Chapter Text
Bruce used to open his eyes in the morning to the sound of quiet footsteps, the door creaking open. He used to close them again, to pretend to be asleep so his mother would kiss him on the forehead with a whispered “Good morning, sunshine.” He used to watch as she opened the curtains, letting in golden sunlight that poured over his bed.
Not this morning. He woke up, disoriented, to the sound of a knock on the door. His curtains were shut fast, the darkness that pervaded the rest of Gotham finally conquering what had previously been his sanctuary, what used to bathe in golden light.
Something was wrong. His mother never knocked; he never shut the door; his mouth tasted like salt; his room felt too big.
“Master Wayne…?” Alfred’s voice.
Slipping out of the haze of morning half-consciousness, Bruce remembered, felt the loss stab through him anew, and he could feel something like hope, something like sunshine, draining out of him, slipping through his fingers. There would be no more golden mornings basking in the light of the sun with his mother. The sun had set on Bruce Wayne.
When he didn’t respond, Alfred entered the room, concern carved into his grief-laden countenance. The heavy oak door creaked open slowly. Alfred’s footsteps were heavier than his mother’s. “Good morning, Master Wayne. I prepared breakfast. Pancakes, as it were. How are you feeling?”
Alfred’s voice was gentle, unobtrusive, and yet in that moment, Bruce couldn’t help but wish he’d leave. He wanted to sink into his bed, to sleep for an unending age. He wanted to drift away, escape from this living nightmare, to live an imagined life back in the sun.
With enormous effort, he lifted his small body out of the too-big bed in his too-big room. He looked up at Alfred quietly. The older man had seen his share of death—he knew that look, that moment before the misery settled over one’s shoulders, before the weight of truth laid its heavy yoke over one’s neck. “…that sounds all right. I’m…”
Sensing his charge’s inability to properly explain his emotional state, Alfred merely nodded. He took Bruce’s small hand in his own, leading the listless boy to the kitchen. While normally he would’ve insisted on Bruce eating in the dining room, today wasn’t a normal day.
Today was Thomas and Martha Wayne’s funeral.
The small child ate his food quietly and slowly. He methodically cut his own pancakes into a grid of equally-sized squares. He stared at them for a long moment, before slowly eating them, one by one. There was no joy in it—Alfred wondered if the boy could even taste the pancakes, or if he were eating on autopilot. He finished, thanked Alfred distantly, and stared blankly at the wall, as though he were not fully present.
”…Master Bruce, I’ll get your suit. We have the funeral today, at the cathedral.” His voice softened. “I’ll be with you the whole time. You don’t have to say anything to anyone.”
-
Bruce tilted his head in agreement. He stared emptily at the caskets standing so conspicuously in the middle of the aisle. They’d be buried next to each other, on the same plot, united even in death, and he’d be left here, alone. He stared at the man who recited a practiced speech about how generous his parents had been, all they’d done for Gotham. He stared at the expensive suits, silky black dresses, and half-familiar faces. He stared at the decadent white lilies decorating the church. He stared until his eyes hurt. He wasn’t sure when he started crying, only that at some point his vision turned into a strange, underwater dream. Silver, silent tears dried on his face. All he wanted to do was cry out, but he couldn’t make a noise.
Surely none of this was real. Surely he’d go home and his parents would be there, would laugh and hold him again.
It was a closed casket funeral.
The last time he would ever see them… bloody and lifeless.
He went through the motions of a funeral, kneeling and standing and and kneeling over and over as if any of this could matter. His eyes burned, but he couldn’t avert them from the scene. He didn’t go to church much after that.
The funeral ended. He stood in the nave of the church, beside Alfred. He stared at those lilies against the dark silhouettes of twin caskets, shut fast against the world.
”Bruce, I’m so sorry you have to go through this at such a… …a strong kid, you know… …kind, generous people… …take over the company…”
People tried to offer their condolences, but he was unresponsive. A man knelt beside him—vaguely familiar, but Bruce couldn’t process his face through the blur of tears.
”Don’t worry. We on the board will take care of Wayne Enterprises until you’re ready. Everything’s in safe hands—I’m sorry for your loss. Your parents were good people, you know. They loved this city.”
Bruce looked up at him. He opened his mouth, but he couldn’t make a sound, couldn’t force anything out. Didn’t he know that Bruce’s parents had just died? Didn’t he know his world was collapsing in on him? He didn’t care about Wayne Enterprises, not when it felt like his ribcage was crumbling inwards, crushing his heart and piercing his lungs. Didn’t he know that he couldn’t breathe?
