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Alfred is breathing. In through the nose. In through the nose again. Then, out through the mouth. It’s still too fast. He keeps going until the rhythm settles, his heart rate falling as his breaths even out.
It’s been years. Years of risks and childhood scraped knees turned to motorcycle crashes, broken limbs, and gunshot wounds. It’s been decades, but it’s no easier. All he knows is how to stall the panic, to put it off in the moment until Bruce is taken care of. Then, when he’s alone, it crashes over him like waves pulling him under a rip current.
“He’s all right. Bruce is all right.” He repeats the mantra to himself, grasping the handle of his cane, squeezing it in his fingers to feel something other than fear.
—-
“What the—do you think you’re doing?”
Bruce has never heard his butler yell before, and swearing has been rare. He looks up from his bloody leg and catches the terrified eyes of his guardian.
“I was trying to jump out the window,” Bruce answers softly, his bravado completely gone. “Thought…I could clear it.”
Bruce hasn’t had anyone pick him up in ages, but that’s what Alfred does. “Let me see if you need stitches.” There’s no more yelling, but the tone is chilling. The boy has never seen his butler out of control.
He’s a dead weight over Alfred’s shoulder, bleeding on the man’s white shirt. He’s starting to feel pain, but mostly he’s scared.
Alfred carries him through the house and sets him on the counter in the kitchen. Bruce stares, wide-eyed, but he doesn’t say anything else.
The hands that prod the glass cuts on his leg are infinitely gentle. Focused on his work, Alfred wipes off the wounds and applies gauze and bandages. “You’ll live,” he says, his tone close to normal. “I’ll give you some Tylenol for the pain.”
Bruce just nods. “Yessir.” He’s not often that formal, but Alfred suddenly feels like a stranger.
He doesn’t need the butler’s help to get off the counter, but Alfred offers his arms anyway. There’s no anger in the hold that effortlessly lifts the boy’s slight body back onto the floor. “To bed with you,” he says.
Bruce turns and limps away, not saying anything.
—
“I’m all right, Alfred.”
Gotham’s vigilante stands in the butler’s doorway, pajamas on and arm in a sling. “It was my own stupidity. I need to work on my spatial awareness when I’m fighting somewhere as distracting as a club.”
“We’ll figure out a plan to practice,” Alfred answers, his head turned the other way. He keeps his voice even with effort.
“Thank you for patching me up—again.”
Alfred finally turns. He knows his fear will be obvious. ‘Please. Be. Careful.”
“Yessir.” The word falls like an echo from years before as Bruce turns and leaves the room.
—
“Bruce.” The boy hears his butler’s voice and light tap on his door.
“Come in,” he says, sitting up on his bed, his body folded up, tense, with his chin on his knees. Alfred isn’t usually one for punishments, but Bruce has never seen him so angry before.
The butler brings in a tray with toast and a mug of hot cocoa. Bruce smells the pleasantly pungent odor as Alfred sets it on the nightstand beside him. “We need to talk.”
“O—okay.”
“I’m sorry, Bruce.”
The boy’s eyes flutter open, wide and confused. This isn’t what he expected. Not at all.
“When I saw you hurt, I—I kind of lost my mind for a second. I was trained not to do that, a long time ago. I—didn’t know what it would be like—with you. I got angry because, well, because I was scared, Bruce. If you can forgive me, I promise I’ll work on it so it doesn’t happen again.”
Alfred holds out his hand like he wants a man-to-man handshake. Bruce puts his right palm into the older man’s much bigger one. “I’m sorry about the window.”
“I don’t care about windows, Bruce Wayne.”
“It hurts.” The boy uncurls his body, finally relaxing.
“Well, I should expect it would,” Alfred answers. “What I care about is your safety. You could break a hundred windows, and I wouldn’t break a sweat, but if you break yourself—well, you’ll have me to answer to.”
“But you’ll fix me.” The boy’s trust is ironclad.
“I’ll do my best.”
Alfred comes over to smooth his covers and plump his pillow, but Bruce knows him well enough to know he’s looking for an excuse to show affection. He ruffles the boy’s shaggy hair. “You’ll be the death of me, Master Bruce.”
—-
“Why’d you hit him?”
Richard Grayson is hunched over in an uncomfortable office chair, with his new guardian standing nearby and leaning against the window frame in the school nurse’s monochrome room.
“Said crap about my parents.”
“I understand the feeling.”
“Do I have to apologize?” Richard sits up long enough to look over at Bruce Wayne.
“I don’t know. Are you sorry?”
Richard thinks about lying for a hot minute, but something in him thinks the tall, quiet man would be able to tell. “No.”
“Then that seems pretty pointless to me.”
The nurse comes in with a form. “Here’s the incident report, Mr. Wayne. The office isn’t going to suspend him, given the—recent circumstances—but this is his only warning.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” Bruce answers politely. “I’d like assurance that they’ll be in separate classes from here on out.”
“That’s not really my—” She starts to hedge.
“I understand, but my donation to the school district would certainly be appreciated by the Division of Libraries, don’t you think?”
Richard sees her face flush. “I’ll—tell the administration.”
“Thank you.”
They leave side by side, Richard’s mind racing with what he’s just seen. As soon as they’re outside, he bursts out, “Why’d you do that?” His voice is a mixture of amazement and gratitude,
“Because he started it,” Bruce answers, “and it’s not right for the school to do nothing about bullying.”
“So you’re not mad?” The boy finally dares to ask the question when they reach his guardian’s car.
“No and yes. I’m not mad that you defended your family, even if that wasn’t the smartest way to do it. That you started a fight with a kid about three times your size? That makes me want to ground you for a month.”
“Why?” Richard gets into the passenger’s seat. He likes it when Bruce drives them without a chauffeur. It feels more like they’re—family or something.
“Seems like you and I both need someone else to force us into the self-preservation we don’t have, kid.”
“Why do you care?” Unsure what he’s feeling, Richard answers back with a level of attitude he doesn’t really mean.
“Well,” Bruce replies, “I’m in charge of you, and, at the very least, I’m supposed to get you to adulthood in one piece. I need to protect you, and I have a feeling you’re not going to make it easy.”
“You’re not even my dad.” Richard is supremely irritated by the smile that suddenly appears on his guardian’s face.
“Nice try, but I’ve played that card about a hundred million times.”
The boy feels like somebody let the wind out of his sails. He was expecting another fight. “Do I have to be grounded?”
“One week, and Alfred and I will start teaching you self-defense.”
The boy sighs in relief. Not that bad. And the idea of learning to fight from the vigilante is almost enough to make him smile. Almost.
His not-dad turns on music—Richard’s favorite indie band. “If you don’t get in any more trouble, I won’t tell Alfred. Trust me, he’s worse than I am.”
Richard believes him. “Thanks.”
“Welcome, kid.”