been able to prepare himself better. But at the same time, knowing that the real adults in the room were drinking and letting their hands wander and prod around his the child’s body bothered him immensely. 

No, he should not allow it to disturb him. Master Bruce is a young man after all, no longer a child. He could make his own decisions on what was right or wrong. Boys his age loved that type of attention. They craved it and sought it out. Alfred, in all honesty, could not recall having such feelings at that specific age but it was nearly twenty years ago, he had probably just forgotten. 

Again, Master Bruce was prompt in his escape. Jumping into the car before Alfred even had the chance to open the door for him. The butler would need to speak to him about that, anyone watching would have thought it improper. 

Before starting the car, Alfred turned around to praise Master Bruce for his efforts. However, something seemed different…

“Where is your suit jacket?” Alfred frowned. He would have to retrieve it if Master Bruce forgot it somewhere. 

Master Bruce was buckling himself in, struggling with shaking fingers. He delayed answering Alfred’s query. Settling himself in and avoiding eye contact. 

“Well?” Alfred pushed. 

Master Bruce stared out the window, not looking straight at Alfred. “Some of the ladies said it was too hot and took it away.”

Alfred blinked. “Took it away?”

“I hadn’t wanted to take it off.” A steady blush was rising on Master Bruce’s cheeks. Alfred could see it even in the dark. “So Mrs Marshall pulled it off. Then the ladies played a game of hiding it away.” He ducked his chin close to his chest. 

A car drove past, headlights bright. It was when the light shined upon Master Bruce that Alfred noticed something that tightened and twisted his stomach. The little stain of red on Master Bruce’s collar. Barely noticeable in the dark but still present against the white shirt. 

Alfred turned around swiftly at the revelation, head going a bit dizzy as he started the car mechanically. Steadying himself while he tried to rationalise and excuse the lipstick stain. 

Master Bruce was lucky. Alfred reminded himself. Boys that age tended to lie that they were older just so that they could get even a smidge of the attention he was getting. He was lucky.

With his mouth dry, Alfred couldn’t help but ask. “I hope you were careful.”

There was a rustle of movement but Alfred kept his eyes on the road, refusing the look at Master Bruce. “Huh?”

“Well,” Alfred tried to think of how to bring it up casually. “From the state of your collar, it seems like you decided to have a little fun.”

Again, Master Bruce was quiet. His breathing the only thing filling the car. 

“It is alright.” Alfred reassured. Wondering when the boy had grown up so much. “You are old enough to do as you wish as long as I do not hear of it.” Then he frowned. “I’m sure you know how to be safe. I shall purchase what you require for… protection.”

Breathlessly, he heard “I didn’t…” but then Master Bruce fell silent. 

Alfred nodded. This is normal. This was extremely normal for boys. Men. “Very well. I am glad you are gaining confidence, Master Bruce.”

And that was the end of the conversation. Alfred nodded to himself once more. Yes, this was exactly the kind of forward thinking this country needed. It blurred the lines of professionalism, but if Alfred was buying clothes and such for his ward, it only made sense he also buy protection that Master Bruce might struggle to obtain. It was important they were having these conversations now and nipping it in the bud. His own father never spoke to him of such things. It was important. Teaching the boy how to stay safe in this department. Imagine the scandal if something was to occur due to the lack of protection. 

Alfred was only glad it was the last gala for the year. As time progressed, Master Bruce would be delving more and more into higher society and Alfred was sure Master Bruce was more than ready with all the tools he needed. 

Master Bruce was safe. And Alfred had somehow, through all his fumbling, managed to direct him towards developing into his best self. This boy was ready to follow in the steps of his mother and father. 

Alfred could not afford to have any regrets. 

🦇

There was a circus. 

🦇

Chapter Text

🦇

Bruce smiled, watching the eight year old go up and down while jumping on the large bed. Dick was cheering and laughing, doing tricks midair that Bruce could never have fathomed doing at that age. 

Damn. He had a ward. He had a literal child who he was responsible for. Who in the right mind thought it was a good idea to let him have one?

Him. Just him. Everyone else said he was crazy, Alfred included. Though in less words and more judging stares. 

Dick Grayson shrieked out a laugh. 

Who cares. He had a child. He had a little life whom he was fully responsible for. 

Was Bruce allowed to love him? Was this a professional relationship too?

”Catch!” The boy shouted, somersaulting off the bed.

In a scramble, Bruce reached for him, grabbing onto Dick with a sharp breath of anxiety. He caught the child, of course he caught the child. But his heart was thumping against his chest like a rabbit’s.

Bewildered, he looked down at Dick, now settled against him and light as a feather. The young acrobat, with not a single care for Bruce’s mental health, looked back up with him. Mouth spread wide in a careless grin.

Bruce really hoped he was allowed to love him.

“Dickie,” Bruce winced as he jumped on the couches in the living room. “Don’t put your weight on the head of the couches. It could fall over.”

Dick replied by flipping onto the carpeted floor into a handstand. Bringing himself over to Bruce with one hand in front of the other. “That’s silly,” he said, his face already going red from the blood rush. “Couches don’t have heads.”

Bruce couldn’t help but smile. He shifted on the armchair he was sat on and patted the top of the couch. “This part. Don’t put your weight here.”

Dick let himself roll until he was stood on his feet and then placed his hands on Bruce’s knees, pushing his face into Bruce’s and instantly popping his personal bubble in the only way children could. 

At least, Bruce thought this was common in children. He hadn’t really interacted with one for as long as he had with Dick. 

Bruce kept himself still, pushing aside the immediate discomfort he felt from all the affection. He wasn’t used to it. Instead of pulling away, Bruce let Dick hover in front of him, the boy slowly moving forward until their noses were touching and Dick was nearly cross eyed. 

Just as randomly, Dick giggled and jumped away, landing on the table and then bouncing off again. 

Bruce winced once more. “Dick, come on. Careful.”

“I won’t break it,” he whined and then grabbed onto the edge of the marble mantelpiece, lifting his legs off the floor so that he was hanging there, swinging side to side. 

“Alfred won’t like it,” Bruce said, hoping that would be enough dissuasion. 

It did seem to give Dick pause, but the boy twisted his neck to give Bruce a toothy grin. Bruce eyed his wobbly tooth, absently wondering when the canine would finally fall out. Dick climbed up the mantelpiece and stood upright. “Bruce, watch this!”

Bruce swallowed and smiled encouragingly at Dick who jumped up, turning in the air before landing on the couch, its springs groaning in the rebound. 

“I’m a ballerina!” He laughed. “Watch me do it again!”

The man took a tight breath and continued to watch, heart in his throat as he thought of the million ways Dick could have snapped his neck in that trick. Jeez, was this how he made Alfred feel? He owed the butler big time. 

“Ta da!” Dick said after performing the exact same jump. 

Bruce still clapped. It felt appropriate. “Bravo.”

The landline phone rang then, so Bruce got up. “I’ll be back, Dickie.” He reassured and left the child to his acrobatics. 

“No, I wanna show you another!” Dick called out. 

“Practice it,” Bruce suggested. “I’ll be a minute.” He said and walked down the halls to the landline on the wall, trying not to panic when he heard Dick shuffling himself back onto the mantelpiece. 

“Wayne Manor,” he answered. “Mr. Fox, what a surprise. What can I do for ya?”

Bruce leaned against the wall, staring into the patterns of the carpets. The phone call was dragging somewhat, but it was still important enough that Bruce wasn't able to pull away. Lucius only bothered him when he needed to these days, letting Bruce spend more time off work to help Dick settle in. 

As the conversation droned on, Bruce nodded along, trying to wrap it up. With Batman taking so much of his time along with his new ward, it was difficult keeping up with—

Crash

The phone fell from Bruce’s hand, the cord swinging the device into the wall, Lucius calling out in a tinny voice. 

But Bruce didn’t care, rushing down the halls like a madman. 

“Dick!” He called out, voice near unrecognisable. “Dick!”

Nauseating images flashed through Bruce’s head. Dick’s body on the floor, blood pooled around him, bones sticking out of his skin, eyes wide open but unseeing—

Bruce skidded when he reached the sitting room, frantically trying to spot Dick. 

There. Sat on the ground. A low hanging chandelier no longer on the ceiling but now on the carpet. Its shards surrounding the child. 

Dick, who was sat still and stiff, jaw open wide as he heaved in shaky breaths, eyes wet. 

“Dick.” Bruce rushed forward, falling onto his knees in front of the child, uncaring of the glass being crushed beneath him. His hands hovered uncertainly before cupping the back of Dick’s head, feeling for bumps beneath the dark curls. “Are you hurt? Did you hit your head? Did you get any glass on you?”

Still mute from the shock, Dick could only shake his head. 

In the background, Bruce heard a patter of hurried steps, Alfred coming around the corner.

Once Bruce realised that his child was uninjured, he tugged him forward, carefully onto his lap and away from the glass. With his wide figure, he wrapped around the scrawny little boy gently, firmly keeping one hand on the back of his head and the other around his arms. Bruce closed his eyes tight and buried them into the child’s curly hair, bringing Dick closer to his chest to soothe both of their rapid hearts. 

“Oh, Dick.” Bruce breathed out. “Oh, Chum, I was scared you got hurt.”

There was a beat, then another, and all at once a loud wail ripped from Dick’s throat. His smaller hands came up to grab Bruce’s shirt, holding on tightly. The child hiccupped, shoulders shaking as he trembled in Bruce’s arms. 

“Shh,” Bruce cooed. “Shhh, Chum. It’s okay now.”

Alfred had finally burst into the room, clutching his chest as he took in the scene. “What happened?” He demanded, as frantic as Bruce had felt. 

“An accident.” Bruce said, attempting to comfort the man too. “I’m not sure.”

“Is he hurt? Shall I call for an ambulance?” Alfred asked, trying to peek at Dick. 

“No, no.” Bruce shook his head. “I think we’re okay. He just scared himself.”

“Oh,” Alfred shook his head and fell back onto the couch, holding onto his chest. “Oh, my.” Then Alfred allowed himself to look around, taking in the broken glass and the chandelier. “What on earth was he doing?”

“We’ll figure that out later.” Bruce dismissed, stroking Dick’s hair. 

“I heard the sound and assumed the worst.” Alfred snapped. 

“So did I. But it’s okay. It’s okay now.” Bruce nodded, trying to calm down Alfred as well as the crying boy in his arms. He finally understood after all these years the anxiety he gave Alfred. 

Dick continued to tremble in his lap, gasping in sharp, shrieking cries. 

Alfred tsked loudly. “Master Dick, calm yourself. You’re making quite a fuss.”

Bruce stilled. 

He inhaled sharply. 

His grip around his child tightened. 

“No,” Bruce hissed, glare turning towards Alfred. “He is not.”

Alfred blinked, taken aback by Bruce's fierce expression, but Bruce held on. 

“He is going to make himself ill. He is not hurt,” Alfred argued sensibly. “He is worrying us for no re—”

“He is scared.” Bruce said. Lowly and heavily. 

Dick let out a particularly heart wrenching wail. 

“Shh,” Bruce turned his attention back to Dick. “Shh, Chum.” Instinctively, he leant down, kissing his curly locks lightly. He looked back at Alfred. “We’ll talk later.”

Alfred watched, scrutinisingly inspecting them both. 

“Very well.” He said, voice steady in a promise. Alfred stood, walking away in a manner that would have any other time made Bruce overthink his decision. But right now he was too preoccupied with the child in his lap. 

He should probably put Dick down. He wasn’t as young as a baby. Boys aren’t supposed to like cuddles and comfort, nor should they. 

“Bruce,” Dick hiccupped, tears running down his cheeks. 

Bruce looked down at him, at Dick’s little blotchy, red face, and pondered over telling him that he was making a fuss for nothing. That he shouldn’t be crying. That he was too old. That he was a boy. 

But he couldn’t even imagine it. 

Instead, Bruce cupped Dick’s cheek, running a thumb over his tears. “I’m here, Chum. You’re safe, Dickie.”

“Bruce,” Dick sniffed, face contorting into something painful. “Bruce, I fell.”

Bruce hissed, pulling his boy in impossibly closer. Knowing instantly the many meanings behind that word. 

Dick had fallen. For a split second the child’s world had stopped. At that moment he had belonged with his dead parents. 

Bruce kissed his head. “I have you.” He kissed him again. “I have you now.”

Bruce stayed with him long after the eight year old had calmed down. Dick had cheered up significantly, rambling on about silly stories and whatnot. By the time Bruce was tucking him into bed, Dick was smiling brightly. 

He turned the night light on, the warm glow laying over them. 

“Bruce?” Dick asked. 

The man rested his hand on Dick’s forehead, letting the weight and warmth soothe his thoughts. “Yes, Dickie?”

Dick’s eyes flicked away and then back. “I’m sorry I broke the big light.”

Bruce blinked. “The chandelier?” He ran his large hand over Dick’s scalp through his hair, bringing it around to cup his cheek, running his calloused thumb over the baby fat still clinging on. 

Dick apologised. He felt bad. And Bruce hadn’t even told him off yet. Bruce had done the opposite of what a parent or a guardian was meant to do and here the child was, apologising. 

Wasn’t he supposed to punish Dick now? Bruce had to give him something to learn, a lesson that would stick. Something that would make him think twice next time. A reason to flinch when he considered repeating his actions. 

“I’m just happy you’re safe,” Bruce admitted truthfully. “I don’t want anything bad to happen to you.”

Dick nodded, looking forlorn. “I won’t jump on the furniture again.”

Bruce’s jaw tightened. Not liking the idea of the natural gymnast trapped in his own body. But the only other release was the Batcave, and Dick wasn’t allowed in there without an adult. 

“What if I built you your own special gym?”

Bruce could visibly see the thought setting its seed into Dick’s mind. Suddenly, Dick’s face was brightening, the child clambering up and out from the covers to crawl over Bruce like he was a climbing frame. 

“You really mean it? With real gym things?”

“Yes,” Bruce laughed. He couldn’t help it, Dick’s joy contagious. “Lay down, Dick. You’re supposed to be asleep.” He gently guided Dick back under the covers. 

“Will you make it tomorrow?” He asked, wriggling under the blanket. 

Bruce chuckled, leaning down to kiss his hairline. He didn’t know why. 

“I’ll make a start tomorrow. It will take some time to complete. We’ll order the equipment together, okay?”

“Okay,” Dick grinned.

“The quicker you sleep,” Bruce stood up. “The quicker tomorrow will come.”

“But Zitka!” Dick called out, grabby hands reaching for the stuffed elephant on his dresser. 

“Of course,” Bruce collected the animal, placing it in Dick’s arms. 

He observed as Dick gave it a tight welcoming squeeze before he snuggled deeper into his pillow. 

Bruce swallowed thickly, uncomfortably wondering at what age he was supposed to take the elephant away. His heart aching at the thought. Did he really have to? It didn’t seem to be hurting anyone. 

That was a question for another time. For now, Bruce stepped out. Straightening his back and steadying his shoulders. He was about to have a difficult conversation. 

As expected, Bruce found Alfred in the kitchen. 

“Well,” Alfred shut a cupboard a little louder than necessary. “How is he?”

“Trying to sleep,” Bruce said. He knew it would only be for a few hours. Dick would come find him later after a nightmare. Was that something he was meant to teach Dick not to do one day too? It didn’t feel right. But Alfred taught him eventually, when Bruce was a little older than Dick. It was for the best. Imagine a grown man unable to handle a nightmare. “I didn’t mean to snap at you. Feelings were just heightened.”

“One might think that The Batman could control his feelings.” Alfred grumbled. He grabbed a dishcloth, wiping his hands as he turned to face Bruce, resting back against the counter. “I can understand the child crying, I am not heartless. It was the extent that concerned me. He is eight, not two.”

“He was scared.” Bruce defended. “He was remembering his parents.”

Alfred scoffed. “That’s your excuse for all of his behaviour.”

“It’s not… it’s not an excuse.” Bruce argued aimlessly. 

Alfred shook his head, waving the dishcloth as if to wave away the topic. “How did you fix the main issue?”

Bruce frowned, “the main issue?”

“He climbed up a chandelier, Master Bruce.” Alfred said bluntly. 

Bruce nodded, preparing himself for the fallout. “We talked about it.”

Alfred tilted his head, “and?”

“That’s it.”

“That’s… it.” Alfred processed. Then he smiled, scoffing in a form of amusement. “Correct me if I am wrong, but how will the child learn?”

“He’s a smart kid,” Bruce insisted. “He’s not like I was. He knows what he did wasn’t right. He apologised.”

“But how will he remember? How will the lesson stick?” Alfred raised a hand, massaging his brow. “Did you at the very least put him over your knee for even a minute?”

Frozen ice washed over Bruce. His chest tightened. The image, even the idea alone of doing that to Dick. Of grabbing his child when he was already crying, already scared, and forcing him over his knee while the boy screeched and struggled and begged. 

Shit, Dick was so small. Wouldn’t Bruce’s hand really hurt him?

Bruce didn’t even think he was that small when his own father applied such lessons. 

But that couldn’t be right, Thomas died when Bruce was eight. He must be getting confused, Father would never have hurt him so young. Not that spanks hurt, Bruce was just known to be overdramatic. Nevertheless, when Father did it, it was because something was wrong with Bruce. He only knew how to be bad when he was a child.

But Dick… he didn’t deserve that. Dick was good. He would forever be good.

“No.” Bruce said flatly. His voice was weak, he tried again. Alfred had to understand. “No.” He said stronger. “Not to Dick. Dick will never experience being spanked. Is that clear?”

Alfred stared at him. His gaze incredulous. Like Bruce was a puzzle. 

“I suppose…” Alfred started, as if choosing his words carefully. “I understand that. He is your ward. Not your son. I, myself, never felt I had such a right with you.” Alfred put the dishcloth away, folding it. “Perhaps, a bath then? I recall when you once climb—”

“Absolutely not.” Bruce cut him off. Memories striking at him. The feeling of cold. Nothing but cold. Not able to comprehend what he had done. The icy wind not letting him think because he was too busy trembling. “No cold baths. No locking him in.”

What then? No spanking, no cold baths… how can he hurt Dick just a tiny bit to make him understand. 

But Dick seemed to already understand. Sure, he didn’t listen when Bruce told him to stop, and he proved Bruce right by falling, but did that really mean Bruce had to punish him now? 

It ached something awful to imagine it. The idea of Dick crying because Bruce made him. 

If Bruce didn’t teach Dick, then Alfred would take matters into his own hands. And that felt worse. 

That could never be allowed to happen.

Bruce raised his tired hands, rubbing his face roughly. “He’s mine. Alfred. He’s my ward. Okay? Let me… let me raise him.” He lifted his face, looking across at Alfred, near begging. “Let me deal with him. If he ever messes up, tell me. But do not correct his behaviour. You do that to me. Not him. Not Dick.”

Alfred only stared, a flash of hurt flying over his expression that Bruce didn’t want to think too deeply about. “Very well. It is a joy to be a guardian. I shall allow you the privilege of doing so.” Alfred nodded. “So how did you plan on rectifying his behaviour?”

Bruce rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. “I’m going to build him a gym. He won’t be hanging off chandeliers if he has a gym.”

Alfred’s brow raised. “You are rewarding him for his bad behaviour?”

Bruce said nothing. 

“I will give you this opportunity to raise a child, Master Bruce. It is a wonderful thing.” Alfred walked over, placing a hand on Bruce’s shoulder. “But I am here if you need assistance. And trust me, you will.” He smiled. “It is not easy, but you are doing a good job.” Then Alfred walked off, leaving the younger man behind feeling rather bewildered.

Bruce made a promise then and there. He might not know what he was doing. But he refused to hurt Dick. 

With that thought, he made his way over to the sitting room to clean up the mess of the chandelier. He didn’t want Dick cleaning up his shards and cutting his hand on the glass. Not like that one vase Bruce had cleaned all those years ago that sliced his finger. 

As he brushed the broken glass into the dustpan, he somehow managed to nick his palm. He barely acknowledged it, a tiny cut nothing compared to what the monks had taught him, but he knew one thing. He’s relieved that it was him who got cut and not his kid. 

🦇

Bruce accepted the cup, blowing on the tea before sipping it. Alfred settled in the chair beside him with a barely hidden groan, picking his own cup. 

“Tired?” Bruce asked. “It’s been a long week.”