He felt entirely alienated from everyone around him. No one understood what he was feeling, this oppressive, crushing grief that seized him, catching in his chest like a weight, like a strange gravity pulling him away from himself. Everyone’s faces blurred, just anonymous strangers who lived in blissful ignorance. Why couldn’t they see?
He nodded quietly.
He looked around for anyone he knew, anyone he could imagine might understand, might feel that painful weight. He found two people—two, out of the roiling, crashing sea of unfamiliar, oblivious faces. First, Detective Gordon, who looked pensive and morose. The policeman had promised to save him, to drag him out of this strange hell and find his parents’ killer. The other, of course, was Alfred, whose closed, distant expression softened with affection and pain when he looked to the boy. Alfred, whose tactful acknowledgments shielded Bruce from an unending assault of glib sympathies and superficial condolences.
He shielded his eyes as he exited the cathedral, struggling to adjust to the pale sunlight, a rarity in Gotham. He felt a warm hand in his, Alfred shielding his small form from the paparazzi. Bruce clung to him like a last tether to reality, to safety. Alfred wasn’t like any of these other people—he’d known Bruce’s parents, he understood that this strange pain in his chest, so inadequately named “grief,” wouldn’t just go away.
As the car door shut, Bruce stared at the ground. After a quiet moment, Alfred laid a hand on the boy’s knee, his face shifting into an expression that showed he understood in a way Bruce felt no one else was.
”It’s all right, Master Bruce.” In contrast to the empty reassurances of oblivious, well-meaning adults, Alfred’s words were almost mournful, pervaded with a deep, tired sorrow. Alfred understood. “We’ll be all right now, won’t we?”
He nodded slowly, as if resolving himself to the idea. “I’ll be alright, Alfred.” He wasn’t sure if he meant it just yet. “I… I’ll survive.” He felt like crying. He was just a kid.
”I know you will.”
-
Bruce returned home and flung himself into work almost immediately. He sat at his father’s too-big chair in the study. He analyzed the details of his parents’ brutal slaughter, his legs not even long enough to reach the ground.
Alfred could only look on from the doorway. He hoped he could stop this clever boy from completely self-destructing, collapsing in on himself like a star. It was the least he owed his parents, the least he owed the once-starry-eyed kid he wanted to save from the dull fate of a gravitational collapse, the implosion of a star.
It was late, past Bruce’s bedtime, and while leniency was deserved—the boy was freshly orphaned!—Alfred felt that recovery demanded a return to some kind of normalcy. He set a cup of tea before the boy, engrossed in files. “Master Bruce, it’s getting late, you know.” Bruce hummed a distracted acknowledgment. “Today has been a long and taxing day. How about we get to bed?” Bruce glanced up, as if awaking from a strange dream.
“I have a lot of work to do.” Alfred was already watching the light of that little boy, whom he loved so dearly, dim under the thick veil of grief. Regardless of how much he, too, wanted to break under the weight of it—he had loved that boy’s parents dearly—he had to help Bruce. The floorboards creaked. It was quiet for a moment. Alfred didn’t leave. Bruce barely stirred. “…I’ll go to bed,” he relented. For the first time that day, Bruce raised his eyes to meet Alfred’s. His melancholy shone through those clear blue eyes, a dark, heavy thing, too big for his body. “Thank you.”
”Of course, my boy. That is what I’m here for. Finish your tea and I’ll tuck you in.” He was so small, Alfred couldn’t help but think—altogether too young to bear blood on his hands, too young to shoulder the weight of his parents’ deaths. Bruce nodded, glancing up at Alfred with those pained eyes.
How would they do it, he couldn’t help but wonder? Just the two of them—a small child, his icy eyes already shattered by tragedy, and an old butler who’d never raised a child before—alone in this huge, ancient manor, how would they live?
-
That next morning, Bruce woke up on his own. He opened his own windows. Rain slammed against his window, running into thick rivulets dyed silver by the faint light of early morning. Had Gotham always been this rainy? It had been sunny yesterday—a sunny funeral, what senseless irony.
As he wandered down the corridor, not quite sure what he was looking for, he heard voices in the kitchen, quiet and dulled. “Mr. Pennyworth, if I could ask—do you know anything at all that could advance the case? I made a promise to the kid, and I’d really like to get things fixed quickly, but there aren’t any solid leads right now. Barely any witnesses, and none except… well, Bruce, who could see his face.”
