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“You shouldn’t be here.” Bruce takes off his cowl, watching the boy’s satisfaction at his discovery turn to fear in rapid succession. “How did you find this place?”
“I—watched where Alfred went.”
Bruce begins to wipe the darkness from around his eyes. “It’s okay.” It’s not really, but he can’t stand the feeling that the kid cowering in front of him is afraid—of him. He knows what it’s like to be a kid and to be afraid, when the fear is so big and you’re so small that it’s like you’re eaten up by it until there’s nothing else left.
“That was—smart,” Bruce says, taking off the shell that makes him Batman. “Very smart. Not good. But smart.”
The boy looks down at his scuffed-up shoes, his hands tapping a chaotic morse code onto the sides of his jeans-clad legs. He can’t help fidgeting, it’s obvious.
Bruce gives him a long, silent look as he finishes divesting himself of the trappings of the vigilante and bringing his face back to normal. “What do we do now, kid?” he asks. He really doesn’t know.
—-
“I really have to insist you eat.” It’s the third day since the family’s world ended. Alfred is exhausted. Bruce turns his face to the wall, lying on top of his still-made bed. Not answering.
“If you keep on like this, I’ll—have to do something about it.”
“Do what?” Bruce suddenly turns to face him, the full force of his stare, already intense in childhood, fixed on the butler. “What are you going to do, Alfred?”
Alfred sinks into the chair beside Bruce’s bed, putting his face in his hands. “I really don’t know, Bruce.”
—
“I’m—sorry,” the boy’s voice is hesitant but sincere.
“It’s okay,” Bruce reiterates quietly. “Kids go where they’re not supposed to. I did. Practically gave Alfred a heart attack more than once.” He smiles his lopsided smile, hoping for relaxation in the tense shoulders of the kid in front of him but not seeing it.
“Are you gonna send me back?” There it is. The terror still hangs in the air like a knife, ready to fall.
—
Bruce sits up and palms the dinner roll off the food tray next to his bed, bringing it to his mouth and taking a bite. He’s not sure what he’s been trying to do these last days. It’s a war with no opponent. Alfred is just the punching bag for the person he can’t hurt. He’s old enough to know it won’t bring his parents back; nothing will.
“I know,” Alfred says, looking up and wiping his hand across his eyes. “I know it feels good to fight something, anything. Believe me, I know.”
—
“Do you want to leave, now that you know who I am, and you’ve seen—all this?” Bruce gestures to his lair, the absurdity not lost on him. He’s used to no one knowing except himself and Alfred. It’s weird. Not like he doesn’t realize it.
The boy shakes his head very quickly. “No—please, no.”
Bruce kneels down to be at eye level, somewhere in the vestiges of his mind remembering that his father used to communicate with him that way when he had something important to say.
“Then you’re here—for always—no matter what.” He says each word very deliberately, each one chosen and emphasized. “We’ll figure it out.”
—
“Alfred, I can’t eat any more. Yet.” All he’s eaten is the roll, but it’s something.
“Thank you for trying,” Alfred says softly. “That’s all I ask.”
“Answer a question?” Bruce is back facing the wall.
“Try me.”
“Why are you still here?”
—
Bruce is gratified to see the small, tense body relax, at least a little bit. He stays at eye level. “Can I trust you, kid?”
“Yes, Mr. Wayne. I promise.”
“Bruce,” the man rejoins. “I hate being called Mr. Wayne.” He holds out his hand. “I only want you to shake hands if you’re going to do what Alfred and I tell you from now on. Think about it.”
The boy’s palm in his is the first time they’ve ever touched. Bruce closes his fingers, feeling how thin and young he really is. “I’ll do it, Mr. W—Bruce.”
“Good,” Bruce says, another lopsided smile coming to his face unbidden.
—
Alfred comes closer, kneeling beside the bed. “I made a commitment to your parents a long time ago, and that included you. I’m not going anywhere. And I never will.”
“Bet you will,” Bruce says, not turning toward him, marinating in anger at everything, including himself. “Bet you’ll get mad and leave.”
“Bet I won’t,” Alfred says, rising. “Just you try me, Bruce Wayne, and see how much I won’t leave.”
Much to Bruce’s visible aggravation, Alfred leans down and brushes the hair off his forehead. “Good night, Bruce. Get some sleep so you can fight me again in the morning.”
He should be angry as Alfred pads out of the room. He wants to be furious, but he isn’t. The deep pit of icy sadness inside him is starting to melt—just the slightest bit. It feels good not to be alone.
—
Bruce has one last thought before he gets up. “You don’t have to be perfect. I wasn’t. Just ask Alfred some time.”
“Rich—” The boy’s eyes are still on him, hanging on his every word. “Just—try.”
The boy’s hand is still tight in his own. He doesn’t move to let go, and Richard Grayson doesn’t move to pull away.
Bruce has no idea where they’re headed or if they’ve gotten anywhere, but it feels like something.