Alfred took a sip. “One would have assumed that with Master Richard’s absence, there is less to do.”

Bruce hummed, sitting with the pain that the reminder caused for a moment. He missed his kid. 

“Has he contacted you yet?” Alfred asked softly. “I attempted to, however…”

“His phone is off.” Bruce said. Sadness blanketing them both. “But the Titans’ logs show that he’s safe in the Tower. I’m sorry. I’m trying.”

“I know,” Alfred sighed, taking another sip.

Bruce looked out of the window that they were both sitting in front of. The view was overseeing the Manor’s grounds. In the distance under a large tree, Jason had settled himself down. Comfy in a thick red hoodie and enjoying the autumn breeze with a book. 

They sipped their beverages in silence, a rare calm moment in their typically frantic lives. 

Alfred was the one to break it with a softly spoken remark. “I do enjoy Master Jason’s company.”

“Hm.”

“He is…” Alfred waved his hand around as though he could catch the correct words. “So much more disciplined than you or Master Dick had been at that age.”

Bruce kept quiet, sipping his tea to excuse himself. 

“I agree,” he said at last. “Jason is much better than I was.”

They watched Jason get comfier. Bruce thought that the lad might be trying to have a midday nap. Maybe he should be bringing Robin home earlier. 

“He was raised right.” Alfred continued with his assessment. “His parents did well, may they rest in peace.”

Bruce’s jaw tightened at that. Recalling Jason flinching whenever Bruce got too close when he first moved in. The way he would lock himself in his cupboard or hide under the bed. How Bruce took him to select a lock of his own choice for his bedroom. 

“He was abused.” Bruce said plainly.

Alfred tutted, followed with a thoughtful hum. “Perhaps his corrections were somewhat excessive.”

“Not somewhat.” Bruce argued. “His father hurt him.”

“As I said, excessive.” Alfred gestured his head to the child. “Do you not consider him more polite than a typical boy his age?”

“Because he gets scared.” Bruce said and set the mug down, it clattered against the tray. 

Alfred shook his head, setting his own mug down more carefully. “Call it what you will, discipline or abuse, you cannot argue it didn’t work.” Alfred collected the tray and stood up, their moment of peace long gone. “You have an interview over the telephone shortly. I shall remind you closer to the time, sir.”

Bruce sighed deeply, leaning his head back. “Thank you, Alfred.” Maybe he should follow Jason’s cue for a nap. 

“Yeah! You better run! Go fuck yourself, dickhead!”

“Robin.”

“Yeah?”

“Language.”

Jason blew a raspberry, gesturing wildly to the almost-robber that was getting away. Bruce trusted Jason’s judgement that it was a low enough offence to not involve the police with. 

“I scared the shit out of him.” Jason grinned proudly. 

“Language.” Bruce groaned, rubbing the visible part of his face with his gloved hand. 

“But I’m Robin.” Jason pointed out, as if it was the best and most valid excuse of the century. The boy twirled on the spot, his yellow cape dancing around him. “I can’t be curtseying and swaying for the bad guys.” 

“Hm.” Bruce said and left it at that. 

Leslie took the lid off a jar, offering it to Jason. Curious, Bruce leaned in to take a peek, Leslie never brought that jar out when he came for a checkup. 

Reaching in, Jason pulled out a lollipop with red wrapping. His pout shifted to a tiny smile, his feet making a little kicking motion. 

“Thank you for your cooperation, Jason. You deserve the treat.” Leslie praised. 

“Thanks, Dr. Thompkins.” Jason said, trying to tear the wrapping off. “You’re way nicer than my old doctor.”

“I thought you said you hadn’t visited a doctor before?” Bruce asked, reaching forward to help Jason with the wrapper. He made sure his movement was slow, proving to Jason that he wasn’t taking his food away.

“Well, y’know.” Jason shrugged. “She wasn’t like a real, real doctor. Mom would just call her over sometimes. She was actually kind of a bitch.”

“Jay,” Bruce scolded gently. “I believe you that she may not have been very nice but there are other ways to say it.”

Jason just shrugged a shoulder, popping his lollipop into his mouth. Bruce pinched his nose, trying to ignore Leslie who had turned away to hide her laugh. 

“Oh, shit.” Jason cursed and rushed to grab the spoon, managing to catch it before it could hit the tiled floor with a clang. 

“Language, Master Jason.” Alfred reminded the child with a pointed look, setting down the pitcher of juice on the dining table. 

Bruce felt the tips of his fingers grow cold and watched, but Jason had the opposite reaction, twisting his face to Alfred and grinning wide. “Sorry, Alfie. At least I said shit and not fu—”

“Jay.” Bruce cut him off before Alfred could react, giving Jason another pointed look. 

Something in Bruce’s heart lightened by how comfortable Jason was in being disobedient. He wasn’t making himself as small as possible anymore when Bruce corrected his behaviour. Which was a rare occurrence in itself. Instead, Jason rolled his eyes, taking a comically large bite. 

Bruce also noticed Alfred’s ire, but Jason thought absolutely nothing of it. Good. That was good. 

“Jaylad,” Bruce got his attention when Alfred stepped back into the kitchen.  

He wasn’t sure what to say. Jason’s overall behaviour was exemplary. Even as he grew more comfortable and more used to the routine of the Manor, he still was a bit too polite and clean. But his language got worse, more like how it must have developed in a household that hadn’t minded, or the streets that didn’t care. 

“Could you please mind your language?” Bruce asked instead, his tone hushed and calm. Doing his best so that Jason didn’t misunderstand and shrink away. “Please try not to swear as much.”

Thankfully, Jason did not shrink away, but he did scowl. “Why? You want me to be all prim and proper just like you posh Bristol elitists?”

Bruce didn’t rise to the bait, “it has nothing to do with where either of us are from. I just don’t want others to get the wrong impression of you. And Alfred doesn’t appreciate it either.” Bruce leaned back in his chair, “besides, there’s a sort of finesse to cursing. A clever person knows when and where to swear. The less a person uses those words, the more impactful it is when they do.”

To Bruce’s own surprise, he somehow had managed to get through to Jason. The twelve year old hummed thoughtfully, staring at his plate. Then he nodded. “Fine. Not ‘cause you told me! But just ‘cause of the whole impacting sh— stuff. Stuff that you said.” 

Bruce couldn’t help but smile. “All I ask is you try, lad.”

“Mr. Wayne?” His secretary’s voice came through the intercom. “Mr. Pennyworth is on the phone for you. I’ll be patching him through.”

“Thank you,” Bruce answered, grateful for the timing. Having just finished a meeting with the board. He picked up the phone, eyes wandering to the traffic outside his office window. “Alfred?”

“Master Bruce,” Alfred said and Bruce wondered why his voice was so tight. “I received a phone call at the Manor for you from Master Jason’s school. I informed the teacher that you would call back.”

“Did she say what happened?” Bruce asked, heart increasing in pace. “Is Jason okay?”

“I did not enquire. Once I realised the concern was not urgent, I told them that you would deal with it as his father.”

“Right.” Bruce said. “Right. Okay. Doing that. Thanks Alfred.”

Hanging up, Bruce dialed the school’s number. 

“This is Bruce Wayne.” He introduced. “I had a call about my son, Jason?”

By the time he got through to Jason’s teacher, Bruce had picked a pen and started scribbling nonsense on a WE notepad. Covering the white with black as he tried to ‘chill the fuck out’ as Jason would say. 

“Mr. Wayne, I’m so glad you called. I’m Jason’s homeroom teacher.”

“Yes, good morning. I’m sorry, but is Jason okay?” Bruce rushed. 

“Oh, yes. Of course. I apologise, I hadn’t realised you were worried. It’s a call regarding Jason’s behaviour this early morning.”

Bruce put the pen down, leaning against his desk and rubbing his temple. “Yes?”

“During homeroom, Jason used some unacceptable language towards another student. I understand Jason’s side, the other child had been misbehaving and I have now dealt with it. It is only because both boys apologised for their actions that I only gave them both a warning. If this happens again, I’m afraid this will go to the principal.”

“Right,” Bruce squeezed his eyes shut. “So, Jason swore? What did he say?”

“…I cannot repeat it.”

Bruce laid his forehead down on the cool desk. “Fine. Fair enough. I’m sorry, Miss, I’ll have a chat with Jason. Thank you for the call.”

“Have a good rest of your day, Mr. Wayne.”

Hanging up, Bruce audibly groaned. Being a parent was so hard. 

After leaving a message to Alfred that he would be picking Jason up, Bruce set out right before school had finished. It did something to his heart to see Jason light up at the sight of Bruce picking him up for once. It made the man think that he should do this more often rather than leaving this job solely to Alfred. 

“Bruce!” Jason clambered into the seat. Tie loose, collar askew and face dirty from a long day of sweating. “What’re you doing here?”

“What? Can’t an old man wanna pick his kid up? Put your seatbelt on.”

Jason giggled, getting comfy. Immediately, he broke off into a long speech as he recalled every bit of his day like he usually did as soon as he saw Bruce. 

It was as they were approaching the Manor did Bruce raise a brow. Noting that Jason had yet to mention the incident that morning. 

“Your homeroom teacher gave me a call.” Bruce hinted. 

Jason frowned at that piece of information before straightening up. “Oh yeah! ‘Cause I swore at Johnny?”

“Right.” Bruce nodded. “Why exactly did you choose to do that?”

“He was pulling on Megan T’s hair.” Jason sank down, the anger he showed for a lack of justice as Robin was making an appearance. “She told him not to like twice, the teacher was too far away to hear. But he’s bigger and she was getting all, y’know, kinda anxious. He was laughing really loud.”

Bruce nodded encouragingly, glancing back through the rearview mirror. 

“She looked like she was gonna cry. I heard that there’s something going on at home with her mom right now so I think she’s extra sensitive. And I didn’t punch or hit Johnny like I wanted to ‘cause you said not to do those things anymore. And I know I should’ve told the teacher but I wasn’t really thinking.”

“What did you say, Jay?” Bruce asked.

“I called him a ‘fucking lil’ cunt’ really loudly.”

Bruce opened his jaw, tried to think of what to say, closed it, opened it again as his brain wracked for a reaction. 

A look through the rearview mirror showed Jason with his arms folded smiling proudly. 

Bruce took a breath and swallowed down the matching pride. “First, well done for not using your fists.”

“Like you said, words over fists.”

“But maybe use a better choice of words?”

“I already said sorry after the teacher made us! You should’ve seen her face though, it matched her red hair. It was crazy.” Jason laughed. 

“Jay.”

“What?”

Bruce shook his head, the Manor gates opening for them. “I’m glad you stood up for your friend but you can’t use those kind of words.”

“I said sorry.” Jason shrugged, not seeming sorry at all. 

Once they parked, Jason didn’t wait for Bruce to say anything else, having decided himself that the conversation was over. He ran off happily, probably to clean up for an after-school snack. 

Later that evening, Alfred approached Bruce in the Batcave, tea tray in hand. 

“Did you learn what Master Jason’s teacher wanted?”

“Thank you, Alf.” Bruce picked up a biscuit. “It was a warning. Jason defended someone against a bully but he used some colourful language.”

Bruce kept his gaze on the case files in front of him, feeling the waves of Alfred’s disapproval radiating from where he sat. 

“His language indeed has a tendency to run away from him. What will you do now?” Alfred asked. Bruce took his time chewing while Alfred filled up the tray with the old coffee mugs laying around. 

“I’m not sure, just yet.” Bruce admitted. “I’m still on reminders with him. I considered a swear jar but he’s already so sensitive about money.”

“It is a challenge, figuring out what will work best. Every child is different.” Alfred agreed, surprising Bruce. “His language concerns me greatly.”

Bruce then turned to face Alfred. “No physical corrections.” They might have worked for Bruce. Not for Jay.

“No,” Alfred said. 

His easy agreement, as if it wasn’t even something to consider, had Bruce blinking in question. Trying to solve this puzzle. 

“It is evident that Master Jason’s father’s chosen methods of discipline lacked finesse, although the outcome is difficult to fault.” Alfred set the filled tray on the side, putting down the heavy weight. “His firm hand seemed to have been applied more often than strictly necessary.”

Something in Bruce’s stomach felt as though it curdled by Alfred’s casual brush of dismissal, leaving behind a sour scent. That firm hand shouldn’t have been applied at all. 

At least Alfred agreed to no physical correction. It was fine when it was Bruce, but just like with Dickie, he found it hard to imagine himself harming Jason. It was nice to know that Alfred was beginning to think it wasn’t suitable either. 

“But a young boy still requires some form of discipline in order to become a fine young man.”

“I can’t,” Bruce said plainly. “I just need to talk to him more.”

“You’re too soft, Master Bruce.” Alfred chided lightly. Almost fondly. “If you want the best for your children then you must grow strength in willpower. It is hard to discipline a child, I know. Trust in me that I do.”

Bruce’s breath hitched at the admission. 

“But,” Alfred looked away. “It is better than failing a child’s future.”

Bruce tapped his fingers on the arm of the chair. He shook his head. “It’s just his language at the end of the day. He’s not really hurting anyone.”

“No, only his future.” Alfred gathered the tray. “Maybe a softer punishment then. No dinner tonight perhaps?”

The suggestion took a moment to process, but it had Bruce sitting up straight, staring directly at Alfred in shock horror. 

“How could you say that? You know how he is with food. Jason spent his entire life fighting for it.” He tried to keep his voice steady. 

“Even more reason for him to appreciate the correction.” Alfred frowned. As if he struggled to understand where Bruce was coming from. 

But Bruce was remembering being a child himself. The twisting stomach pains. How his plate would be snatched away if he said the wrong things. Keeping an eye on Alfred’s moods, tracking his temper. Hiding away small bits of food whenever he could to prepare for Alfred’s unpredictable frustrations. 

And Jason’s history. Having to literally earn food. A little boy much younger than Bruce going days without anything. Feeding his mother as she rotted away before having anything himself. Sacrificing everything he had to live.

“Jason will not starve.” Bruce commanded. “Not under my roof. Not ever again.”

Alfred scoffed, “starve? You have such a knack for theatrics, my boy. A little bit of discomfort will not hurt Master Jason, I would never do such a thing. Really, being uncomfortable for a little while often spares greater hardships later.”

“Being uncomfortable?” Bruce stood up. “A little bit of discomfort? I promised him, Alfred. I promised him that food would always be accessible in this house. That he will never have to earn it. That he could always ask for more. I promised him that he will never go hungry again.”

Alfred’s chin rose, eyes narrowing. “Well, I for one, made no such promises.”

Bruce took a step forward as Alfred walked towards the elevator, his fists clenching. “Alfred. My children will not go hungry.”

The elevator doors clicked shut behind the older man. 

Bruce slumped back into his seat, burying his face in his hands. He knew, he knew he was being somewhat dramatic. That one missed meal isn’t really that big of a deal. But to Jason it was. To that boy who lived in the streets it was. Jason was finally comfortable in his own skin, but Bruce was still well aware of the ‘secret’ stash of perishables hidden away in a shoebox under Jason’s bed. 

Bruce clenched his fist, holding himself back from pocketing the biscuits Alfred had left behind.

His child would never go hungry again. 

Hours had passed before Bruce emerged from the Cave. He glanced down at his phone as he walked. Adding another message to the long chain he had been sending to Dick with still no response. 

“Have you eaten yet?” The text read, sent by another. “I’m transferring some more money into your account. Please use it.”

Dick may be ignoring his messages and not touching his bank account, but Bruce felt better knowing it was there. 

Subtly, as if he was younger than his age, Bruce cautiously glanced into the kitchen. 

Nothing. No pans on the stove, no fragrances of spice and no dishes ready wrapped in cling film. 

Bruce didn’t dare try the pantry door. 

Instead, he pocketed his phone and went straight to Jason’s room. 

He knocked, waiting for Jason to answer, making a point of respecting the boy’s privacy. 

“It’s open!”

Bruce pushed the door, staying on the threshold since he hadn’t been invited in. Jason freaked out the first time he’d done that. “Hey, are you busy?”

Jason sat up in his bed, closing the book he was reading. “No, why? Are we patrolling early?”

Bruce smiled. “I thought we could go out to eat?”

Jason lit up, jumping off the bed and grabbing his hoodie from the desk chair. “Really? Where are we going? How come?”

Chuckling, Bruce rested a hand to set on Jason’s shoulder as the child rammed up into his side. “I don’t know, what do you want to have?”

“Burgers,” Jason suggested without hesitation. “Won’t Alfie be mad we’re eating out?”

Bruce swallowed, his carefully constructed smile not leaving his face. “What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him, huh?”

Jason giggled, “like a mission.”

“Yeah, exactly. I’m Agent 1 and you’re Agent 2.”

His son spluttered. “No! I’m 1 and you’re 2.  Duh.”

“Right, duh. Sorry, Agent 1.”

“I wanna eat on top of the car.” Jason asked Bruce as they ordered. 

Confused, Bruce raised a brow, but didn’t question the child’s idiosyncrasies, it was a nice evening. He ordered their burgers as a takeaway instead. 

On their walk to the car park, or Bruce’s walk and Jason’s skip, they passed by a man. Bruce eyed the dirty clothes on the person and the rain water he was sat in. Bruce reached into his jacket to find a card for the Wayne organisation they had to offer shelter to the homeless or those down on their luck. 

Before he could manage, however, Jason was already walking straight towards the stranger. 

The overly paranoid father in Bruce bit its tongue, recognising that as Robin, Jason was more than capable of looking after himself. Just because the stranger was homeless, did not mark him as dangerous. 

“Here,” Jason offered the man, holding out his takeaway bag. “It’s warm.”

Jason’s presence jolted the man’s attention, having dozed off. Wordlessly, he grabbed the bag from Jason in desperation, reaching in quickly and biting into the burger as fast as he could as if Jason would snatch it back. 

But Jason just smiled at him, shoving his hands in the pockets of his hoodie and walking back towards Bruce. 

A burst of unexpected pride slammed straight into Bruce. He kept his smile down, but the feeling was seeping out of his skin. Always taken aback just by how kind his boy was. Hundreds of people might have walked by this man, but it was Jason who cared enough to stop.

Setting a hand on Jason’s shoulder, Bruce offered the shelter’s card to the man. “It has an address here where you can go to spend the night and have a meal. All free of charge. There’s more help you can get at the centre.”

“T’ank you.” The man said, speaking around the burger. “T’ank you.”

“You’re welcome, take care, sir.” Bruce said softly and then turned away, wrapping his arm around Jason’s shoulders and leading him back. 

“You didn’t have to do that,” Bruce said. 

Jason shrugged. “I don’t mind. I know what it’s like.”

Bruce’s happiness took a hit at that. Still, he stopped them when they were far enough and crouched down, putting both hands on Jason’s shoulders. “I am so very proud of you.”

An instant blush covered Jason’s cheeks, nearly as red as the hoodie he was wearing. He scowled and looked away. “Yeah, well, whatever.”

Bruce chuckled and left it there, pulling his hands back in respect of Jason’s personal space. He stood up and gestured to the diner. “Let’s get you another.”

“Another?” Jason’s frown deepened. “I don’t need one.”

Now it was Bruce’s turn to frown. “Aren’t you hungry?”

Jason shrugged, kicking a loose stone. “I don’t need you buying another. I can survive one night with no food.”

It was scary, how quickly the fire in Bruce’s chest built. “No.” He said firmly, startling Jason enough that the boy looked up at him. “You will not go hungry under my care. I promise you that.”

“But…”

“But nothing. You deserve to be full as much as anyone else. C’mon.”

Bruce walked away to the diner and Jason waited a moment before following him, speeding to catch up. 

“Thanks.” He muttered. 

“Don’t thank me for feeding you.” Bruce ordered. 

“Still,” Jason shrugged. “I’m still getting… used to it.” He admitted. Bruce slowed down in his pace, letting Jason talk. “When I was, y’know, on the streets like that guy? Not knowing when I’d eat next felt like sh— sorry. It sucked.”

Taking a breath, Bruce itched to lay a hand on Jason’s shoulder but held back, recognising that the child wouldn’t appreciate it. He also noted that Jason stopped himself from cursing, all on his own accord and with no ‘discipline’. 

“I’m sorry.” He said quietly instead. 

“Don’t be,” Jason grumbled. 

“You never need to worry about food with me, Jason. Okay?”