Bruce stilled, instinctively waiting, listening in. That was the detective… the one who’d promised to find his parents' murderer. Detective Gordon—that was his name, wasn’t it?
“I’ll comply with the investigation however I can, Detective; however, I won’t have you interrogating Master Bruce. He’s far too small to be reliving his parents’ deaths in the name of your sense of justice,” came Alfred’s steely voice. Bruce stepped forward, standing in the doorway now. Alfred glanced over with a kind smile, seemingly unperturbed by being eavesdropped upon. That was Alfred—utterly unflappable.
“Good morning, Master Bruce. I imagine you’re quite hungry. How about some tea and toast to start you off?” Bruce nodded, but his dark eyes were fixed on the detective. He could find his parents’ killer, right?
After a moment of silence, Bruce spoke up: “…I don’t mind talking about it… if it’ll help the investigation…” Alfred frowned slightly, noting Detective Gordon’s well-meaning but eager expression.
“It’s far too early for such grim matters, Master Bruce. English Breakfast, or chai?” he deflected easily, already setting the kettle on the stove.
“Chai, please.” He looked up at Jim with the piercing eyes of a child too clever for his age. “You’re going to find my parents’ killer, right? If I can do anything to help…”
“You don’t need to do anything. We have it under control—just focus on your own recovery for now.” Jim met Alfred’s eyes, a silent message in the butler’s glare.
“Yes, the police are perfectly capable of handling criminal matters, Master Bruce. I have faith in Detective Gordon’s investigative acumen.”
Bruce nodded quietly. After a stretch of quiet, the kettle began to boil, startling Bruce’s tired gaze up from the marble of the countertop. He sat up straighter, his pale hands folded in his lap as he sat perfectly still, feet parallel, eyes trained on something invisible, something no one else could see.
“Your tea, Master Bruce.” Alfred glanced at Jim, his message clear—he didn’t want him wearing out his welcome.
“Bruce, I made you a promise, and I intend to keep it—I will track down the man who killed your parents. If I can help in any other way, please, have Mr. Pennyworth call me,” he offered. Alfred didn’t speak—he was clearly sincere, and Bruce needed something to trust in… he just hoped the GCPD didn’t let them down, thought their reputation for incompetence and corruption made that thought feel unlikely.
Bruce nodded, and looked up at Jim. “I believe you. Thank you.” He looked so small, trying to act like an adult, trying to take on the mantle of a Wayne man when all he should be was a boy. His fingers tightened on the mug of chai, and he sipped the drink.
Sensing that was all he’d get, Jim stood up. “Well. I’ll be on my way, but—call me any time.” He left with a sigh. Alfred was… resolute. That was good and bad—the boy needed support, of course, but it would make the investigation much more difficult, if he couldn’t use the only eyewitness.
Bruce looked up at Alfred. “Why was Detective Gordon here?” He hummed, pouring batter into a waffle maker. “Because he wanted me to help with the investigation, and while I am happy to do that, I want him to keep you out of it, Master Bruce.”
Bruce cocked his head, contemplating his words. “I want to help.”
“I know you do. That’s natural. However, I don’t want you to relive that—even if that means it takes your detective friend a little longer to find the killer.”
Bruce relented, gazing listlessly at his hands for a long moment, before Alfred spoke again.
“Master Bruce, if there is ever anything I can do for you, I hope you know you need nothing but ask. I… loved your parents dearly, and I care for you, too.”
Bruce looked thoughtful. “I know. I… I appreciate that. But I need to do something about this—I can’t just—I can’t let go of it.” Alfred sighed. He’d inherited his father’s tenacity, evidently.
“I’ll accept you continuing to… read the files and interact with Detective Gordon. On the condition that you’ll go out at least once a week, eat regular meals, and… continue your studies. You don’t need to go back to prep school just yet, but I’ll not have you slipping behind.”
Bruce’s tired stare burned into his eyes, but Alfred didn’t falter. There was a weight on Bruce’s shoulders that he shouldn’t have to bear, and Alfred didn’t know how to lighten it. But he knew he had to try, had to do something.
“That sounds—fine. But I want you to help me—to help find information, files. There’s only so much I can do on my own.” Alfred nodded.
“Very well. I hope you know that this doesn’t mean you’re getting out of bedtimes, young man. I won’t have you passing out in the study.” Bruce managed a faint smile. Alfred could already tell that was an agreement he’d struggle to enforce.
“I’ll do my best.”