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Alfred takes a lot of pride in his job. That’s a silly thought, maybe, with how important his job before this was. But he enjoys it, the calm, the repetition. He enjoys cleaning, cooking, bringing Bruce food, fresh clothes. The routine had changed, when Martha and Thomas had died. Bruce hadn’t talked for a month. He was barely 8 at the time and Alfred mourned his lost chance at a childhood more than he mourned his parents, as sick as it may seem.
Now, 8 years later, the routine is back, at least mostly. Bruce doesn’t speak as much as he used to, he doesn’t eat as much as he used to. He doesn’t smile anymore, at least not in front of Alfred. But he was alive, he was finding himself, and that was the most Alfred could ask.
His view of Bruce comes crashing down on what should’ve been a normal Wednesday afternoon. He was cleaning Bruce’s room. He didn’t do it often, because Bruce was older now, and had always loved his privacy. But sometimes, it felt necessary, although maybe he was just clutching at what was left of Bruce before.
He isn't doing anything unusual, when he finds it. He doesn't usually go through drawers, aware that a boy Bruce's age might have things to hide, though not worth worrying about. Opening the drawer is a second thought, muscle memory, because he is usually so thorough in every other room.
Finding a notebook isn't shocking. Alfred barely blinks as he lifts it up, carefully setting it on top of Bruce’s bedside table. What catches Alfred's eyes first is his own name, written on a crumpled piece of paper, shoved at the very bottom. Then, his eyes shift to focus on the two carefully laid razor blades. He swallows, something thick rising in his throat, as he tries to remember the last time he'd seen Bruce in short sleeves.
Mindlessly, he grabs the piece of paper, carefully pushing the razor blades aside. He raises it to his face and numbly realizes it's a letter. He forces himself to read it, despite the glossy shine he knows decorates his eyes.
A suicide letter, addressed to him. It's not finished, ending on a half written word and a series of scribbles, violent and erratic. His grip tightens against it as he forces himself to really, truly read the words. It's something full of guilt, something sad he knew Bruce was carrying but that he hadn't tried hard enough to help with. He forces himself to read it twice, trice, until the words are etched into his brain, until he could recite it from memory. He puts the letter down on top of the notebook.
He lets out a sigh when he sees the dozen other half written letters layered under it. He doesn't bother grabbing another one. Instead, his fingers catch on the razor blades, and he carefully slips them into his pocket. Then, gently, he replaces the letter, and the notebook on top of it. He pushes the drawer closed, straightens the clock sitting on Bruce's bedside table.
He's done cleaning. He walks out of the room, down the stairs, in a sort of haze he can't break out of. The razor blades weigh heavy in his pocket. He walks into his study before he can think better of it, and places the razor blades on his desk. He stares at them. He knows he'll have to talk to Bruce, eventually.
He doesn't go find him yet. Instead, he rummages through a small overhead cupboard, one used for storage. He pulls out a first aid kit, one he hasn't used himself. He heads back up the stairs before he can think it through. He knows Bruce isn't around, he usually isn't around. Before, that fact hadn't bothered him, he had understood Bruce's need for space. Now, it feels all that much more daunting, the fact that Alfred doesn't know where Bruce is, doesn't know what he could be doing, what he might've already done.
He walks through Bruce's room, heads straight for his bathroom. He opens a cupboard, and carefully sets the first aid kit down. It feels stupid. Bruce had already harmed himself, had already caused his body damage that Alfred couldn't magically fix, couldn't magically undo. But he also knows he can't be sure he'll be able to fix it now. It at least brings him a small bit of comfort, to know Bruce will have the ability to take care of himself, if he ever does this again. If Alfred doesn't manage to get through to him.
Alfred had never had much luck getting through to him. He sighs again. As he's about to walk out of the room, he comes face to face with Bruce. He looks ok. Alfred resists the urge to check him, to pat him down until he's sure he isn't bleeding out under his thick black hoodie, or hiding more blades in his pockets. He knows he's being ridiculous. Bruce doesn't even blink, as he looks up at Alfred.
“Were you cleaning my room?” Bruce's voice is calm, that same quiet grumble as always. It doesn't reassure Alfred as much as he'd like, even as Bruce innocently tilts his head, utterly uninterested in what Alfred might answer. Only asking because Alfred had begged him to talk, once, in a moment he still feels shameful about.
He swallows again, and suddenly Bruce furrows his eyebrows, the slightest bit of worry making its way onto his face.
“Master Bruce, I think we need to talk. Please come to my study, when you're ready.” The last few words are added as an afterthought, when Alfred notices Bruce freezing, the way his eyes glaze over when Alfred's words truly wash over him, the way he glances back at his bedside table, as if trying to calculate in his head the exact position it was in when he had left, trying to see if something, anything had moved.
Alfred walks past him, down the stairs, back into his study. He doesn't have to look back to know Bruce doesn't follow, still stuck in his own doorway, eyes wide, breathes quick. Alfred wants to help, to quietly talk him through breathing exercises like he used to, after nightmares that left Bruce sobbing at the edge of Alfred's bed, too panicked to properly wake him up.
He doesn't. He knows it'll only hurt Bruce more. He just sits down, staring ahead, waiting patiently for Bruce to walk in. It takes a few more minutes before he does, head held down, staring at the ground.
He hurries to sit down, barely holding himself up on his feet. Alfred can still hear his panicked breathing, and doesn't bother commenting on the dried tears on his cheeks. He waits a few minutes before talking, letting Bruce collect himself as much as he can, before pushing the razor blades forward, on his desk, until they're right in front of the boy.
“I found these while cleaning your room.” Bruce still doesn't look up, and Alfred notices that his hands are shaking, where they wrap around his own shoulders. He takes a deep breath before he starts talking again, keeping his voice gentle, and quiet. “I'm not angry, or upset with you. I'm just worried about your well being, master Bruce.”
Bruce gives a small nod, the only thing letting Alfred know he's actually listening, and forces his arms down, at his side, grabbing the edge of his chair. Alfred can't help but focus on the hoodie he's wearing, thick and a few sizes too big. Bruce is drowning in it, and Alfred glances down at his own folded sleeves, at the sweat gathering at his neck from the warm sun peeking through the clouds that could never seem to part over Gotham.
“B- Master Bruce, could you at least let me check over your arms and make sure you don't have any infections, or any cuts that could require stitches?” Alfred knows his voice is edging on desperate, begging, but he doesn't bother hiding it. Bruce glances up at him through those long bangs he refuses to cut, his eyes finally meeting Alfred's own.
He gives a small, hesitant nod, and Alfred stands up. As he's about to help Bruce to his own feet, hand already reached out for the younger boy, he hears him whisper something.
“My… my arms aren't the only place you should check.” The words are full of shame, practically dripping in it as they reach Alfred's ears.
Alfred glances down at him, and he lets himself sigh.