“I know, I just forget.” Jason said, eyes flicking up to Bruce in embarrassment. 

“That’s okay,” Bruce said and opened the door to the diner, “I’ll remind you as many times as you need, son.”

🦇

Cassandra kicked the coffee table in front of her, lightly enough not to knock it over but hard enough to make an impactful sound. 

“English is stupid!” She snapped.

Bruce raised his hands, exhibiting calmness in his gestures, trying to placate the teenage girl. “Yes.” He said, “English can be difficult—”

“Stupid!” 

“It can feel stupid.” He tried not to smile. 

Cass hit her back against the couch, folding her arms with a pout. 

“I know,” Bruce said again and reached for the coffee table, collecting the flashcards and putting them away. “Sometimes one word can have different meanings and it’s frustrating. You’re doing well.”

“Stupid.”

“There are other words like ‘stupid’. You should ask Jason, he knows a lot of them. Like dumb. You know dumb. There’s also idiotic—”

Cass kicked the table again. 

Bruce nodded. “Point made, we’re done for the day.” He opened his arms and Cass slid off the couch, coming around to join Bruce. It was a tight fit on the single seater but Cass slid in beside Bruce in the tiny gap, her arms still folded and pout prominent on her face. 

“You know,” Bruce whispered. “The words you don’t like are called homophones. ‘Buy’ is really frustrating to learn when it sounds exactly like ‘bye’ which you say when—”

With the lack of a coffee table, an elbow struck itself into Bruce’s ribs. 

“Sorry,” Bruce wheezed. “No more.”

With a huff, Cass snuggled her head against Bruce’s chest. In the dim lights of the library, Bruce relaxed, getting comfy with his daughter in the rare quiet. 

With just the sound of the bats tittering high above, Cass sat crisscrossed on the training mats. 

“Pink,” she said, pulling the scarf close to her to inspect it. She glanced at Bruce who was sitting across from her. 

Bruce gave her an encouraging nod, keeping quiet to let her process. 

“Soft.” She said as he watched her stroke the fabric. “Pretty.”

When she stopped describing the scarf, Bruce rummaged through the bag next to them, pulling out another item for Cass to describe. 

“Smell.” She said, reaching for the object and giving it a sniff. “Flower. Fire.”

“What is it?” Bruce prompted.

She shrugged. “Light.”

“A candle. Good job.” He took out another item, moving to put back the candle and the scarf. Before he managed to grab the scarf, Cass snatched it out of reach. Bruce’s hand paused midair, hovering for a moment before retracting it. “Do you like the pink scarf, Cass?”

“Soft.” She said and rubbed it on her face.

“Yes,” Bruce smiled, amused. He slowly reached forward, knowing Cass was reading his body language and his energy. That she was well aware that he wasn’t taking it away. He took the balled-up cotton scarf in his hands and straightened it out, giving it a shake before wrapping it loosely around Cass’ shoulders. “Warm.”

She giggled. Holding onto the scarf and burrowing into it. “Pink Batman.”

Bruce laughed. “You know, I do have an actual pink suit somewhere. It’s a long story.”

“Hmm,” Cass ran her fingers over the scarf. “Finished.”

“Before we finish today’s lesson,” Bruce said. “Is there anything else you learned recently?”

“Hm.” Cass nodded, a faraway look as she thought. “Unicorns.”

Bruce raised a brow. “Was that from Steph?”

“Yes. Unicorns. Mascara. Dick taught ‘bubbles’. Jason told me  ‘motherfucker’.”

Bruce’s eye twitched. 

“Tim told me…” her face scrunched up in concentration. “Supe… supercali…fragilis…” Cass took a deep breath and closed her eyes. “Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious.”

The bats tittered above while Bruce closed his eyes and took a patient breath. “That was… very impressive. Well done.” He opened his eyes and grinned. “Did you want to watch Mary Poppins?”

“Who?”

“C’mon, I’ll show you.”

The chair broke as it collided against the wall.

“Cass.” Bruce tried again. “Cassie, it’s okay.”

With a silent scream, Cass grabbed the nearest thing, a stack of casefiles, and threw them across the Batcave. 

Still in her Orphan suit, the mask off, she kicked the Batcomputer’s console. 

“Cass,” Bruce approached her slowly, “shh, Cass.”

Turning to him, she raised her fists and screeched, banging against Batman’s chest plate. The dried blood of the now dead child still coated her gloved palms. The blood that had spilled onto her suit as she had performed chest compressions unsuccessfully.

Bruce wrapped his arms loosely around his daughter, pulling her into his warmth. “I know, sweetheart.” He whispered, “it’s not your fault, Cassie. It’s not your fault.”

“I’m glad you’re doing alright.” Bruce said through the phone. “I was calling to ask if Cass was doing okay?”

“Not good,” Barbara informed him, “last week really affected her. The kid died in her arms. She’s blaming herself.”

“She’s not picking up my calls.” Bruce told her.  

“She’s not talking. Like, at all.”

“Oh,” Bruce frowned in concern. “If she wanted to video call—”

“She’s barely signing. Not even facial expressions. It’s like she retreated into herself. Maybe just give her some space. She’ll come to you when she’s ready.” Barbara advised. 

Space. Bruce thought when the call dropped. He could do that. 

Cass came back after a few days, visiting the Manor frequently. But she made a face anytime Bruce asked if she wanted to resume a lesson, anger and frustration portrayed clearly. 

She did sign, but barely. She was content in observing, not comfortable in communicating. 

And it was fine. Until nearly a month had passed. But it didn’t matter. This was her pace, not Bruce’s. It would be fine. 

“Hey,” Bruce caught Cass by the arm after patrol, trying not to overthink why she had chosen to come back to the Manor instead of the Clocktower. Tugging the girl closer. He lifted her chin, tilting her head side to side while he scanned for injury.

He tucked her loose hair behind her ear. “Are you okay?” 

She had been watching his fretting the entire time, but remained unresponsive. As Orphan, she was loud in her movements, bold and confident. But whenever Bruce saw her down here, it was like she hid away without meaning to. 

“Cass?” He lifted his hands, signing along with his voice, “are you okay?”

Her eyes flicked down to his hands and back up to his eyes. She lifted one shoulder in a shrug and moved around Bruce, walking away. 

“She’s not talking.”

“Miss Cassandra?” Alfred was preparing Tim’s after-school snack. “Yes, she does seem rather forlorn.”

“It’s just,” Bruce waved a hand about as he ranted. “I don’t know how to help her. She didn’t like talking to begin with and now she seems to hate it altogether. And I’m not sure what psychological tie that night had with her ability to talk. I’m sure they’re connected but I just can’t figure it out.”

“You are focusing on the wrong things.” Alfred pointed out. 

“I know,” Bruce sighed. “I know, okay. The why isn’t what matters right now. What’s important is how to help her. She isn’t even signing.”

“Perhaps encourage less signing, and more talking.” Alfred said. “The outside world prefers the latter.”

“The world is much more accessible these days. Either way, I would like her to communicate. It worries me when she goes out alone. I know she’s capable but when she’s not writing, signing or talking how else is she going to interact with others? Shopkeepers, drivers, all that stuff?”

“Master Bruce,” Alfred placed the ready snack on the table. “You want her to talk, correct?”

“Communicate. Yes.”

“In that case, you need to make her want to communicate.”

Bruce frowned. “How?”

“You have been following her like a lost dog, sir.” Alfred teased with a smile. “Have her come to you.”

“To me?” Bruce asked, trying to understand. 

“Enough phoning her, following her around and prompting her to talk to you. Until Miss Cassandra finally speaks to you, do not interact with her.” Alfred turned his back to Bruce, washing his hands in the sink.

Bruce stood still, finally comprehending what Alfred meant. “Ignore her? You want me to give her the silent treatment?”

“Precisely,” Alfred said, back still turned and picking up a dishcloth to towel his hands. “It’ll give her the push she needs and not only that, but she will also come to terms that you will not bend over backwards for her.”

Bruce didn’t reply. He watched Alfred from behind. Remembering standing at the same doorway decades ago, begging for Alfred to look at him over and over again. Whenever Alfred had the patience, the silence could stretch for days. 

In a household where Bruce’s only companion pretended like he didn’t exist, it got really lonely really fast. 

The yearning ache that built up and up in his chest until it exploded in screams and tears. Staring at his own hands and wondering if he was really real. Considering the option that his only grown up had finally gotten tired of his existence.

Bruce didn’t argue with Alfred in the present. 

He didn’t say what he wanted to say. That he couldn’t do that to her. That he could never ignore his children while they cried and begged. That he absolutely would bend over backwards for Cass. 

Instead, the words were caught in his throat. 

With Alfred’s back still turned, Bruce walked away. 

Bruce had changed and showered when he realised that Cass had chosen to come to the Manor that night after patrol. 

Grabbing the book he had set aside earlier, he followed her up the stairs and into the residence, walking behind her. 

“Cass,” he whispered, well aware that she would hear him. 

She stopped in her tracks, not turning, not signing. Just stopped. But Bruce knew that in itself was a thousand words. 

He wrapped an arm around her smaller frame, and she allowed him to guide them towards her bedroom. 

Bruce stopped at the threshold, glancing down at Cass. “Can I come in?”

Cass responded by walking inside, one finger weakly locking around Bruce’s to tug him in before letting go. 

Bruce moved inside, noting that Cass had changed her clothes in the Cave. He gestured to the bed and lifted the covers to sit in it. “Come. Cuddle.” He said simply. 

Cass stared. Bruce observed her standing there and watching him. Her hands opening and closing into fists. He saw her throat work and a frustrated scrunch in her lips before she shuffled forwards, taking small steps. 

Releasing the breath he hadn’t realised he was holding, Bruce shimmied further into the bed, wrapping an arm loosely around his daughter to pull her in closer. 

He felt her breath shudder, but also felt how she allowed herself to relax in his hold, her weight tilting onto him. Cass’ legs came up close to her body, making herself impossibly smaller than she was and nothing like the ferocious fighter everyone knew her to be. 

One handedly, Bruce lifted the book, turning it to its first page. Quietly, in a soft whisper that carried, Bruce began to read. Making sure he changed his voice to match the character dialogues. 

He smiled to himself as he felt Cass perk up when the children’s story introduced the unicorn. 

It was a reaction, it was communication, and it was healing. 

Cass’ head came to rest on his chest, directly where his heart was beating. Her black hair tickled his chin. All he did was pull the blanket higher when it slipped. 

Unexpectedly, he felt her shake in a little quiet laugh as the story progressed. Glancing down at her distractedly to see her eyes glued to the pictures, her attention fixed into the story. 

It was a long enough story that it gave Cass time to get comfortable and settled, all of her weight resting on Bruce, letting him hold them both up. When the book shut, there was a pause before Cass looked up at him, directly into his eyes. 

Bruce looked back just as intensely, trying to understand what she was saying, because he knew she was saying something. 

He raised a hand, pushing back the hair that had fallen on her face. “It’s okay.” He told her. “Don’t be sorry, it’s okay if you’re quiet. You’re doing nothing wrong. You are not bad. You are good. So good.” He leaned down, leaving a peck in between her eyes that were growing wet. “I’ll talk enough for the both of us.” He promised. 

How could he even think of ignoring his daughter?

🦇

Bruce glanced over at the passenger seat, noting that Tim was still typing away on his phone. Thumbs flying at an unnatural speed that all teenagers these days seemed to possess. 

“You texting Kon?” Bruce asked, trying to make conversation as they drove. 

“No, I mean, yeah. I was. Then I got an email from a board member as if it’s still working hours asking if he can talk about some findings tonight and I’m telling him that he needs to wait until I’m in office.” Tim reported, still continuing to type away. 

Bruce shook his head, “Did you hack into my account again? I thought WE emails were directed to me?”

“It’s Drake Industries,” Tim corrected. “I oversee all of it now, Bruce, you know that. Honestly, I should give myself a raise.”

Bruce hummed, “you know, if you didn’t wanna come tonight then you don’t have to.”

The thumbs stopped moving. 

“But I want you to.” Bruce rushed out. “Not at the gala specifically. I would love to spend time with you. But if you don’t want to be at the event then you don’t need to put yourself in that position. I’d understand.”

Tim was quiet for a few seconds while Bruce kicked himself for his words, knowing he hadn’t spent much one on one time with Tim recently. All his kids liked to tag along on Bruce’s activities but Tim especially hated feeling left out. Even more so since his father’s recent death.

“Of course, I’m coming.” Tim said. “Can’t have you destroying the Wayne reputation the minute you walk in. At least one of us needs to look good.”

Bruce huffed a relieved laugh at the little mischief, reaching into the passenger seat to give Tim’s shoulder a small teasing shake. Enjoying the affronted squawk his son made as he batted Bruce’s hand away.

Parking the car, Bruce cleared his throat, cracking his neck as he prepared himself for the next few hours. He’d driven the two of them over, giving Alfred a break from having to wait in the car when there were more important things to be doing. Not to mention, it was always handy driving himself because then he could just leave whenever his tolerance depleted. 

“Wait.” Bruce pulled a pair of sunglasses from his suit pocket. “Want one?”

Tim raised an amused brow. “You know this is far from my first time at one of these.”

“Still. Never hurts.” Bruce shrugged, offering them out. 

Tim looked at the glasses and then his eyes flicked to scan Bruce’s face. Whatever he saw had him shaking his head in amusement, but Tim still plucked the glasses out of his hand. 

He waited until they were both out and the cameras started flashing to slip them on though. Bruce passed the keys to the valet, coming around the car to place a firm hand on his son’s shoulder. 

Wordlessly, Bruce led them in. Nodding and smiling at the paparazzi like a professional, having done this time and time before. At this point he knew most of the reporters personally, and so he was aware of who was problematic enough to cause drama and who were sincere hard workers. 

Tim handed the glasses back the moment they stepped indoors. Bruce took them, watching as a fixed social mask draped itself on Tim’s face. It made Bruce feel like attending the gala with Tim wasn’t really enough to class as spending time together. He should arrange another outing. Tim liked arcades, right?

That being said, he put his own ‘Brucie’ persona on. Giving Tim’s shoulder a firm squeeze before letting go. “Stay close, son.” He said, walking further into the hall. 

“Stay close,” he heard Tim mock, imitating his voice dramatically. “I’ve been doing these since I could walk.” The teenager grumbled. 

Bruce barely managed to suppress the smile at Tim’s antics. Pushing aside the acidic taste in his mouth at the image of a child in these crowds. Tim would’ve attended these functions with his parents. He wouldn’t have been left alone to the wolves. 

Instead, he reached a hand forward towards the first socialite he came across. “Mr. Marshall, how’s business been? Same old?”

The night bore on. Bruce felt a migraine edging into the back of his skull as more and more people kept insisting they just had to talk to him. 

It was nice to have Tim with him, of course Bruce would have soldiered on had he been on his own, but having one of his kids around did make the night just a little bit better. It also made for a good conversation segue. “Oh, have you met my son, Tim?” “Ah, here’s Tim. Can you believe how smart he is? Just yesterday—” “Tim, my pride and joy.” It was also nice to see Tim’s ears blush. Bruce kept his compliments sincere and real, he wasn’t keen on parents that paraded their children about, he only wanted Tim to receive the respect he deserved. 

He also kept a sharp eye on Tim. The teenager had snuck off several times. To the food area, the toilet or to have a chat with someone. Doing his own fair share of socialising. Bruce kept watch. How could he not? No matter how capable someone like Tim was, it was Bruce’s responsibility to make sure he was okay. Any time he lost track of Tim, his gut would twist uncomfortably. 

But Tim kept popping up. His gaze finding Bruce’s and rolling them, clocking onto the man’s paranoia. Throughout, Bruce kept a filled glass in his hand to avoid being offered anything while Tim politely declined alcoholic drinks, despite the encouragement from others that had Bruce’s eyes narrowing. 

It happened when Bruce was mid-conversation with two members of the board. A riveting discussion that had Bruce zoning out multiple times. 

Bruce’s eyes made a quick sweep of the room, scanning for disturbances; opportunities and especially Tim. 

There Tim was, having a conversation with one of the older women of the crowd. It took a second, but Bruce recognised her as Mrs Wood, an elite member of society even back when he was little. 

Bruce nodded along to participate in his own discussion, lifting his glass to rest on his lips while keeping his attention straight on Tim. 

He saw how Mrs Wood was waving her hands about, speaking enthusiastically. But he also saw how Tim’s face pinched from her words. 

Bruce froze, the people around him fading away as he watched. 

Mrs Wood reached up and placed a wrinkly, jewelled hand on Tim’s nape, Bruce now understood that she was feeling his hair, probably having unnecessarily commented on the length. 

But what Bruce noticed more, was how Tim stiffened. His son shifted, a fake smile still plastered on his face, moving aside to dislodge the hand. 

Her hand stayed. No, wait, her grip on his son’s neck actually tightened. 

That was the bullet. Bruce didn’t bother excusing himself from his group, immediately weaving through the crowds of people and losing his drink somewhere along the way. The interaction had gone on for too long under Bruce’s watch. From one breath to the next, Bruce was there. 

His hand darted forward, grabbing onto Mrs Wood’s wrist firmly. Too tight. Too improper.  

“Off.” Bruce snapped, voice unrecognisable to his own ears.

Both Mrs Wood and Tim startled. Their expressions bewildered as they looked up at Bruce. 

Bruce’s grip tightened. Almost bruising. “Off. My. Son.”

With a sound of pain, the old lady let go. She was shaking now. Carelessly, Bruce pushed her hand down, moving to stand in between the two parties. 

He was too loud. Cameras probably turned. People close by stopped talking. 

But her hand had been on Bruce’s kid. 

“Bruce,” Tim’s fingers came to clutch Bruce’s jacket. “It’s fine. What’re you doing?”

“How… dare you?” Mrs Wood’s voice shook as she cradled her wrist. 

“How dare me? How dare you?” Bruce near growls. “My son was uncomfortable. You still ignored him and you put that hand on him.” He took a step forward and Mrs Wood flinched backwards. 

Distantly, Bruce pondered over what he must look like. But he remembered Mrs Wood clearly from his childhood. The way her nails felt as they wandered. The patronising high pitched laugh when he made displeased faces. How she would stand behind him, pulling his younger self flush against her. Bringing up his mother to guilt him anytime he tried to get away. 

“Never. Never come near my son or any of my other kids again. Understood?”

“You’re being incredibly rude, Brucie.” She gasped, old hands trembling. “You’re usually so polite!”

“Do you understand?” Bruce hissed.

She stared at him incredulously, as if no one had ever confronted her before. It was likely no one had. No one did when he was little. No one tried. She settled for a stiff nod. 

It was enough to have Bruce turn around and march out, trusting Tim to follow him. 

Dutifully, Tim sped up, apologising to anyone Bruce nearly bumped into.

“What was that? Bruce, hold up. You can’t just—”

Bruce stopped suddenly, whipping around. “Yes, I can.” He closed his eyes, taking a breath. He didn’t want to let his anger out on his own son. He opened them, ignoring the bustling crowds around them. “She had her hand on you.”

Tim’s expression was marked with disbelief, looking at Bruce as if he was the stupidest man on the planet. “Yeah?”

“And,” Bruce shook his head, trying not to doubt himself. “You were uncomfortable.”

“Okay?”

“It looked like you were trying to get her off.”

Tim waved his hands in the air as if trying to find the point. “Okay?!”

A passing waiter perked at Tim’s volume, checking to see if she was needed. An embarrassed flush graced Tim’s face and he gestured towards the balcony. 

Once outside, Bruce stayed quiet, waiting for Tim to speak. 

It was as if the boy was trying to find the words, leaning forward on the railing. “You caused a scene.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because,” Bruce frowned. “She made you uncomfortable.”

“You keep saying that.” Tim shoved his face in his hands. “So?”

“So?” Bruce asked. “I will not allow anyone to make you uncomfortable.”

The flush from earlier returned. “She’s just some old lady. I’ve been doing this since I could walk.”

“I don’t care who it is.” Bruce took another breath. He turned to look out at the cars below passing by, the paparazzi drinking coffee with their cameras ready for whoever came outside next. Bruce took some time to collect his thoughts, hoping that he could articulate them coherently enough to get through Tim’s brilliant but thick head. 

“I understand you have been doing this since you were a child.” Bruce validated. “You know the game, the rules, the things people say versus what they really mean. You’re skilled in that. Better than your siblings.” Bruce took a step closer. “But I don’t want you to be polite for the sake of not attracting attention.”

Tim’s shoulders rose, his chin ducking down slightly. Proving to Bruce that he had gotten it right. “What do you mean?”

“I know what your parents might have expected of you when you were younger. But I have different expectations and I’m sorry, Tim. I should’ve been more clear on them.”

Tim’s arms folded like a shield. But Bruce didn’t want to be pushed away like that. He leaned against the railing as well, hunching over a little so that he wasn’t looming.

“I don’t care about being polite. I don’t care about not causing a scene. I don’t care about headlines. If you are uncomfortable, I want you to break yourself out of that situation. Scream, hit, whatever it takes.” Bruce stated firmly, leaving no room for argument. 

“You’re making this a way bigger deal than it is.” Tim mumbled.

Bruce’s eyes narrowed. “No one is allowed to touch you if you don’t want them to, Tim.”

His kid’s spine stiffened at that, his throat working through a gulp. “You’re making it weird.”

“It has to be said.” Bruce argued. “I don’t care what business deal we have with them, or what their social status is and how much money they have. No one deserves your discomfort. I don’t care if you have to physically push them away. No one has the right to make you uncomfortable and you are allowed to stand up for yourself. Even if it seems ‘rude’.”

Tim scoffed, turning away from Bruce to face the city, hiding his face. Bruce noticed that Tim’s hair that usually fell down and covered his face was gelled up in the way the teen disliked. Alfred had helped him with it. Bruce kept his hands to himself despite the urge to reach up and fix it the way he knew Tim liked it.

Bruce wasn’t finished. “I know what it’s like. To keep still. To think that it’ll stop quicker if you just let it happen. To have people much older than you to laugh when you’re uncomfortable because they think it’s cute.”

Tim’s face fell forward, falling into the arms folded on top of the balcony’s railing. 

“Tim,” Bruce said quietly. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you before.”

“No,” Bruce watched Tim subtly try to wipe his face. “No, I'm just making a fuss.”

“Absolutely not.” Bruce nearly snapped. “It is not you making a fuss. Or being overdramatic. Or theatrical. It is more than understandable that you’re upset.”

Something in Bruce’s words had Tim’s shoulders jump, his breath hitching. And then his hands came up to bury his face in, hiding away even more. 

Bruce inched closer, making sure his presence was felt. His hand hovered over Tim’s shoulder, not touching. 

“I don’t care about appearances, I just don’t want you to be uncomfortable.”

The trembling shakes grew more violent. Tim, hands still covering his face, turned to face Bruce. Shuffling forward blindly. 

Acknowledging the hint, Bruce pulled Tim into his chest, wrapping his arms around his smaller frame. Letting him cry as much as he liked. Absently noting how Tim cried silently. Like no one was allowed to hear him or see. It didn’t matter if he was loud though, Bruce’s arms protected him from any threats. 

He did look around, ensuring there were no cameras trying to search for them. If there had been, Bruce would have had to break them and would be happy to do so, but he wasn’t in the mood to let go of Tim just yet. 

Bruce brought a hand up, putting a heavy weight on Tim’s head and pushing it firmly against his shoulder. The other arm held itself tight around Tim; putting steady pressure around him just the way he liked. Bruce leaned down, placing a swift kiss on his temple. In public. Unprofessional. Undignified.

“I’m ruining your suit.” Tim realised, voice hoarse.

“It’s just a suit.” Bruce rested a cheek on top of Tim’s head. “You can ruin it all you want.”

🦇

The sun was rising. Damian’s door was shut, separating him from the rest of the household since they arrived at the Manor. Bruce had shown him to the room, telling him to rest and that they would discuss the situation more thoroughly after.

Truthfully, Bruce needed time away from the child to break apart. To process the fact that he had a son, a child, one he was actually supposed to hold as an infant. One who instead had come into his care the same way as his other children had. Grown and hurt. 

Bruce sank down in the kitchen chair. Fingers tangling in his hair, still sweaty from the cowl. “Alfred, what are we going to do?”

“What we always do, sir. What you always do.” Alfred said, sounding just as beaten as Bruce from the revelation. “Guide him. Care for him. Give him what he needs to better his life. There is still time.”

Bruce’s fingers tightened their grip, tugging at the roots of his hair painfully. He had to. Even though he had sworn not to take in any more children. This wasn’t a choice. This was his son. Damian. Bruce already knew he’d protect him. Die for him. And he’d only known the child for a couple of hours. 

“An illegitimate son,” Alfred said, bewildered. “What will the people say?”

Bruce hadn’t slept. After showering, he laid wide awake that morning, thoughts running through and through. 

Ten years. Ten full years spent in the League of Assassins. During the most integral period of a child’s development. And Bruce had seen Damian’s posture, his resilience and his skills just from sitting next to him in the Batplane. It was enough to know that Damian was trained. And Bruce knew how the League trained. 

By afternoon, Bruce rolled out of bed. While timezones between New Jersey and Nanda Parbat were different, something in Bruce doubted that Damian would have slept with the sun up. 

He’d have to arrange for documents. Did Damian want to attend school? Maybe homeschooling for now. They’d need to book an appointment with Leslie. Would Damian know what vaccines he had or should he try to contact Talia? He still needed to inform the rest of the family. 

Bruce approached the door, yesterday it was a guest room and now it belonged to his son. Did this mean Tim now was a middle child? He really had to talk to the rest of his children. 

He knocked at the door and waited. Bruce tried again, “Damian? Can I come in?”

By the time the doubt set in that maybe Damian had in fact fallen asleep, the door opened. 

His son (that was his son!) was stood in the same uniform as yesterday, but washed and stiff. 

“You’re awake,” Bruce smiled, trying not to look as lost as he felt. 

“You were not coming in.” Damian stated, a question hidden. 

“Oh,” Bruce tucked his hands in his pockets. “That’s because this is your room. You decide who comes in and leaves. I wasn’t going to open it without your permission. The same way I ask you to respect the privacy of the other members of this household.”

Damian stared at him, eyes judging, then he tsked and stood at attention. As if waiting.

“I was going to go eat breakfast.” Bruce gestured to the stairs. “Would you like to join me?”

“If that is what you wish.”

Bruce hummed. Noting down that decision making needed some work. “Did you want to change into something more comfortable? You don’t need to wear your uniform here. But if you want to keep it on, it’s your choice.”

While Damian’s posture didn’t slip and his expression didn’t change, Bruce could feel the uncertainty radiating off of him. 

When a moment too long passed, Bruce made the decision for him. “I think you might want to change. Alfred will order you new clothes today but there’s some shirts and pants in the drawers that should fit you.”

Wordlessly, eyeing him suspiciously, Damian moved into the room towards the said drawers. He picked up the first articles of clothing he saw, not glancing at any options, not bothering for colour. Just doing as he was told. 

Bruce realised that Damian was removing his armoured uniform and made another note that respected autonomy and privacy was also something to work on. Bruce reached for the door handle. “When you’re ready, come on out and we’ll go to the kitchen together. No rush.” He said and shut the door, giving Damian space to change his clothes. 

Breakfast was stilted. Awkward. Bruce wanted to drive the fork into his skull a multitude of times. Even Alfred raised his brows at the tension. But they made it through. It was fine. They got there. Somehow. 

When Bruce caught on that Damian wasn’t going to eat anymore, not that he ate enough in Bruce’s opinion, he pushed his chair back. “Let me give you a tour of the Manor.” Bruce said. “I want to arrange an appointment with our doctor later, Leslie Thompkins, an old ally. But until then, we can do our own standard checks to start off your medical file. Let me show you around for thirty minutes while breakfast goes down so it doesn’t interfere with the results.”

Damian tsked again, Bruce was starting to think that was his preferred sound. As they exited the kitchen, Damian piped up, “I do not require a doctor to assess me. I am in peak condition. My capabilities surpass that of the average man.”

“I believe you,” Bruce said easily. Not looking at Damian when the boy’s head whipped towards him like he had been ready for an argument. “It’s just for legal purposes. We’ll need to get documents arranged for you and a medical check up would be beneficial. I’m sure you understand.”

Damian scowled up at him. “Tt.”

Halfway through the tour, Damian asked his first question. “And the servant is in charge of all of this?”

“Alfred is not a servant,” Bruce echoed from earlier. “He is a friend. He raised me.”

“Tt. Specifics.”

“Yes, Alfred is in charge of the cleaning but he does hire help when necessary. That being said, we do not create mess for him to clean after us. We look after ourselves. We tidy up after ourselves. His presence is not an excuse to not stay disciplined in that area of our life.”

Damian walked towards an antique mantelpiece in a very rarely used room of the Manor. He swiped his finger on the surface, showing to Bruce how dusty it was. 

“I see,” Bruce acknowledged. “If this area is needed, I’m sure Alfred will take care of it.”

“This is his job. You shouldn’t let the help take advantage of your patience.” Damian said, trying to flick the dust off like it disgusted him. “What is his consequence?”

Bruce raised a brow, “there will be no ‘consequence’. Alfred does not get consequences other than whatever life naturally decides for him.”

Damian scowled, aghast by his father’s words. “If you do not keep him in line, he could—”

“He raised me Damian.” Bruce cut him off. “We respect him. He took me in and prepared me for the now. Without him there would be no Batman, no me and maybe no you. Plus, Alfred is our elder. I do not want you making trouble for him. Understood?” Bruce asked. This was the first time in the twenty-four hours that Damian had been in his care that he was laying down a rule. But when Bruce wasn’t in charge, it was Alfred. And Bruce did not want Damian to have to deal with Alfred’s impatience when the man felt disrespected. 

Clenching his jaw, Damian just scoffed, folding his arms. 

“It’s been thirty minutes,” Bruce checked. “Let’s head to the Cave. Do you remember where it is?”

“Of course, Father, I am not a fool to forget already.” Damian sniped, walking straight past Bruce. 

With a sigh, Bruce followed him. At least he was getting comfortable enough to talk back.

Bruce also suppressed a smile. Being called ‘Father’ felt nice. 

Height and weight checked and recorded, Bruce asked Damian for previous injuries. To which Damian replied with a confused frown. 

“Just list them,” Bruce suggested, preparing himself. 

“I… cannot.” Damian admitted, sitting on the edge of the examination table. The clinical gown he was wearing looking large on him. Bruce would need to arrange for children's sizes. He was sure the gowns from when Dick was a child were stored somewhere. “Apologies, Father.”

“That’s alright.” Bruce grabbed a pen and a pad, “I don’t like thinking about my own injuries too sometimes.”

“No,” Damian bristled, offended deeply by the allegation. “I am not weak like that. I simply cannot recall them all. I will rectify this immediately.”

Bruce took a patient breath, holding a hand up. “No need to rectify it. That’s what the medical file is for. If you are fine with it, slip your gown off, just to your waist, and we’ll make a list from what we see and you tell me if I miss any that you remember.” With the pen, Bruce jotted down, “I can see an old scar by your nose, two centimetres. And the helix of your left ear has been stitched.”

“Yes, it tore in battle.” Damian offered bluntly, pulling down the gown. 

“Right,” Bruce looked back at the pad, trying not to let this affect him too much in front of Damian. 

If he was ten years old now, and these scars were aged and healed, how old had he been when he was struck?

Bruce rounded up behind the table, looking up to examine Damian. “I’m going to start with your back…” Bruce trailed off. Breathless from what he was looking at. 

The scars. So many scars. There were more scars than untouched skin on his son’s back. Telling a story of skin ripped over and over. Telling tales of a boy, much younger and smaller than the one sat in front of him, being whipped or caned or beaten for the sake of ‘training’. He would’ve bled. He might’ve cried. Maybe he even begged for it to stop. 

And Bruce. Wasn’t. There. 

“Father?” Damian twisted his neck, trying to glance at him without moving too much. 

He hadn’t even checked the front of Damian yet, let alone his legs and arms. 

That couldn’t be… was that a bullet scar in his child’s shoulder?

“I’m here,” Bruce forced out, recognising that his voice was rougher than it should be. He battled to relax his jaw. Directing his tension into the tight, shaking grip of his pen. His stomach churning in pure agony. “Let me get started.”

Don’t break down. Not in front of him. 

Mechanically, heart bleeding, Bruce listed down every injury decorating his boy. Writing down the measurements and the exact locations, noting the wounds that had overlapped. Moving from the back to the front and Damian’s limbs.

Bruce didn’t ask the origin of any mark. Not the weapon, nor the reason. That was Damian’s story to tell one day, if he ever trusted Bruce that much. 

After writing down everything, filling up two A4 pages in small print, Bruce set the notepad down on the table. Taking his time. 

He turned slowly, Damian was slipping the gown back on, unbothered by anything that had occurred the past hour. 

“Damian?” Bruce called softly, taking a small step forward, not crowding the ten year old. “I know we don’t know each other yet, it will take time and effort from the both of us to be close. But I wanted to make something clear. You might not believe me but I need you to listen and to understand something extremely important. Okay?”

Bruce’s heart crumbled from how alert Damian became. A little soldier.

“You will never, and I mean never, be intentionally injured under our care.” Bruce swore. “Even though you haven’t met them yet, not a single person in this family will raise a hand to bruise you, cut you, strike you or hurt you in any way.” He took a breath. “I promise you, I give you my word, you are safe in this house. There will be no pain, even under the guise of training or discipline, there is no excuse. You will not be hurt.” 

Bruce took one more tiny step. “If anyone hurts you, no matter who it is, I want you to inform me at the earliest possible moment. And I, myself, will never cause you harm. You don’t have to say anything right now. You don’t even need to believe me yet. Just listen and remember. You are my child. You are safe here.”

Bruce stepped back, bringing the spare clothes closer to Damian for him to change into. Grabbing the notepad to transfer the information onto the Cave’s digital records and leaving the boy in his privacy to dwell over Bruce’s words. 

He couldn’t be around Damian just now. Not when his son who he just met was bright red in embarrassment and disbelief. Not when his own child was confused by the notion that he would not be hit. 

It would take time, it might take years, but Bruce would prove it to Damian. To the boy who would’ve been his baby. Who still was even though neither were comfortable to admit it just yet. Bruce would prove to him that he was safe. That he would always be safe. 

🦇

Darkseid attacked Earth.

🦇

Chapter Text

🦇

Dick turned on the shower, letting the warm water cover his body. It did little for the bone deep aches but he needed the excuse to be alone. 

He couldn’t stay in this mansion anymore. Everywhere he turned he saw Bruce. His father was sitting at the kitchen table, leaning against doorways, exercising in the Cave, reading a book in the library. 

Bruce would frown at him from the shadows, looming over Dick when Damian ran off over and over again. His lips would turn disapprovingly whenever Damian’s door slammed shut. The worst was Bruce’s scathing glare when Damian came back from patrol injured. Dick could practically hear his words, blaming Dick for hurting his son. 

And shit, Dick was trying so hard. 

Damian was brilliant in knowing how to push the right buttons, exactly what to say to make it hurt the most. 

But the moment Dick would snap, or even turn sharply to narrow his eyes angrily, Damian would freeze. His back would straighten and shoulders would tighten. He wouldn’t show it on his expression, but the detective in Dick could clearly see the tiny ways he would shift, ready to be struck. 

And Dick would take a breath, expose his hands, lower himself to a crouch, and say, “I’m not going to hurt you, Dami. I promise.”

Just for Damian to bristle and turn red. But with the fear dispersed, it made Dick feel better. 

Damian’s behavior was aggressive and loud and disrespectful. Running away, slamming doors and cursing Dick’s entire family history. Testing his patience time and time again. 

‘He’s not yours.’ A disgusting voice would whisper to Dick on the darkest nights. ‘You have every right to leave him.’

He would never do that. Not to this kid. 

But sometimes, the kid made it difficult. 

At least he wasn’t alone. 

Turning the shower off, Dick took a few minutes to breathe before wrapping a towel around himself and stepping out. Alfred was already there, setting down a mug of tea on his bedside table. 

“To help you sleep, sir.” Alfred said.

“You’re a godsend, Alf.” Dick said, putting another towel around his neck to catch the drips. “What would I do without you?”

“I have thought that often.” Alfred joked back, puffing up the pillows. “Master Damian has yet to exit his bedroom. However, I had left a cup of tea outside that appears to have disappeared.”

Dick sat down heavily on the edge of the bed with a heaving sigh. “Alfred,” he groaned. “What am I doing?”

Through his peripheral vision, Dick caught Alfred’s gloved hand raising, as if to place itself on Dick’s shoulder, before it lowered, overthinking his decisions. It amused Dick, how Alfred always hid his affectionate side. 

“You are doing what very few men are brave enough to do.” Alfred said, folding his hands behind his back. “You have chosen to guide a child into adulthood. Giving him the tools required to make the best of himself. You,” Alfred stressed. “Are his sole guardian. You will do what is necessary.”

Dick shuddered, the weight of that responsibility pressing down on him. “But I don’t know what is necessary.”

“No,” Alfred said gently. “Perhaps not. It is a learning experience. You see what works and what does not. Your father… he was kind to you, maybe to a fault. He did not show you how to raise a child in the way Master Damian requires.”

“You’re right,” Dick lowered his head, towelling his wet hair, Alfred escaping his view. “I need to be even more patient with Damian. Really show him that he’s gonna be okay.”

“Are you sure that is what he—”

Alfred’s words were cut off with Dick’s ridiculously long yawn. “Thanks for the tea, Alfie. I’m really glad you’re here.”

Dick lowered his towel. Alfred was smiling at him teasingly, Dick was certain his hair was a mess. “Certainly, Master Dick. I shall see you again in the morning. Goodnight.”

Dick took a breath when Damian kicked the Batcomputer chair, it skidded across the tiled floor before crashing with a bang into the wall.

“Damian. Enough.” Dick ordered.

So much use that was, the young boy just glowered, literally snarling up at Dick animalistically. “You underestimated me!” He yelled, Robin’s cape flowing behind him. 

“Lower your voice, Master Damian.” Alfred instructed from where he stood.

Damian whipped around to bare his teeth at Alfred. It might have been the lighting, but Dick was certain he’d seen a flash of anger in Alfred’s eyes. Even so, Dick could justify it, the meltdowns were almost daily now. 

“You are nothing more than a lowlife serva—”

“Damian. Do not be rude.” Dick interrupted. 

“Do not tell—”

“Your guardian just said not to be rude.” Alfred chided. 

Dick could see Damian’s jaw biting down hard enough that he grew concerned for his teeth. 

“You disobeyed a direct order.” Dick said in a tight voice, trying to keep it calm. In the corner of the Cave, a shadow that looked too much like Bruce was watching in disdain. “Until I can trust you to follow orders you will remain here. No Robin.”

Damian’s throat ripped in a wordless yell. Dick withheld his wince, staring him down, prepared to block any hits. 

‘This is good.’ He remembered a younger Bruce saying after Dick had witnessed a meltdown from a small Jason. ‘He’s not scared. If he was scared, he wouldn’t feel safe enough to shout.’

Dick had teasingly responded by asking which psychology book Bruce had been reading. But currently he wished he had the answer because he needed that book right about now. Preferably to smack himself with. 

“Master Damian.” Alfred said, voice low and scalding. 

It didn’t surprise Dick too much. They were all human and Alfred was growing old. The man was allowed to lose his patience just as much as Damian was allowed to throw a chair. 

Bruce was now standing in a new corner. Shaking his head. 

Dick needed to move out of the Manor. He needed to build the Bunker faster. 

“No Robin. Three days.” Dick doubled down. 

Damian narrowed his eyes, fists shaking. “You are nothing more than a wannabe cosplayer. You are nothing like my father was.”

“No,” Dick agreed easily, trying not to glance at the shadow that was now beside him. “I’m not. Go change.”

With another patient breath, Dick dodged the flying Batarang, listening to the sounds of Damian stomping away. 

He closed his eyes and concentrated on the bats chirping overhead. 

“You need to let him know that he has to respect you.” Alfred said, breaking him out of his thoughts. 

“He will,” Dick defended, turning to him. 

“He will not if he is allowed to throw items and yell at the adults in charge of him. He needs firmness.” Alfred straightened his suit, still evidently offended by Damian’s rudeness. “But I will leave you to it. Just as I left your father to raise you.”

“Hey,” Dick called out to Alfred’s retreating form. He waited for Alfred to look back. “I really couldn’t do this without you, Alf.”

This had Alfred calming down. The old man smiled at him, “you can indeed do this, Master Dick. Do not forget who is in charge.”

Alfred was there when Dick got the call from the school. Dick grabbed a set of car keys, each step he took frustrated. Alfred trailed behind him. 

“It feels quite embarrassing, doesn’t it?” Alfred sympathised. 

“Like, I just dealt with this last week!” Dick snapped. Barely holding back from slamming the garage door open. “Just a few days ago I sat in that principal’s office and lied through my teeth, begging them not to suspend that kid!”

“I understand,” Alfred nodded. “Generally, a child does not typically seem to care about how it feels for their guardian.”

“Like, what if people start thinking I’m not good enough?” Dick felt himself getting hot with anger. “I mean, I already think I’m not good enough for this myself, sure. But I told Damian, I told him that if he causes too much trouble at school they have evidence to build a case against us. We already have social services watching our every move!”

“It is indeed a heavy responsibility on your shoulders. He should know to respect you more.”

Dick climbed into the car, “I need to calm down before I get there. I’m gonna lose it otherwise.”

“I am here, Master Dick.” Alfred assured. “Do not indulge in his reasons until you return. Let the drive give you both ample time to think. It is important for your own state of mind as well as his.”

Dick nearly scoffed, “near impossible to ignore him.” He half-joked. “I’ll see you in a bit, Alfie.”

As he drove off, Dick massaged his head, avoiding looking out of the rearview mirror where Bruce’s shadow was watching from the garage door. 

The first thing Damian did as soon as he climbed into the car was tut loudly. It was enough that Dick very nearly snapped then and there. 

He thought he might take Alfred’s advice. Leave the inevitable screaming match for the Manor. 

“No talking ‘till we get back,” Dick said as a warning. 

Damian didn’t feel the same way. “He deserved it.”

Dick took a breath. 

“Grayson. I said something.”

It was fine, it would be fine. Dick just needed to focus on the road home. He glanced back at the child; Damian was wearing the seatbelt he hated, arms crossed and scowling viciously. 

“Grayson? Grayson.” Damian’s head tilted with a confused frown. 

As angry as he was, Dick didn’t have the heart to just ignore him. “Three days.” He said. “Three whole days of suspension.”

“I said he deserved it!” 

Dick winced at the high pitch noise. “You stabbed him through his hand with a pencil. You’re lucky you weren’t expelled.” Dick raised a brow. “Are you trying to get expelled?”

“Of course, not.” Damian tsked. 

“Y’know the most frustrating part? I’m not even mad you retaliated. I’m mad you made a freaking hole in his hand. I would’ve even accepted a punch to his face, but a hole?”

“He deserved it.” Damian repeated, kicking the seat in front of him and turning his gaze out of the side window to avoid Dick’s. 

Dick counted to five in his head. “I’ll bite. Why did he deserve it?”

“You didn’t hear the things he was saying.”

“That’s why I’m asking you.”

With another glance back, Dick noticed Damian’s throat working. His hands tightened around the wheel, he was unprepared for Damian to get emotional. He didn’t bring attention to it, allowing Damian to speak at his own pace. 

“He was…” Damian’s voice became softer. “He was making up tales about Father.”

It felt as if Dick’s heart was struck by a splintered arrow, a pained hiss escaping his mouth. “Dames—” 

“It’s not true.” Damian insisted. “He did not choose to leave. He did not choose to leave me behind like that imbecile said.”

“You’re right.” Dick responded sharply. “Bruce didn’t want to leave you, kiddo. You know he would never.”

“No, I do not.” Damian’s face ducked down. It was a stark reminder to Dick of how much of a child he actually was. “I did not know him.”

Dick shook his head, hands tightening and loosening over the wheel as he tried to keep calm. He tried to ignore his own tears fighting their way out at the mention of his third parent. Of the man who wasn’t supposed to die so soon. 

“I’m sorry,” Dick said, voice thick. “I know with our excuse for Bruce’s absence, there are a lot of rumours going around. I hadn’t thought that they would come back to you.” Dick’s blew out a shaky breath. “I know, Damian. I know how it feels to lose a parent. And I also know that telling stories about them is what keeps their souls alive within us. I haven’t… I’ve not told you many about Bruce. I know I’ve been avoiding it. But tell you what, I’ll sit you down and at dinner every night, maybe I can share some stories about Batman and Robin?”

With the blanketed silence, Dick wondered if he had overstepped. But he kept quiet for the rest of the drive. It was when the Manor gates came into view that Damian spoke. 

“That would be most acceptable.” His voice was strong, but faked. 

Dick just nodded, throat tight. “Great.”

They were exiting the car when Alfred came down the few steps into the garage. “Has the matter been sorted?”

“Yeah,” Dick said, shutting the door. “We talked it out.”

Alfred’s nose went up, his brows furrowing. He looked at Dick exactly how he’d look at Bruce when they disagreed. It wasn’t a very nice feeling. “Did you, now?” His voice was already full of doubt that made Dick internally wince. 

“There’s a three day suspension, Damian should be back by the end of the week.” Dick answered while Damian retrieved his bag from the trunk.

“Three days?” Alfred exclaimed. “And as his guardian, how are you rectifying this, Master Dick?”

From the corner of his eye, Dick noticed Damian bristle. The child still held his tongue, getting better at speaking to Alfred with some ounce of respect. 

“We talked about it in the car. It’s sorted, Alf.”

“What on earth caused such a suspension?” Alfred asked, turning to Damian. 

Before Dick could stop him, Damian proudly announced. “I stabbed a peer in the hand.”

“Okay, but we talked—”

“Master Damian,” Alfred’s jaw had dropped. Dick tried to butt in again, the conversation escalating unnecessarily. “You are a Wayne. How dare you embarrass your name in this way? At home around Master Dick and I it is one thing but to do so publicly? Do you not remember who you represent now?”

There was a pause where even Dick didn’t quite know how to respond. While it was happening more often, it still wasn’t common for Alfred to snap and both boys were well aware of this. For once, Alfred appeared to be genuinely distressed by the matter. 

Damian gained his wits quicker than Dick. 

“I am an Al Ghul first and foremost.” Damian said snootily. “I am born from royalty. I will not be disrespected by an ancient peasant my American grandfather hired decades ago.”

“Damian,” Dick said before Alfred could retort. “Apologise, that was rude.”

“I do not care if I am rude,” Damian smirked. “The coloniser—”

“Damian!” 

“What!” Damian whipped over to face Dick, all earlier progress had vanished and a red faced boy was glaring back at him. “He is nothing! He does not deserve to be in my Manor!”

“Your Manor?” Dick laughed. “You have done nothing to show that you’ve earned anything.”

“It is my inheritance! Is this not Wayne Manor? The name you have all forced upon me? I am an Al Ghul and yet I am made to feel ashamed of my past.”

It made Dick cringe, the passive racism Damian was suggesting. Dick understood the position of balancing two lives better than anyone in this household. “Not ashamed. You can be both names.” Dick tried to reason. “Either way, that is no excuse—”

“Stop telling me what to do!” Damian shrieked. Damian caught himself, his open expression battling on how to act next. To apologise or not. One side evidently won because before Dick realised it, a school bag was being thrown into his face. He grabbed it just in time. “You have no say over me!”

Suddenly, Alfred’s words of Damian not knowing who was in charge came through. Dick took a strategic step forward, gripping tightly onto the school bag to repress the absolute fury he suddenly felt. 

“Like it or not, kid, I am your guardian. I actually am in charge of you and I can, in fact, tell you what to do.” Dick said through gritted teeth. 

With a cry of frustration, Damian reached for something to destroy. In a garage full of vehicles, his only option was a side mirror. He grabbed it, ripping it off the car and again throwing it at Dick’s direction. The man dodged, the mirror flying into another car’s window with a crash. Glass shattering onto the floor. 

“You are not my father!” Damian’s voice was hoarse and thick. “You are some circus freak he took in because he pitied you after your parents died from their own foolish fault!”

Dick wasn’t quite sure he’d ever know what expression showed on his face in that moment, but between one blink and another, Damian had run off, racing past the adults in the room and into the Manor. 

In front of him, in the distance, Bruce looked right at him as if he agreed with every word his real son had said. 

Dick had to get out of here. 

“I can’t.” He dropped the school bag to his feet. “Alfred, what the hell.”

“Now, Master Dick.” Alfred soothed from where he had been observing. “Do you now see what happens when children do not know boundaries?”

“He’s grieving,” Dick said emptily.

“A valid excuse. However, if you allow that excuse to cloud your judgement every time, Master Damian will grow up to be even worse.” 

Dick buried his face in his hands, shoving the heels of his palms into his eyes. “I can’t,” he shook his head. “I can’t deal with him.”

He heard as Alfred came close. With his eyes still hidden away, Dick hadn’t expected to feel the warm weight on his shoulder. He looked up, shocked to find Alfred’s hand actually resting on his shoulder for once. An action Dick rarely got to experience. It sent a wave of calm through him. The reminder that he was not alone. 

Alfred was looking at him kindly, “Would you like me to, Master Dick?”

Breathing out shakily, Dick nodded, grabbing his keys from his pocket. He needed to leave, he needed to get away from Bruce’s gaze. “Sure, you deal with him ‘cause I can’t anymore. I’m going out.” Dick needed to finish up the Bunker so that he could take everyone and move them out to the Penthouse, permanently leaving Bruce’s phantom behind. 

“Very well, Master Dick.” Alfred nodded as Dick climbed into the car again. “Do not worry, I shall handle Master Damian as required.”

Dick sighed, closing the door and lowering the window. “Thank you, Alf. I don’t know what I’d do alone.” He drove off. Unable to bear the heavy weight sitting on his chest anymore. 

🦇

It had been nearly three decades since Master Bruce had taken Master Dick in. 

Alfred slowly walked up the stairs and headed towards the family wing, taking the time to think and reflect. 

Since the passing of Thomas and Martha, Alfred had gone through war to help guide Bruce into his bestest self. Raising a child, a child as special as Bruce, was one of the biggest challenges in his life. 

He still wasn’t sure where exactly he had gone wrong, what had caused Master Bruce to drop out of medical school and trek the mountains, searching for the monks he read about as a child. What Alfred said that made Master Bruce forget his lost Zorro hat and sew himself a cowl shaped as a bat. 

Alfred had given up hoping Master Bruce would see how ridiculous he was being. Instead, the older man was forced to become something of use. His child had begun coming home bloodied and bruised, and despite his resentment, Alfred could never leave him alone in that pain. After that, monitoring Batman through the rather large computer and directing him to where he was needed seemed like the best way to provide his services. The best way to make sure he stayed alive.

One of Alfred’s greatest challenges was raising Master Bruce, but it was also his greatest gift. Of course, he allowed Master Bruce with the privilege and honour of raising his own children, no matter how much Alfred disapproved of his methods. 

Although all of Master Bruce’s children were akin to, dare he say, grandchildren to Alfred; he always assumed that the Wayne name would live and die with Master Bruce. 

Then Master Damian came along. A product of a foolish night. Illegitimate, but not irredeemable. 

Suddenly, Alfred had a ten year old Wayne who needed to grow into his own name all over again. Something about Master Damian was so abstractly different from the others. The child was a carbon copy of Master Bruce. 

Master Bruce… men were supposed to die before the children they raised. Alfred had not known how to cope, so he did exactly as he had done all those years ago when Thomas and Martha were murdered.

Alfred decided to swallow his pain and redirect his teachings to the newest Wayne. He had done so once before, he now knew the recipe. 

When Master Wayne had left to travel the world and train, he had gone as a boy. Upon his arrival, he returned as the man who Alfred had assumed he’d been for years. Alfred couldn’t guide him any longer. Could not direct him or correct his behaviour. It was out of his hands. Alfred had no choice other than to watch his child raise his own children with the wrong methods. 

With Master Bruce gone, Alfred could now put it to right. Even if he didn’t really want to.

“Master Damian,” Alfred knocked once on his bedroom door. 

There was a lack of response, and so Alfred walked straight in. 

Master Damian scrambled up from where he had been sitting on his bed, having not expected Alfred to open the door. “Get out of my room.”

Alfred folded his hands behind his back. “I expect to be spoken to with respect.”

“No, I get to choose who comes into my room.” Damian glared, “so go!”

Alfred calmly walked in further, “you owe Master Dick a sincere apology.” He said. “You hurt him deeply. He has gone for a drive to clear his head.”

For all his bite, Alfred caught a sense of regret on the child’s expression, but it was masked away just as quickly as it had appeared. 

Alfred sighed, resting back against the dressing table but still keeping upright and professional. “You must understand, Master Damian. With your father… gone,” he avoided acknowledging the boy’s twitch. “You are the only Wayne left. You do not have the sole inheritance, no. Master Timothy, for example, has a hand in Wayne’s Enterprises. However, young sir, you are the only one to be born with the name ‘Wayne’. That holds a great honour.”

Master Damian snapped, “I already know that.”

“Then why do you act like a child?” Alfred said back, watching him blink at the retort. “You say you know the name holds an honour, yet you cause trouble in school. You humiliate your name in public. You are rude and disrespectful to others. This is not the actions of a Wayne. I would know, I stood by your grandfather and raised your father. Now it is your turn to learn, my child.”

Master Damian folded his arms defensively, his frown directed at the carpet. 

“Master Dick asked me to rectify your behaviour during his absence.” Alfred had thought hard on how to help Master Damian best. 

Then he recalled that Master Damian, despite his appearance, had a strikingly different upbringing from his father. Where Master Bruce was bred with softness, a simple look could solve most issues. Master Damian, on the other hand, had been through unfortunate horrors. 

Horrors that had worked. 

Upon his arrival, Master Damian showed poise and presence. Somewhat similar to Master Jason when he was newly adopted. This sophistication had vanished gradually the more Master Bruce had coddled the young Wayne, and Master Dick even more so. 

Unfortunately, the child had been beaten a tad too much. The line between discipline and unfair disgusting punishments had been crossed entirely. But still, despite the cruelty, it had worked. Master Damian wouldn’t respond to anything less, and it would seem almost disrespectful to assume otherwise. 

At that moment, Alfred thought hard. 

He would not use his bare hand, that would be too familiar and he was still just an employee. The child had yet to change out of his school trousers, which would be thin enough, Alfred would not need to ask him to strip. That would have been disturbing for the both of them. 

“You will be corrected,” Alfred told him. “So that you learn from your error.”

Master Damian blinked, looking back up at Alfred. “Corrected?”

“Yes.” Alfred tilted his head curiously. The child had been with them for only a few months, he could not have forgotten ten years of discipline. 

Alfred shifted, opening the dresser drawer and fiddling around until he found something suitable. He shut the drawer, holding the wide hairbrush in his hand. 

“Towards the bed now, turn around.”

But Master Damian just stood there. For once, Alfred witnessed a new emotion from him - shock. The boy’s shoulders had fallen and his eyes wide, his body slack. His eyes flew between the brush and Alfred’s face, as if detecting whether or not Alfred was lying. 

Instantly, his body tightened and he took a minuscule step back. “I refuse.”

Alfred raised a pointed brow. “Do not be rude to me, young sir. You know better than anyone else how important consistent reminders are towards building a strong character.”

“But…” Master Damian looked back at the brush, lost for words. “But Father sai— where is Grayson?”

“You upset him so much that he left to clear his head and asked me to deal with you, do you recall?” Alfred said gently. “You know this is good for you, this way you will think next time before saying such horrid things to your brother.”

Master Damian still had not moved.

“Now, Master Damian.” Alfred instructed, hardening his voice lightly in a way he hadn’t done so in years. 

The child nearly stumbled but caught himself, walking backwards to the side of the bed. As if he did not want to lose sight of Alfred and the brush, he very slowly turned around. 

Alfred hated doing such an act, but someone had to bear the responsibility. Master Dick’s heart was too soft, Alfred was unable to put this on his shoulders. He must bear the heartache himself. He could not witness Master Dick hurt in such a manner. 

“Now bend over, Master Damian, elbows on the bed.”

“What?” Master Damian turned sharply, cheeks dusting red.

“Elbows on the bed,” Alfred repeated, gesturing to the sheets.

“Absolutely not,” Master Damian near yelled. 

Alfred took a calm breath in. “I am giving you the dignity of bending over the bed instead of my lap, unless that is what you prefer for this?”

It occurred to Alfred that until just then, Master Damian had not fully understood his punishment as he witnessed his cheeks growing darker. 

“Can you not beat me instead?” The boy asked, voice whispering below his breath. “Please?” He hurried to add. 

Alfred’s heart fell as he looked down at Master Bruce— no. Master Damian. Master Bruce was dead. “Oh, child. I could never bring myself to inflict harm on you.” Alfred came closer, placing a gentle hand on Master Damian’s shoulder, “here.” He said just as softly as the boy had spoken earlier and guided him down gently. 

Suddenly, as if accepting that this was happening, Master Damian allowed Alfred to move him, tucking his head in between his forearms and pressing his face into the bed. 

It made Alfred ache to see Master Bru— Damian in such a position. But if Alfred did not help him now, he would grow into someone spoiled and rotten. 

In an instant, the looseness in Master Damian’s shoulders shifted into something stiff.

Mister Thomas Wayne had spanked his child, Alfred’s own father had done so as well, albeit less kindly. It was a tried and tested punishment. Master Bruce had not had the chance to open his eyes and see that perhaps not with his other children, but with this rowdy one, this tactic definitely needed to be applied. Maybe he would have, had he been alive just a little longer. 

Alfred raised his hand, bringing the wide hairbrush up, treating it as a paddle like the one he faced in his own boarding school. 

He took a deep breath. Seeing Master Bruce instead of Master Damian. He couldn’t… he couldn’t do it. 

Abruptly, as if the child on the bed recognised his hesitation, he tutted. Mockingly. 

This was not Master Bruce, this was Master Damian. The boy who had been through unfortunate horrors. A light spanking would be a tickle for him. 

It was for a better future. 

Focusing on his aim, Alfred heavily brought down his hand. 

🦇

Once he returned to the garage, Dick stayed in the car longer than he should have, enjoying the privacy. When the shadows started to shift, he climbed out. The Penthouse wasn’t quite ready yet, but they were getting there. 

He took slow steps to the main kitchen, nodding to Alfred as he leaned against the doorframe, folding his arms. “Sorry for running off.”

Alfred shook his head from where he was sitting cutting vegetables. “I often wished I could leave to clear my head when I was raising Master Bruce. Where there is help, we must be inclined to accept it. Are you feeling better, sir?”

Dick hummed. “As good as I’m gonna get. Thank you for handling everything.”

“Of course, Master Dick. Everything is in order. Master Damian might still be upset but he should be ready to apologise now.” Alfred reassured him. 

Dick groaned, raising his hands up in a stretch. “I hate being responsible.”

“We all do, sir.” Alfred joked. 

“Yeah, yeah.” Dick cracked his neck, turning away. “Thanks again, Alf.”

Feeling out of his depth, something he was getting more and more used to experiencing, Dick was slow to make his way up to Damian’s room. Before he realised it, Dick was standing right in front of the closed door. He breathed a deep and heavy breath, pushing back the urge to find his own room and curl up in bed. 

Honestly, Alfred was so much better at this than Dick. He’d been doing this for nearly forty years now. 

The traitorous little voice was back. The cruel one. 

‘Leave Damian here. He has Alfred. He was never yours. You can go.’

He could be free. He didn’t even need to say bye. Just walk away. 

Dick knocked on Damian’s door. 

“Dames?” Dick leaned his forehead against the door. “Can we talk?”

There was no reply, it stretched long enough that Dick grew worried that the boy had fallen asleep. Then instead of calling him in, the door opened. 

Dick looked down, Damian looked up. 

“Hey…” Dick tilted his head. 

“You were not coming in.” Damian stated. His voice was low, as though he forced the words out through a barrier. 

“You didn’t invite me in.” Dick pointed out. “Can I? Come in?”

Damian shrugged with one shoulder, stepping back further into his room and choosing to stand by the bed. Dick pushed the door open, trying to keep the frown off his face. Today must’ve been a really hard day for the kid, the mannerisms unlike his typical self. 

“So,” Dick sat on the desk chair, “can we talk?”

“If you like.” Damian frowned.

“I would like.” Dick said. “Can you sit down?”

Damian hesitated, raising even more suspicion in Dick. “Must I?” 

“I wanna have a serious discussion,” Dick said carefully. Confused. “It’s not going to be short.”

Damian’s frown deepened and he glanced towards the bed. Slowly, he situated himself on it, shuffling about slightly as he tried to get himself comfortable. 

Dick eyed him analytically. Trying to understand each action he took. 

Before Dick could say anything, Damian spoke abruptly. “I apologise.” He said quietly, voice rough. 

It had Dick leaning back in the chair uncertainly, still trying to figure out the next move. “I didn’t appreciate what you said. But I do get that grief can affect our actions and you had a difficult morning. It might not be an excuse but I understand.”

Dick looked deeper into Damian. The edges of the boy’s eyes were red in a way that Dick had never seen from him. 

The child in front of him remained quiet. Staying still and watching, hyper alert. 

Deciding that perhaps he could come closer, Dick stood up and took a step towards the bed to sit beside Damian, only for his younger brother to flinch back. 

Well, it was more like a hitched breath and tensed muscles, expecting something more sinister. 

Nevertheless, it made Dick freeze. The man stared wide eyed at the reaction before retreating, coming to sit back on the chair deliberately slow. 

Dick took a breath, loud and exaggerated, exhaling it out. He repeated it again, willing for the taut tension in Damian’s muscles to relax. When it didn’t, Dick leaned back in the chair again, slumping down his shoulders and crossing his ankles. Making himself relaxed. Damian would know that for Dick to stand, it would take him longer this way. Giving Damian time to defend himself. Dick rested his hands on his knees, palms facing upright. 

Damian relaxed. Barely. Still tense. Prepared. 

“I’m not going to hurt you, Damian.” Dick whispered, letting his voice travel across the room. This was typically his final move which usually worked, then Damian would resort to his more comfortable self, screaming and throwing sharp objects. 

Dick wasn’t ready for Damian to meet his gaze head on. 

“Liar.”

Dick blinked at the unexpected insult. “What?”

“You are a liar.” Damian repeated, voice gruff. His hands on his legs curled into fists. “You’re lying.”

“Damian,” Dick shook his head, insisting. “I will not hurt you. No one here is going to hurt you.”

“Liar!” Damian shouted, his voice unusually wet. Then he immediately flinched back again, shoulders rising up in preparation. 

But Dick didn’t move. Didn’t strike Damian the way the child was so visibly expecting him to. 

“Damian.” Dick whispered, considering whether the best move would be to leave him alone. “I’ll prove it to you, even if you don’t believe me yet. It’ll be okay.”

Damian’s body language was taut, but his head shook side to side. 

“Liar.” He said hoarsely. 

Dick’s jaw clenched. “Why am I a liar?” He decided to ask. 

Damian’s shoulders rose, almost as though he was offended, and his lips twitched. He glanced at the open door and Dick followed his gaze, but no one was there. 

“Damian,” Dick tried hard not to move closer. “Why am I a liar?”

“You—” Damian’s hand gestured jerkily towards the empty doorway. “You had Pennyworth…”

Dick frowned, watching closely as Damian’s cheeks dusted pink. As the boy shifted from where he was sat on the bed, uncomfortable and frustrated. 

“I asked Alfred to talk to you, yeah.” Dick nodded. “I’m sorry, I had to go clear my head so Alfred volunteered to have a chat with you.”

“Exactly!” Damian snapped. He shrunk back into himself immediately. Not a flinch but close. “Liar.”

“How?” Dick stressed.

“You sent Pennyworth!” Damian yelled again. Dick was grateful the child was growing comfortable enough to yell once more. He only wished he’d make sense. 

“You’re upset I didn’t come up instead?” Dick tried to guess. 

Whatever confidence Damian had gained was ripped away from him at that question. His eyes widened and he shifted, it was subtle and it was little but the fact that it was Damian, made it a monumental gesture. The way the boy shuffled back minutely on the bed, creating a subconscious distance between the two. 

“Damian.” Dick felt his face fall. “Damian, it’s okay.”

“Are you going to do it also?” Damian’s voice came out shakily. It would’ve sounded firm to anyone else but Dick could hear how it wavered. “But Pennyworth already has. There is no need for you to as well.” His eyes flicked behind Dick and onto the desk. 

Dick turned his head, looking at the desk and seeing nothing but some books and a hairbrush. He turned back to Damian. Did Alfred yell at the kid? Is that what he meant?

“I want to have a conversation with you too.” Dick said. “That’s it.”

Damian eyed him suspiciously. “Will you not… are you not going to use— will you not correct me as well?”

Alarm bells were going off and Dick shoved them aside. Damian was speaking as though he had a recent negative encounter but the only other person in the Manor was Alfred. Was Damian referring to his suspension from school? Was the kid having a flashback? Did he have a nightmare last night?

“Correct you how?” He chose to ask instead, once again forcing himself not to come closer. 

The blush on Damian’s cheeks grew stronger. “Will you truly force me to say it? Was experiencing the act not humiliation enough?” His voice was quiet. Tired. Unnatural. 

Dick felt himself sit up straighter. “Dami, what happened?”

To Dick’s absolute horror, Damian sniffed. No tears fell but it was a close thing. “Pennyworth.” Was all he said. 

“What happened with Alfred?” Dick asked, his voice echoing in his head. 

Damian stayed quiet. 

“I’m sorry,” Dick heard himself say and leaned forward. “I know you don’t want to tell me but I need to know what happened. Damian, I swear I have no idea what you mean.”

Frowning, as if he didn’t trust him, Damian leaned away, assessing Dick. With a thick swallow, Damian glanced over to the door once more before looking back at Dick who was trying not to completely lose his sanity. 

“He said you sent him,” Damian admitted quietly, robotically. As if typing a case report. “He made me bend over and then… he… struck me. Repeatedly. The hairbrush was his weapon.”

Dick took a breath. And then another. 

His ears rang and he stared. The tips of his fingers were growing cold and numb, his mouth dry and lost for words. His thoughts left him entirely. He couldn’t comprehend what Damian was saying. 

No. Alfred would never. Dick’s pseudo-grandfather could nev— but Dick was not about to call Damian a liar. He would believe Damian. The child was a child. If he said someone hurt him then Dick would believe him. 

But… to claim that the person was… Alfie?

Mind control. Or some toxin. A lookalike. Clayface. Alternate dimensions. 

It was when Damian twitched uncomfortably did reality hit Dick in the face. 

The man straightened up. Shaking his head. 

“Dami, kiddo…” he said breathlessly. “Alfred hit you?”

Damian nodded, wide eyed. As if not expecting Dick to believe him. 

Dick tried to silence the ringing in his ears. 

Maybe this really was Alfred. And Dick had been wrong about his grandfather for over a decade. Alfred actually took a hairbrush and hurt Dami. But no. That can’t be true. Alfred would never harm a person who didn’t deserve it. Especially a child.

But Damian wasn’t lying. His fingers were shaking. He was shrinking away. He was breathing quickly. He was scared. He was telling the truth. 

The truth that… Alfred of all people… hit him. 

Dick struggled to speak. “I didn’t send Alfred up to… to hurt you.” He promised helplessly. “I swear. I… I thought he would talk to you.” Dick felt himself falling forward to his knees, the desk chair rolling back. This was the closest he could get to the boy who was still leaning away. “Damian, please, I’m sorry. If I’d known— if I had even thought he would… I would never let anyone hurt you.” 

Damian’s eyes screwed themselves shut, his hands coming up to his ears to cover them. 

Dick caught Damian shuffling on the bed uncomfortably once more. 

There were no marks visible. A hairbrush would have left a bruise at least. Unless Damian was confused. But no, the child was shuffling too much. Too uncomfortable. Embarrassed. 

Alfred must’ve… did Alfred Pennyworth spank Damian?

Did Alfred Pennyworth spank Dick’s little brother?

The ringing in Dick’s ears intensified, but in a different pitch. The cold numbness was replaced by hot anger. 

That was his baby brother. 

And Alfred hit him. 

“Damian,” Dick heard himself say. “I’m gonna go deal with Alfred, and after that, you and I are going to go away.” He stood up, looking around the room until he found a backpack. He grabbed it and set it down next to the bed, still keeping his distance with Damian. “Pack anything you want, we’re not coming back here.”

Damian had opened his eyes and was watching, a frown still on his face. 

It was fine if Damian didn’t believe him. Why would he? But Dick was still grabbing him and leaving. He would not keep Dami near an abuser.  

Dick was about to leave the room when he saw the hairbrush. In a rush of fury, he grabbed it and threw it into the bin, listening to it land with a loud clang. 

That had Damian pull his hands away, eyes flicking between the bin and Dick. His shoulders finally slumped and his shallow breathing lessened. His gaze settled on Dick with an emotion other than fear for the first time since the man had entered the bedroom. 

It wasn’t trust, but it was close. 

“Ten minutes,” Dick reminded him. “I’m gonna make it right, Dami. Just watch.”

He left the boy behind, fists tight and ready. 

Bruce’s shadow followed behind him. 

Dick felt his steps stumble as he reached the kitchen’s threshold. He stopped himself before entering and leaned down, hands coming to clutch at the fabric on his knees. He panted, feeling lightheaded from the hot rush to his head. Dick breathed away his dizziness, shaking his head. 

Alfie would never. Alfie was always there for everyone. He’d get a little short, and had high expectations, but it was more or less an inside joke. It was never serious. 

His lack of patience these days… Dick was so sure it was because of losing Bruce. 

Bruce was Alf’s kid. Dick knows the loss of a child was crippling. Grief worked in weird ways. And maybe this was just Alfred getting old, growing senile and hot tempered. 

But how could he excuse Alfred’s behaviour? How can he explain away spanking an abused ten year old who had just lost his dad? Could Dick claim that it was old age and ask him to apologise to the kid?

There was no excuse. Dick couldn’t forgive him. 

How could anyone who looked at Damian’s red rimmed eyes forgive Alfred?

Standing tall, Dick took a breath, and stepped into the kitchen. 

Alfred nodded, acknowledging Dick’s presence from the stove. “How did—”

“Did you hit him?” Dick cut him off. His voice unrecognisable to his own ears. 

Alfred paused, jaw dropping at the harsh tone, so unlike his perfectly pristine self. But Dick had to know. He needed to hear it from the man who had helped raise him. 

With old nimble fingers, Alfred turned the stove off, untying his apron and setting it on the counter before turning to face Dick. “I beg your finest pardon, Master Richard.”

Dick took a breath, swallowing down the shout in his throat. “Did you hit Damian?”

Alfred’s eyes closed, his expression sorrowful. He opened up his eyes, looking at Dick as if he himself was close to breaking. 

It was nearly enough to make Dick’s resolve crumble. 

But he remembered Damian’s eyes, looking up at Dick fully expecting to be struck.

Again. 

When Alfred spoke, his words were heavy, his throat sounding tight. “Believe me, my boy. I had not wanted to use such methods.”

The easy acceptance shattered every portrait Dick had of his childhood. 

“Why?” Dick took a step forward. “How could you?”

“Difficulties in one’s youth proves for an easier life as an adult.” Alfred reasoned gently. “It is our responsibility, Master Dick. Your responsibility, to ensure that Master Damian has the best chance to make it through adulthood.” Alfred shook his head. “And his adulthood will not be an easy one. He will face many difficulties as he progresses in life.”

“He has!” Dick shouted and then caught himself, visibly taking a heavy breath to calm down. “He has already been through absolute shit.” He swore, gaze blaring. “I promised him. His own dad promised him. Damian was never supposed to be hurt anymore!”

“Can you fault the method when the result shows such effectiveness?” Alfred challenged. “It is not easy to be a guardian, my boy. It brings many difficult decisions one never imagined having to make. You have so much yet to learn.” Alfred glanced away from Dick, and the younger man could’ve sworn his eyes were wet. “Young Master Bruce was my teacher many years ago. I never struck him, no. That is typically a privilege reserved for family. But I still had to discipline him as a child, and it was not easy.”

Dick shook his head, not understanding what he was listening to. 

Alfred continued, “I would never have spanked Master Damian had I any choice, but your heart is too soft. Your father refused to raise you the right way, no matter how much I tried to help him see sense. I am sorry you were failed and are now unable to correct Master Damian’s behaviour, but someone must. I cannot repeat Master Bruce’s errors. The vultures out there would eat the boy alive, otherwise.”

Utterly distraught, Dick shook his head, gesturing wildly to the outside. “We would protect him.” Dick hissed in an effort not to scream. “There is no need to train him for shit! His only lesson right now is to learn to trust us. He needs to learn he’s safe!”

Dick rubbed a hand roughly on his face when Alfred’s words caught a hook in his mind. Dick lowered his hand, looking across at Alfred unbelievably. 

“Did you hurt Bruce?” He asked in a whisper. 

Alfred’s lips trembled all for a single second before a steel armour replaced every expression. He refused to meet Dick’s gaze. 

“I never wanted to.”

“But you did,” Dick gasped and took a step back. “I thought… I thought maybe this was you growing older or grieving but no. You hurt Bruce. You hurt Damian. How…” Dick’s hair tangled itself as he shook his head side to side. “No, you gotta explain this to me. You hurt Bruce?”

“I never caused him harm.” Alfred rejected sharply. “I did what I needed to. The punishments I gave Master Bruce pained me more than they ever would have him. And even yet, I still failed. He got this fantasy in his head that he could save the wo—”

“I’m not talking Batman.” Dick interjected. “I’m talking about Bruce. As a kid. You can’t play victim—”

“I am doing no such thing.” Alfred stepped forward, face heating up. “Children need to be disciplined! It was never meant for me to be Master Bruce’s mentor. Even so, I did it and I did my best. All I ever did was my best.”

“You hurt him,” at that point, Dick wasn’t sure who he was talking about. Damian or Bruce. 

How had Dick never seen it? 

Or maybe he had and explained it away. The running joke that only Alfred could scare Bruce. If you need Bruce to do anything then get Alfred. Bruce isn’t listening, time to tattle on him to Alfred. 

The countless times Bruce would take Dick out of the Manor when Alfred was upset.

His head was reeling, picturing Bruce. Not the man Dick knew, but a child he had never met. A child, that portraits showed, was an exact replica of Damian. And Alfred had gone and hurt them both. The grandfather who Dick loved hurt his dad and his brother. “How could you, Alfred?!” His throat grew thick, his eyes hot. “We trusted you!”

“I never wanted to hurt anyone!” Alfred shouted back, his composure lost momentarily. “I was forced to do what was best for the Wayne family.”

Ice washed over Dick. 

Alfred really believed he was in the right. 

“I’m taking Damian.” Dick stated numbly, a tingling under his skin. “We’re leaving.”

Alfred’s face fell. “You will leave me here?”

Dick distantly felt his body take a step back, leading him aside. 

“If you would just listen. See reason, Master Dick, I can explain—”  

“I will never let you near him again.” Dick forced through the tears forming. “You will never hurt him again.”

“Dick…” whatever Alfred had wanted to say, he changed his mind. Between one breath and the other, he’d gained back his composure and stood up straight, chin high. “Very well. If that is what you have decided.” He glanced at the stove. “Let me pack a meal for you before you depart.”

“Don’t bother.” Dick said unforgivingly as he turned away. “We don’t need you anymore.”

“Master Dick, please.” Alfred called out before Dick could leave. And the child inside of him stopped. “I will always be here for you. Whenever you wish to return, if you ever do, I will be here for you. No questions asked.” 

Dick felt a tear fall. 

The child in his heart wanted to turn around. But there was a child sitting upstairs right now who he had to protect. 

Without another word, he walked away. 

Wiping his face, he approached Damian’s room. “You ready?” He asked. 

Damian was stood in the middle of the room, his school bag in one hand and the other bag Dick had left with him, still barely full. The kid not having much else to begin with. 

“Great,” Dick forced a smile on his face. “Let’s get going.”

Damian followed him down. Dick had nothing to pack, having moved often enough that he knew what was necessary and what could be bought. 

Testing the waters, Dick placed a hovering hand on Damian’s shoulder. Miraculously, it wasn’t refuted. Damian allowed the touch, following dutifully. 

“Where are we going?” The child asked softly. 

Dick tightened the hold, more confident now. “Not far from here there’s a penthouse. It’s not quite ready but we can work on that together. I’ve built a bunker beneath it with the help of Lucius Fox. It will hold everything for the night-life.”

With his most important concern answered, Damian nodded, content. 

Something inside of Dick wanted to turn around and catch a glimpse of Alfred, but he squashed it down, not letting himself show any remorse or regret in front of Dami. He could hold in his breakdown for when he was alone.

Dick directed them to a car, sidestepping the one Damian had broken earlier. He chose a vehicle that would keep them going for a long time. He wasn’t expecting to come back to the Manor anytime soon, if at all. 

When Dick glanced at the rearview mirror before setting off, he saw Damian shift uncomfortably on the booster seat. 

“Hey,” he said softly. “Bring your legs up, sit on them, it should feel less sore.” He suggested and started the car, trying hard not to bring attention to Damian’s dilemma and embarrass him any further. 

Dick wanted to say a lot. He wanted to apologise. To cry. To beg Damian for forgiveness. To make sure the child understood that Dick didn’t know. That he would never have put him in that kind of position. 

But there would be time to say everything unsaid. He just needed to rebuild the fragile trust between both him and Damian. And Dick felt that believing him and taking him away from any sense of danger was the first step. 

Damian wasn’t his. He was Bruce’s son. But so was Dick and that meant he was never letting this kid go. No one was going to hurt his kid. 

Alfred hadn’t come down to the garage to wish them a goodbye. Neither did Bruce’s shadow. 

🦇

Chapter Text

🦇

Bruce held in his groan as he leaned back against the car seat. His mind was swirling over the never ending list of things to do. His body however, was violently protesting, forcing him to choose to rest and recover before anything. 

Tim, his brilliant Tim, had figured everything out. His son had brought him back, just as Bruce knew he would. 

Now, Tim was sat in the driver’s seat of the car. His cheeks sunken in a way that itched at Bruce’s chest. He wanted badly to shake the teen, beg him to reveal everything that was hurting him so that Bruce could just fix it. 

But that would wait. It had to. This was a delicate matter and Bruce needed to treat it as such. That meant he had to force himself to recover somewhat at first. Sleep and eat more than what the Watchtower held. 

Bruce closed his eyes, headache blooming. He was grateful for the help of the Justice League and the… Time Masters (not that Batman could make fun of names), but finally being alone with Tim was peaceful. 

In a burst of feeling, Bruce peeked an eye open to ensure that the road in front of him was safe, before reaching a hand out to rest on Tim’s nape. 

He felt the shift in Tim’s muscles and gave him a small squeeze. His poor kid was so stressed. 

“So,” Tim said, breaking the quiet. “I managed to get in touch with the others.”

“Hm?” Bruce asked. Tim was such a good son. He was such a good Robin too. No, that’s not right. Tim was now Red Robin. Damian was Robin. 

Damian. His Damian. The boy he had left behind too tragically. 

Bruce couldn’t believe that his family had thought him to be dead. That his sons and daughter had mourned Bruce the same way he had mourned his own parents. 

At least his youngest wasn’t alone. Dick had taken him in. And there was Alfred. 

He did need to evaluate if Damian’s behaviour towards Tim these past few months had improved. They had to have worked it out by now.

There was so much to still fix. 

“Yeah, they didn’t believe me at first, you know?” Tim grumbled. “But I got proof of you being lost, finally got Dick to see reason.”

Bruce twisted his hand to tiredly play with the hair resting on Tim’s neck. It had grown longer than when Bruce last saw him. Was he taking care of himself properly? Had he eaten earlier at the Tower? Bruce hadn’t seen. 

“So they’re ready to greet you. I don’t… live at the Manor any more.”

Bruce frowned, moving to sit up straight and open his eyes. He turned to Tim, the kid staring out at the road. 

“Why?” Bruce asked simply. 

“Dick and I had a disagreement.” Tim said plainly. In a matter of fact way that told Bruce to drop it. That they’ll talk later. “But you should know, Dick also moved out a couple months after me.”

Bruce blinked, processing the information. Earlier, Tim had informed him that Dick took Damian in after Bruce had ‘died’. But if Dick left then… 

“Damian is with Alfred?” Bruce asked hoarsely. Wondering how sick the universe was to replay history. 

“No,” Tim shook his head. “No, Dick is obsessed with the brat.” Tim said, a little hurt in his voice that Bruce wanted to explore further on a later date. “Dick and Alfred had some disagreement of their own but I wasn’t around to get the details. Dick and Damian live up in a penthouse in Gotham. So the question is, did you want me to drop you off with them or with Alf at the Manor?”

Bruce could only stare, his hand still resting heavily on the base of Tim’s neck. He was suddenly feeling somewhat lightheaded from all that information. 

What disagreement have Alfred and Dick had?

What did Alfred do?

“Take me to the penthouse.” Bruce decided, leaning back in sudden exhaustion. “Thank you.”

“Sure, I’ll let Dick know to expect you.” Tim said. 

“Hm,” Bruce felt exhaustion taking over. “Don’t text and dr’ve.”

“Rest, B. We’ll be there in an hour.”

Bruce had sincerely tried to convince Tim to come with him, even arguing that he might get lost on the way up to the penthouse, which Tim just rolled his eyes at. Bruce was forced to drop it, accepting that his dream of having most, if not all his children, under one roof would have to be put on hold. 

It was hard. Letting Tim leave with the bags under his eyes. Bruce just wanted to step in. To help. To hold his son and demand he reveals every issue bothering him. 

Soon. 

As the elevator took him up he wondered how Jason and Cass were. Tim had delivered a full report on Cassandra, but he had little information on Jason other than that he was alive and ruling Crime Alley. 

He purposely avoided thinking about reuniting with Dick, incredibly aware of how anxious his nerves would get. 

And he was right. One step forward out of the elevator and there Dick was. 

There his first son was. 

Tired. 

His build was bigger, less athletic than he typically allowed. Shoulders broader and stance wider. His hair was well kept and shorter than his carefree son liked. 

His hands were by his side, fists clenched as if ready for a threat. His body blocking the entrance to the penthouse as if he was standing guard, protecting something precious. 

Lips were chapped and his skin was pale. Dick’s eyes portrayed a story that an ordinary person could never dream to make sense of. 

He was looking at Bruce as if he was a trick. As if he wasn’t real. 

Like a ghost. 

Bruce held himself back. It wasn’t fair on his boy. It wasn’t fair that someone who had died was back, invalidating all the grief he had felt. Bruce knew what it was like, begging the universe for one more chance but not knowing if the blessing was a trick.  

Instead, Bruce spoke, voice thin. “Zitka’s out of hay.”

Something shimmered in Dick’s eyes. And finally, finally, Bruce heard his voice. “You’ll need to check in with Haly. She must’ve eaten it all.”

Bruce took a conscious step forward. “Or maybe Carlo’s playing another prank again.”

Dick’s doubtful expression flickered, and Bruce couldn’t hold back anymore. From one breath to the next he was springing forward, pulling Dick into his arms with anxious hands. 

He felt the boy— the man in his arms startle, as though he had not expected the touch to be solid. As though he still believed that Bruce wasn’t really here. 

Bruce clung on tight, his hands not settling, unable to stabilise his screeching heart and find a safe grasp. He grabbed onto Dick’s arms, his shoulders, his hair. He pulled Dick close, pressing his son’s face into the crook of his neck where he belonged. 

“Dickie,” he breathed, voice choking. “My son. Chum. I’m here.”

Shaky, trembling hands reached up and Bruce felt as they grabbed onto his clothes in pure unsteady desperation. “Dad?”

“I’m here, Dickie.” Bruce left a light kiss in Dick’s hair. “I’m here again. I’m sorry I left. I’m sorry.”

With a hitched breath, Bruce felt Dick holding on tighter. 

Once it had been long enough — except it wasn’t, not according to Bruce — Dick pulled away. With a shuddering chest he raised the back of his hand to rub away his own tears, sniffing back his pain. 

“Dick…” Bruce said, stretching a hand out. But Dick stepped back before he could, head shaking as he tried to wipe everything off. 

It hurt. That gesture. But Bruce didn’t push. He hadn’t been here. He didn’t know what had or hadn’t happened during his absence. 

Bruce tried to see past Dick’s shoulder and into the penthouse. “Where’s Damian? How is he? How are you?”

Dick let out a wet scoff. “Why don’t you come in?” He said and walked inside, waiting for Bruce to follow him in. Dick sniffed, “Damian’s in his room. He needs… time.”

“Of course,” Bruce said and closed the door behind him, subtly eyeing the locks to assess their efficiency. He watched Dick move into the kitchen, starting the kettle and turning on the microwave. He felt rather lost. 

Dick gestured to the couch in the sitting area. “Tim said you needed some TLC. Sit down before you fall down, Bruce.”

Wordlessly, feeling more tired than he wanted to accept, Bruce followed his son’s instructions. He shook his head as he tried to make sense of his thoughts. “There’s so much to do. I need—”

“Everything is written, stored on the computer.” Dick reported, pouring hot water into mugs. “Shit happened, I won’t lie, but Gotham is thriving. Barely.”

Bruce felt his expression fall. “Tim said you took on Batman.”

Dick said nothing, turning his back to Bruce as he busied himself. 

“I’m sorry.” Bruce said helplessly. “I never wanted that for you.”

“Someone had to.” Dick shrugged, face still hidden. 

“I’m sorry,” Bruce didn’t want to think about how much weight his kid was carrying. “You did a good job.”

Dick stilled, and then all of a sudden scoffed. “A good job? I did a good job?”

Not falling for the bait, having spent years doing nothing more than having screaming matches with his eldest, Bruce kept calm. “Yes. I mean it. I haven’t read a single report but I know you did a good job. Gotham could’ve fallen and I’d still know you had done a good job.” Bruce continued sternly. “You took in Damian, Dick. That means more to me than Batman could’ve. Anyone could’ve carried on that mantle. But you took care of Damian in my absence and I couldn’t begin to thank you enough. He couldn’t have had a better guardian.”

Finally, Dick looked up in shock. Eyes wide and his soul momentarily left open. As though his eldest never expected to ever hear those words from Bruce. 

“Fuck,” Dick said breathlessly and grabbed a steaming mug and a plate. “You don’t get to say that. You don’t know how much I messed up.”

Before Bruce could reply, Dick dropped the tea and a toasted sandwich onto the coffee table in front of him. 

“Eat.” Dick snapped. “I need to talk to you. And I need you to have enough sense for it.”

Bruce tried to stand. “I need to see Damian—”

“Eat.” Dick repeated harshly. “I’m going to go talk to him.” He moved away towards one of the doors. “I’ll let him know you’re okay.” 

Taken aback by Dick’s insistence, and forcing himself to ignore his unstable stomach, Bruce reached for the sandwich. 

Bruce nervously ate through the meal, the taste was refreshing, having spent the past year just eating to survive. But no matter how enjoyable the food was, he couldn’t help but glance at the closed door Dick had disappeared through. 

It took a while until it opened again. Bruce felt his heart flip at the sight of his eldest once more, and from the careful glance from his son, he thinks Dick was also checking whether or not he had imagined their reunion. 

Bruce was about to speak when after a beat, a smaller boy walked out. 

Bruce sprung to his feet, willing his emotions to calm down from their volcanic spiral. 

Damian was stood there, dressed in a Gotham Academy uniform, school bag slung over one shoulder. His hair was gelled back smartly, shoes polished to a pristine shine and every cell on his body in place. 

The body language was stiff, Damian’s hand clutched his bag’s strap. Trying to look normal, when the tension in his fingers was anything but. His expression was guarded, glaring up at Bruce with a thin mask of doubt coating his face. 

With a reprimanding look from Dick, Bruce took a breath to calm down. He knew what impression he gave children, especially those from backgrounds as vulnerable as Damian’s. 

Instead, Bruce took a few steps forward, still leaving some gap between him and his youngest, before kneeling down. 

The uniform made him realise the time of day, it must be early morning. And now Damian was off to school. When did he start? Dick must have shifted him from home schooling to the academy. Had Damian been ready? Or had Dick not had the means to keep an eye on Damian while he was privately tutored? Did Damian ask? What did Alfred think?

“Hello, son.” Bruce greeted. Calmer than he had been with Dick. 

Bruce never got to bond with Damian. Never got to know his son. As soon as they had started to get along, Bruce was cruelly torn away. 

“Richard claims you are not an imposter.” Damian stated with the same haughtiness he had when Bruce had first met him. 

Bruce couldn’t help but smile. “He is right. I wish I could prove it to you.” They had no codes. No significant memories. There was so much to make right. 

“There is no need,” Damian straightened up even more. As if trying to impress. “I trust Richard’s judgement.”

That took Bruce aback. “That’s… good. That’s good.” Regaining his composure, Bruce gestured to Damian’s uniform. “Are you enjoying school?”

Bruce watched Damian glance at Dick who nodded encouragement. 

He tried to restrain the heated jealousy that rose in his gut. Damian shouldn’t be asking someone else if he was allowed to interact with his own father. 

But Bruce needed to get a hold of himself. He just never had the chance to prove himself to Damian. This had to be rectified immediately. 

“I find school to be a complete waste of time.” Damian admitted. “However, I am well aware of the benefits of understanding how society functions and gaining a civilian presence.”

Bruce nodded. “Good. That’s…” He cleared his throat, he had to choose to be open. “I missed you, son. I can’t wait to get to know you more.”

Damian’s gaze fell away, going down to his feet. 

Dick came closer, putting a hand on Damian’s shoulder. “Steph has offered to take Dami to school this morning since I want to talk to you. She messaged she was waiting downstairs.”

Bruce closed his eyes. God, Stephanie. There were so many people Bruce needed to meet. 

Damian tutted, “I shall need to make haste. Brown has the attention span of a fish.”

Bruce held his tongue from correcting Damian’s rudeness. Letting Dick lead Damian to the exit, turning away to give them privacy when Dick leaned in to hug Damian. 

It was nice to see how far his youngest had come along. Accepting nicknames, love and care. 

It hurt that he hadn’t been there to see it evolve. 

He would make sure he was there to see it become something even better. 

Dick had come in and sat heavily on the couch, eyeing the empty dishes. 

“Are you feeling okay?” Dick asked. 

“Yes,” Bruce came over, sitting on the adjacent couch. “You’ve done… such a brilliant job with him.”

Dick shook his head, leaning forward to rest his elbow on his knees and shove his face into his hands. 

“It can’t have been easy,” Bruce forced himself not to move closer. “I remember what it was like with each of you. But the first time you’re responsible for a child? I think that’s one of the more terrifying experiences. You’re so scared of getting it wrong.”

“I’ve heard something similar.” Dick said, voice muffling in his hands. He pulled his face away, tired eyes staring straight across at Bruce. 

Something uncomfortable settled in Bruce’s chest. He looked around the open sitting area and kitchen. The place was lived in, signs of care and warmth speckled about. From the used plates in the sink to the soft blankets folded under the coffee table. Everything Dick and apparently Damian. 

But not a single sign of Alfred. 

“Dick?” Bruce asked, concerned beyond belief. “Why is Alfred still at the Manor?”

Dick had nothing on his face to betray his answer, only staring at Bruce analytically.

“I don’t want to put too much on you. You haven’t even had a chance to rest.”

“I slept in the car.” Bruce excused. “I just ate. I even showered in the Watchtower after getting a full medical evaluation. Please, Dick. I need to know what I missed.”

Dick’s hands flexed. Fidgeting now that he was unable to delay the discussion any further. 

“Dick,” Bruce pushed more. “What did Alfred do?”

That question had Dick’s eyes sharpen. “What makes you think it was him that did anything?”

“You left him behind.” Bruce pointed out. “If I knew Alfred, he would have followed you to the ends of the earth. If he hasn’t, it’s because you told him not to.” He deduced. 

“And what makes you think I’m not the one who messed up?” Dick asked accusingly. 

“Did you?”

Dick blinked at the question, evidently having thought Bruce would take the bait for the fight. “Maybe.”

Picking at the fabric on his knee, Dick blew out a hissed breath. “Bruce… did Alfred ever…” he glanced up at Bruce through his lashes. 

Bruce felt a heavy weight slowly building in his chest. A past he never wanted to evaluate too closely coming to light. “Did he ever what?”

“Did he ever… hurt… you?” Dick asked so very carefully. His snappy behaviour shaping into something gentler. 

Bruce doesn’t think the delivery of the question would’ve changed the way it slammed into him. He closed his eyes, swallowing down the large lump that had made home in his throat. He opened his eyes to Dick staring at him. His face openly begging Bruce to answer in the negative. 

“He would, yes.” Bruce replied quietly. “In the name of discipline.”

It was a truth he hadn’t wanted to utter. But one he would never deny when his child asked him of it. 

Dick’s posture shattered, his shoulders shuddering and hands clenching into fists, bunching up his pants. His expression crumpled into something distraught and his chin dropped to his chest.

Bruce continued. “He never hit me. Not like Father had—”

Dick’s eyes snapped back up to Bruce. 

“While he used to condone it, he never hit. No, he would use different ways.” Bruce smiled almost nostalgically. “Ways he would try to encourage me to replicate on you and your siblings.” He took a breath. “I never thought anything was wrong when I was younger. When it happened. I would just think it made sense. I made a mistake and I got punished, end of. Black and white. But then you came into my life,” Bruce gazed into the large wide eyes. “And the world turned upside down. I couldn’t bring myself to hurt you. I made a deal with Alfred that I would handle any consequences for you and your siblings. I would raise you.”

Dick was quiet. Listening to Bruce, letting him speak of a past that was hidden. “But then when you weren’t here…” 

“The deal went void,” Bruce’s heart hammered violently against his ribs. “Dick… what did Alfred do? Who did he…?”

Was it Tim? Is that why his son had isolated himself away? Or Dick who looked so tired and burned out? It couldn’t be his youngest, could it? But then why was Cassandra really an entire continent away?

Dick took a breath. Gaze darting away and back. “I’m sorry.” Dick said. “Damian was my responsibility. I never expected— if I knew Alfred wasn’t safe I would never have left them alone.”

Damian. Bruce didn’t think he could put into words how raw his heart felt. Alfred hurt Damian. 

Alfred hurt his Damian. And it was all because of Bruce.

“I never told you.” Bruce reassured with a hoarse voice, pushing past his pain. “I was naïve. I thought that I would always be there for you, I never imagined what would happen if I wasn’t. It’s not your fault, Dick. It’s mine.”

Dick’s chin trembled but he restrained himself, shaking his head. Quietly, he revealed. “Alfred… he—” Dick took a moment to stabilise himself, face scrunching as he forced it out in a whisper. “…spanked Damian.”

Bruce’s breath hitched. Memory of himself choking on tears and snot as a hard hand impacted against him over and over. Being pinned down by someone bigger and dizzy from the lack of air from screaming and crying. 

Being told he was overreacting as always. 

“With a hairbrush.” Dick said and ran a hand through his hair. “He was so… humiliated.”

Bruce clenched his jaw. Remembering the multitude of scars layered over his youngest’s skin. Alfred was more than aware of those marks. And just like with Jason, he must’ve thought the scars were good. Discipline. 

The fact that Alfred raised a hand on Damian? He refused to ever physically injure Bruce. He always only hurt him in ways that could be argued as acceptable. But he never ever hit Bruce. Now, all because Bruce allowed the man around his children, gave him more familiarity than he deserved, this horror had happened. Alfred hit Damian. Bruce couldn’t even picture it.

Except he could, he had been able to picture it anytime Alfred grew a tiny bit too cross back when Bruce was a child.

Dick was pale, “I’m s—”

“No,” Bruce cut him off, voice thick. “I am sorry. I am so sorry to both of you. All of you.” Bruce shuddered. “I should’ve told you. I should never have kept him near when I realised it was wrong. I put you in danger. I put all of my children in danger.”

“B,” Dick shrugged a shoulder, looking pale. “I get it, it’s basically your dad.”

Bruce chuckled, bringing a hand up to press into his eyes. “You know,” he said with difficulty. “He really hated anything to do with that title.”

“Bruce… shit.”

Bruce shook his head, as though now that he started he couldn’t stop. He brought his hand down but kept his gaze away. It fell onto the kitchen. “He liked his control.” Bruce thought about how the kitchen was Alfred’s space only. “I never realised it, I never really knew anything different.”

“How could you have?” Dick comforted, but to Bruce’s ears, it fell flat. 

“You know he’s the reason I don’t know how to cook properly?” Bruce found himself blurting out, eyeing the messy dishes. Suddenly able to talk about it. Never having put his unconscious thoughts in the real words. “Never knew how until I travelled around the world. Alfred made sure I wasn’t allowed in the kitchen.” He chuckled as if the memory was fond. “Alfie wanted to make sure he knew what I ate and when. For the times I wasn’t allowed to eat as punishment.”

“What the f—”

“It’s not as sinister as it sounds. It’s complicated, Dickie. It was so normal. I was such a stupid kid too. I didn’t realise until I was about seventeen that I could just— go out and order a pizza or whatever.”

“You weren’t stupid.” Dick snapped and with a shock, Bruce noticed his eyes were wet. Like this was something that really bothered him. “You were a kid. Fuck. You were a kid, Bruce. He was supposed to look after you. Not… fuck, I can’t imagine ever doing that kind of shit to Dami.” He sniffed, eyes angry and red with unshed tears. 

With a weak smile, Bruce hummed. “That’s how I felt when you came into my life. Except you’ve been so much better than me. You took Damian away.”

“Only after it happened,” Dick argued. “I know if Alfred had ever… if anyone had ever hurt us you would have taken us away someplace safe.” Dick shook his head. “But nothing happened to us. You made sure of it. So we never had to leave.” 

Bruce liked that sentiment but held onto the guilt with both hands.

Dick glowered at the ground. “How could he do that?”

“It was a different time.” Bruce defended softly. “An entirely different gene—”

“Don’t.” Dick cut off sharply, whipping his glare to Bruce. “If you defend him hurting you, you’re defending him hurting Dami.”

That made Bruce’s gut twist violently. 

Dick’s stare softened. “It wasn’t your fault. You were a kid. I’ve seen you stand up for mistreated kids as both Batman and as Bruce. You know it’s not right.”

“It was so complicated.” He admitted. “I still…” loved him “saw him as a mentor.” Bruce shook his head strongly. “And it led to this. I am sorry. I will never be able to apologise enough. Let me make it right, Dickie.”

Bruce looked straight into his eldest’s eyes. “I would like to speak with Damian when he’s back, let him know I never wanted for this to happen.”

Dick raised a brow. “He’s your son.”

“Maybe,” Bruce agreed. “But he’s kind of your kid too now… isn’t he?”

With amusement, Bruce watched as Dick’s cheeks flushed red. It was getting harder to feel jealous when Dick had done such a brilliant job. Bruce hadn’t been there, but Dick had done what Bruce would’ve wanted him too and took care of Damian. How can he now expect to feel jealous of their hard earned bond?

“Since he won’t be back for awhile, why don’t you rest?” Dick suggested, standing up. “You can take my bed.” 

“Are you sure?” Bruce asked, rising up with him. 

“Bruce. You gave me a home. You can sleep in my bed.” Dick said matter-of-factly. 

‘No,’ Bruce thought as he followed Dick through the penthouse. ‘You gave me my home.’

Bruce pushed himself off the bed lazily. Feeling the aches of the past year deep within his bones. He withheld his groans, he didn’t want to risk anyone overhearing and insisting he should stay in bed. 

Most of the day had passed, Damian should be back from school and rested. He was Bruce’s main priority. He needed to know Bruce never intended for this to happen. 

When Bruce stepped out of the bedroom, Dick was there, working over some files on the coffee table. His eldest’s expression flickered briefly, as if he still didn’t expect Bruce to be standing there. 

“Hey,” Dick smiled. “You look like crap.”

“Thanks.” Bruce said. “I need to speak to Damian.”

Dick stood up, nodding his head to a closed door. “I’ll let him know you’re up. You go freshen up.”

Bruce grunted. Following directions. This was Dick’s abode, Bruce had little say in here. If his eldest wanted to prepare Damian then he could do so. 

Feeling more awake and alive, Bruce waited for Dick to emerge from Damian’s room. 

“You can go talk to him,” Dick said, giving him a pointed look. “I’m not about to insult your intelligence by telling you to be sensitive.”

“Of course,” Bruce responded, trying not to react sharply. He knew how to interact with children. 

Dick’s gaze narrowed in warning. Any other time, Bruce might have been amused by how territorial his eldest had grown over his youngest. Right now it was just offensive. 

Knocking on the ajar door, Bruce waited for Damian to answer. 

“It’s open?” Damian called out, voice confused. 

Bruce pushed in, feeling the weight of Dick’s concern behind him. 

“You didn’t come in,” Damian tilted his head. “The door was open.”

“I didn’t think that was an automatic invite,” Bruce answered, coming in tentatively. He closed the door and sat himself in a small armchair that was placed in the corner. He peeked at the stack of books on the table beside it. Titles that pointed towards Dick’s influence. The room was entirely pristine and tidied. Nothing personal. There was, however, a blanket covering the gap under the bed a bit too well, hiding something Damian didn’t want Bruce seeing. “How was school?”

Damian was sat on his bed, on the far corner furthest away from Bruce. His legs were crossed, his fingers fiddling with the folds of his blanket. He shrugged. “It was average.”

Out of nowhere, Damian straightened up, muscles tensing and his fiddling ceased. “I have kept up with my duties, Father.” He said. “I have not forgotten my training just because I now attend the academy."

Bruce twitched. He didn’t expect nor want Damian to assume Bruce was about to blame him for being somewhat normal. He watched Damian keep himself rigid, though his eyes darted towards the closed door. 

“I know you wouldn’t have.” Bruce said, keeping his volume low. “Even if you had, it would have been okay.”

Not the right words, Damian didn’t relax. 

Bruce pushed on despite it, not able to know what was going through his son’s mind. “Has Dick mentioned what I wanted to speak about?”

Damian frowned. “He only insisted that you are not from an alternate dimension. That you are real.”

“I am real.” Bruce insisted confidently. “But if it’s okay with you, I wanted to talk about what motivated the move from the Manor to the Penthouse.”

The tension in Damian’s muscles only seemed to double and his eyes once more flicked to the closed door. 

“I know you told Dick…” Bruce started off gently, unsure himself how to approach the topic with the child he barely knew. “…that Alfred had been unkind to you.”

“I am not weak.” Damian hissed. “I had informed Richard in a show of disregard. A casual conversation. I was not— not tattling on Pennyworth. I am more than capable of taking on a simple punishment.”

Flashes of images slid through Bruce’s head, scars that crisscrossed over his little boy’s back. 

“Damian,” Bruce said gently. “I know. I know you could have taken any punishment. But what hurts me is that you had to.”

Damian’s gaze went to the door. When his eyes returned to Bruce they were narrowed. “It… hurts you? That is absurd, Father.”

Bruce turned to fully face the closed door and then back at the rigid boy. Bruce was tired, exhausted, but he still racked his mind to solve this puzzle. He observed as Damian bristled at his analytical gaze, helpless to do anything but look towards the door once more.

It hit violently and abruptly. Feeling like an idiot for not having realised it sooner, Bruce stood slowly. Damian’s attention was fixed on him, preparing for any sudden movement. 

But Bruce didn’t do anything Damian had thought he might. He didn’t come close and reach across the bed to grab him or to hurt him. Instead, Bruce went over towards the door and turned the handle, pulling it until it was half open. 

Then he walked back over to the chair, sitting down and tucking his hands under his thighs as a sign that he was not about to do anything to harm Damian. 

Damian now glanced questioningly at the open doorway and Bruce watched as the muscles in his taut body released some tension. It was small but it was significant. 

Dick would now be able to hear every bit of conversation they had. 

Damian would know that Dick would intervene if Bruce’s voice so much as rose in volume. 

“Would you like Dick to join us in here?” Bruce still asked. 

Damian shook his head with a scoff. “Whatever for?”

“No reason,” Bruce said, hiding a small smile at his son’s false bravado. Feeling better now that Damian felt a tiny bit more relaxed. 

Silence covered their conversation. 

Bruce breathed quietly, daring to push once again. “It does hurt me. Not physically. There’s nothing on my skin to show. But my heart psychologically aches when I learn you’ve been in pain. You are my son, Damian. Biological or not, when my children are hurt then I hurt.”

A light flush coated Damian’s face. “That is foolish.” He scoffed and then went still, shoulders rising and a cautious look thrown Bruce’s way. 

But Bruce didn’t rise to strike or shout like he knew his son expected him to. “Maybe. I can be a little foolish when it comes to my family.” He sighed, feeling guilt. “I had promised you that you would be safe in my home.”

Damian, most likely unknowingly, pouted. Honest to god, Bruce felt his chest crack at the face. “You weren’t there.”

“No,” Bruce swallowed thickly. “I’m so sorry I couldn't stop it.”

“You misunderstand.” Damian’s face twisted, cheeks heating up more. “You instructed me to inform you if I was injured by anyone. To tell you. And you weren’t there to tell.”

Any willpower Bruce had held onto crumbled away into dust. He shuddered out a breath, feeling himself sag. He kept his hands tucked under his legs even when he wanted to fidget, determined not to make Damian feel anymore unsafe. “I know.” He choked out. “But you know what you did instead? You told Dickie. That was so brilliant of you.”

Damian startled, the motivation behind his flush shifting. “I did not intend to. It was not in the sake of informing him, I had assumed he knew. That he was the one who asked Pennyworth to… correct my behaviour.”

“Still,” Bruce argued, wincing at the thought. He took a breath and made a decision he couldn’t take back. “I never ever told anyone when I was hurt as a child.”

Bruce pushed down at the anguish tearing through him. The urge to snatch back the words that had just escaped his mouth. Bruce stifled it. Determined to share this. 

Damian nearly jolted, frowning deeply. “You were harmed too?”

Bruce forced a weak chuckle. “It was… so embarrassing. I don’t know what felt worse, the hits or the emotional distress. I always felt so… wrong. And to know that the adults who were supposed to keep me safe were hurting me was so confusing. But… no, the embarrassment is something I remember clearly. Even if it leaves no physical mark and there are definitely worse punishments, there is something so horrible about being… being spanked.” Bruce made himself say it. Damian deserved to hear him say it. “Being spanked is confusing and terrible and embarrassing and I hated it. I still hate it all these years later. It didn’t help me become the man I am. It didn’t make me stronger. It just hurt me.”

Bruce would pay his entire fortune to know what Damian was thinking. The child’s posture was stiff and panicked. Confusion rattling around his expression as his eyes flicked anywhere else but Bruce. Nails digging into the bedding beside him. 

Abruptly, Damian spoke, quick and anxious after having visibly battled with himself. “It was humiliating.”

Bruce made sure the anguish was not showing on his face. “Yeah?”

“Yes.” Damian shifted uncomfortably, lost in memory. “Everyone told me not to fight with Pennyworth. I didn’t fight him. And to accept his correction was… I am well aware I had been… not a good person prior to the punishment—”

“You,” Bruce spoke a tad harsher than he had intended. “Are not bad.”

Damian blinked. Green eyes unbelieving. 

Years and years Bruce had laid in bed, wondering what he could do to stop being so horrible. Why he was such a terrible child who only knew how to mess up. Who had no capability for good. That he was born to be intrinsically bad. 

He refused to let Damian feel anywhere near like Bruce had. 

“I will say it as many times as I have to and more.” Bruce took a breath, it wouldn’t do well to frighten the child now. “You are my son. My boy. You are Damian Al Ghul Wayne. You are your own person and you will pave your own future and it will be wonderful. You are brilliant and bright and everything good in this world, that is a fact, young man. Do you understand me? You are not bad, I don’t care what anyone has said to you before. You did not deserve any punishment. Am I understood?”

Damian only watched, eyes wide. He had gone still during Bruce’s rant, the words seeming to pass over his head. Nevertheless, Bruce noticed when Damian’s body started to relax, shoulders sinking lower. 

Starting to trust. 

Damian tutted. “You sound like Richard.”

Bruce smiled. “And you must know by now that you can’t argue with Dick.”

“No, I suppose not. He gets rather annoying when one tries.” Damian looked up at Bruce with uncertainty through his lashes. “What will happen now?”

“Now,” Bruce braced himself with the decision he had made the moment Dick revealed what had happened. “I will make sure you never feel unsafe under your own roof ever again. You will always be safe in my care.”

Damian frowned. “What do you mean?”

“I will go talk with Alfred.” Bruce stood slowly. “He is not allowed anywhere near my children ever again.”

Damian gaped. “He raised you.”

He did. He did and Bruce loved him for it. 

“You mean more to me than him.” He spoke truthfully. Bruce dared himself to come close and placed a light hand on Damian’s shoulder. “I missed you, son.”

Damian’s chin ducked. 

Giving the child a little squeeze, Bruce left him on his bed, exiting the room. There in the living area was Dick sitting on the couch, red eyes looking straight at Bruce’s, having heard every single word of their conversation. 

His eldest had cried. Bruce remembered how upset Alfred would get when the man caught Bruce crying. 

Bruce tried very hard to bring up any feeling of disappointment, any fragment of annoyance that his adult son had shed tears instead of ‘being a man’.

He wasn’t able to. 

“I’m going to call a taxi.” Bruce informed him. “I’m going to the Manor.”

“Alright,” Dick fidgeted. “Did you want me to come with you?”

“No,” Bruce walked over, ruffling a hand in Dick’s hair. Keeping the thrill off his face over that fact that Dick had allowed him to carry out the gesture. “But thank you, Chum. I’ll be alright.”

Dick reached up, holding onto Bruce’s wrist before he could pull away. “You know, right? The same things you said to Dami just now. You didn’t deserve— you were a kid.”

“I’ll be okay, Dickie.” Bruce smiled. “You boys take care of yourselves. I’ll see you soon enough.”

“Okay,” Dick let go. “Stay safe.”

“I know what I’m doing, Dick. Don’t worry too much.” Bruce reassured.

He knew what he had to do now. Something he should’ve done decades ago. 

Bruce was going to make everything right. 

His children came first.

🦇

The home he was born in loomed over him. 

Bruce walked up the steps leading to the front door. Using the keys he borrowed from Dick and the same codes he put in years ago to access entry. 

He tried hard not to think. To not ponder over what he was going to say. 

There was a heavy shadow bearing down on his soul. Dark and dirty. Dragging him deep below. Demanding things he couldn’t answer for. Accusing Bruce for his coldness. His cruelty. Was this not the man who raised him when they both had no one?

Was Bruce truly about to question him like he was on trial?

Didn’t Bruce love him?

The lights of the Manor were dimmed, low as if the house knew of the thoughts swimming around Bruce’s head. 

With a wave of grief, Bruce was saddened by his old guardian’s obvious depression and loneliness. The lack of life and the darkness that had settled in the corners told an entire tale. 

Taking a breath, small and shaky, Bruce called out. “Alfred?”

There was a silence, the dust on the walls listening carefully. 

“Alfred?” He tried again. 

There was a clatter deep within the house and Bruce tensed. Then all at once, the rushed patter of steps came charging through the halls. 

He felt his muscles tense the louder the steps came. He didn’t feel ready. 

And he wasn’t. Bruce wasn’t prepared for the wave after wave of emotion that crashed into him as Alfred came into view, stumbling so unlike himself around the corner. 

Despite living on his own for the last few months, Alfred was as put together as always, not a hair out of place in his pristine appearance. Always ready for anything. 

His breathlessness from running contrasted his suit. His wide, unbelieving eyes reflecting so much hardship. 

“Alfred.” Bruce’s voice cracked. 

“My boy,” Alfred took another step closer. “So it is true? You are…”

“I’m alive, Alfred.” Bruce comforted. “I’m real. This is all real.”

With a rush, Alfred came closer, gloved hands raised shakily. He came so close that Bruce for a second thought he was about to initiate a hug, that this alien encounter was enough to crack through the mask that was Alfred’s pride. 

But the butler stopped himself just before. Even so, the gloved hands came up, and Bruce felt their foreign warm touch as they cupped his face. 

“You look tired, my boy.” Alfred breathed into the silence. 

Bruce swallowed thickly, bringing a hand up to hold onto Alfred’s thin wrist. Was he keeping on top of his medications? His blood pressure? With no one around did he drive himself to his bi-annual checkup? “I feel tired.”

It was strange to watch Alfred blink away tears. The concrete heart seemed to be going soft. 

Bruce felt his heart falling apart at the sight. He brought his other hand up, using both to encase Alfred’s. 

The hands that had fed him, clothed him and comforted him. The same hands that wiped away tears when he was little and was still allowed to shed them. The hands that stitched any wounds and sponged away dirt when Bruce was immobile after an awful patrol. 

The hands that held a tad too tight, enough to leave red marks that quickly faded away. The hands that pushed him out into the garden during a storm with no coat. The hands that confiscated his nightlight when he got too old. The hands that pulled away his bowls of food when they grew impatient. 

Bruce could overlook all that. He tilted his head, leaning into those hands. Letting them warm him again.  

He could look over all of it. This was his father, wasn’t it? Bruce loved him. He swore he did. 

But these were the same hands that brought pain down onto his youngest. These hands humiliated Damian. These very hands were the reason for Damian’s tears. 

Bruce slowly pulled the hands away from his face, pushing them down softly and letting go. Willing the words out as he stared into Alfred’s teary eyes. 

Shockingly, it wasn’t as hard as he had imagined. 

“You made me a liar.” Bruce said through the lump in his throat. 

Expression scrunching, Alfred shook his head, still in visible disbelief that his boy was here. “Pardon?”

“You made me a liar.” Bruce repeated. “I promised Damian he would never be hurt under this roof, Alfred. You made me a liar.”

Alfred’s head jolted back. His disbelief shifting as he scoffed incredulously, his eyes drying. “This again? First Master Dick and now you? Can we not focus on this impossible reality where you have returned to us? Come, you must sit. You have had such a hard journey, child.”

“Alfred,” Bruce didn’t follow him. Stopping the older man in his tracks. “You hit my son.”

The words came out as blunt as their meaning. Bruce’s voice was flat. His tone empty. He held his ground. 

Alfred turned around from where he had been walking away. “Hardly,” he shook his head once more. “This is not the best time for such a conversation. You never think clearly when you are hungry. Let us get some food in you. I just cooked.”

Bruce tried not to react. Chest aching. Unsure whether Alfred had been cooking in hopes of someone returning to the Manor or if he was giving his only meal to Bruce. Both possibilities made him sad. 

At Bruce’s lack of movement, Alfred huffed. “Master Bruce.” He said. As if Bruce was still a child. 

And he was. To Alfred he was. 

But to Damian. To everyone else, he was a father. 

“You hurt me, Alfred.” Bruce’s voice felt far away. 

Alfred didn't flinch, but it was close. “I… I only did what a guardian had to do.”

“I thought so,” Bruce took a step closer. “I believed for the longest time that I must’ve been completely horrid. I had to have been irredeemable. That I deserved everything. But then to learn that you did the same to Damian? Damian never deserved such a punishment—”

“—you were not here.” Alfred interrupted. 

“No, but I don’t have to be to know that Damian never deserved being hurt.”

“He would never have learned otherwise. You would never have learned.”

“I know now that’s not true.” Bruce cleared his throat when his voice cracked again. His fists clenched and unclenched by his side, trying his hardest not to feel scolded. “Alfred. You hurt me. You didn’t hit me but… you really hurt me.”

Alfred’s face fell. The tears from earlier welling in his old eyes. “I never intended to. You needed to learn. You needed to be ready for the real world. I was the only one who could give you those tools. I did not want to, my dear boy.”

Bruce shook his head, looking down. “So what? Did I force you to?”

“Do not say it like that,” Alfred said. “You were a difficult child, Master Bruce. I had no one to guide me. I did what I had to. Perhaps I was too harsh at times, and Master Bruce, I am sorry if I caused more harm than necessary.”

Bruce’s head whipped back up at that. He hadn’t ever in his wildest dreams expected an apology. “What?”

“I apologise for any unnecessary harm I may have caused.” Alfred repeated, his voice hoarse and his body taut, as though it was difficult to say those words. 

Bruce forced himself to breathe. To reassess. To read through every line, not like the boy he had been but as the man he had grown to become. “But you’re not sorry for doing the things that hurt me.”

Alfred straightened up, his lips pursing as his dryly swallowed. “I made you ready. I did my best.”

“I forgive you,” Bruce said truthfully without thinking. His heart hammered against his ribs. He felt like instead of looking down he was looking up at the man who had taken him in once more. “Alfred, I forgive you for hurting me.” His voice broke and Alfred’s tension relaxed somewhat. “But I can’t forgive you for hurting Damian. You crossed a line. I can’t even forgive you for the times you suggested punishing the others. I should have… I should have done something then.”

Bruce took a step forward, feeling lightheaded but firm as ever. “It was okay when it was me, but it will never be okay that you hurt my boy.”

“You are overreacting.” Alfred’s head dipped, old age showing its signs. “You always had such a flair for theatrics.”

“No.” Bruce found himself snapping. Recognising the condescending gaslighting for what it was for the first time in his forty years. “I am not overreacting. I am allowed to feel hurt by you.” Bruce heaved a breath, then another, his eyes stinging. “Alfred, you let people touch me.” His voice broke. 

Colour drained from Alfred’s face. “You— you were a— teenager. You were fourteen. You— you said yourself that you were old enough.”

“I was a child.” Bruce’s voice rose. “I was a boy.” He remembered seeing Dick dating at eighteen and thinking even then that his son was too young. “You’re so insistent that you were protecting me but where were you then?”

“I was making you ready!” Alfred snapped. “How much more can I repeat myself? Are you not who you are now because of me?”

“Because of them.” Bruce corrected. “Dick, Jay, Tim, Cass, Damian and all the others. They showed me you were wrong just by being there. When I couldn’t hurt them the way you did with me, I knew there was something wrong.” 

“So I suppose I shouldn’t have bothered raising you.” Alfred said, hurt. “I shouldn’t have bothered sacrificing my own life to be there for you.”

“I’m not saying that.” Bruce felt like he was arguing uselessly. He closed his eyes, took a shaky breath and opened again, ready to end this. “My home is always open to my children. Damian is my son, he is my youngest, he is my priority. He will always be my priority. I will never have him feel unsafe in his own home. I refuse to let him doubt his actions or his feelings the same way I did under this roof.” Bruce swallowed thickly, feeling himself sweat. “You have a fortune in your account from what I have paid you over the decades. You are a grown man. And so I ask you, please, if you would leave my children’s home.”

Alfred stood, not moving a muscle.

“Master Bruce…”

“There are several buildings I own that you can have. Or— or I’ll buy you any property you want.” Bruce tried his hardest to stay firm. “But you can’t stay here. I will not have you near any of my children anymore.”

Alfred huffed out a breath. Blinking and seemingly weak. It made Bruce want to go forward and take it all back. Refute everything he had just said. 

But how could he when Damian was sat in the Penthouse, probably doubting that Bruce would keep his promises. 

“I can give you a week?” Bruce suggested helplessly. “I’ll hire movers to—”

“I do not require aid.” Alfred held a hand up. His posture changed. He grew taller, sharper, a mask shifting into place perfectly as if Bruce hadn’t spent his entire life around him. “I do not want strangers dealing with my possessions. And I hardly need a week. Perhaps a day and then do not worry, you will not have to bother with me and ‘my horribleness’ ever again.”

“Alfred…” this was Bruce’s mentor. This was the man who raised him. 

He felt his heart crumbling into nothing. 

“Do not waste your breath on this old man, Master Bruce.” Alfred turned around, as if hiding his face. “I know my place.”

Wordlessly, Alfred started to walk out, heading straight towards the bedroom Bruce had slept in many times when he was eight. 

“Alfie,” Bruce found himself calling out. He didn’t want to, he hadn’t wanted to say the words he was going to. He didn’t want to ask this question. But Alfred stopped in his tracks, and Bruce found them stumbling out of his throat without permission. “Did you… did you ever see me as your son?” He asked in a whisper. 

Alfred’s back stayed turned to him. When he spoke, he spoke with steel. “That would have been unprofessional, Master Bruce. You were the employer and I was the employee. You are far too grown for such fantasies.”

With that, he walked away, leaving Bruce behind. 

Nodding, Bruce tried to remember the feel of the gloved hands cupping his face. The sight of wet old eyes looking at him with what he could dare call love. Feeling a twisted complicated emotion.

Then he turned around and walked straight out of the Manor. He missed his children.

🦇