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Bruce is 17 when he realizes he has a problem. Another problem, that is, one he hasn't already dealt with ten times over. A problem that isn't the healed scars on his arms, or the dozen notebooks he has filled with information stolen from old newspapers and what little he can hear when he walks by the police cars lining the city streets, purposefully slowing his steps to make sure he catches everything.
This is something new, something he barely understands beyond the whispers heard between girls, huddled at their lockers, or articles in magazines Alfred didn't want him to read.
Bruce had always been a skinny kid. His ribs stuck out, elbows sharp, face thin. He still remembers being brought to parties with his parents, smaller events they figured he could handle. He remembers the way adults would look him over once, twice, thrice, comment about his almost sickly frame, about the way his suits always seemed to swallow him whole.
Bruce never paid attention to it. It wasn't a problem, really. He was healthy, he knew that. He ate well, he stayed in shape, he had no reason to dwell on comments about his body. No reason at all.
So, at 17, hunched over the toilet, the door to his bathroom locked shut, fingers shoved down his throat, Bruce realizes he has a problem. A problem he doesn't understand. A problem that he can't fix on his own.
This isn't like the razor blades hidden away when he was 16. This wasn't the careful cuts he knew were safe, the careful cuts he knew wouldn't kill him, today or the next. This wasn't a safety blanket of pain he understood, controlled entirely. This was something that could kill him. Something that would kill him, if he didn't fix it.
His mind drifts back to the suicide letters he still kept folded up in his drawer, as he starts to gag. He doesn't think he ever really wanted to die. He thinks those, too, were a safety blanket. Something to comfort him, to remind him that it was an option, if things became worse, if things became harder. But Bruce doesn't want to die.
He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand as he coughs out the last of his dinner. He paces around the small bathroom as he cleans up. Before he leaves, he can't help but catch his own reflection in the mirror. He stares at himself.
His eyes are sunken, eyes bruised with dark circles from too many sleepless nights and nightmares. His face is skinny, too skinny, he thinks. His shirt hangs off his shoulder, showing off collarbones bordering on too sharp as they stick out of his skin. He shivers slightly as he leaves the room, closing the door behind himself.
He tries to remember when this started. When his bad habit of accidentally skipping meals turned into the taste of bile sticking to his mouth after every dinner Alfred forced him to eat. He can't remember. It wasn't something sudden, it was a slow transition. Something natural, almost.
One day, the thought of food in his body just became too much. The hunger he kept accidentally cursing himself with became familiar, comforting, and everything else started to feel wrong, dirty, unpleasant. Something out of his control.
He wonders if Alfred noticed, distantly. If Alfred saw his portions getting smaller, his clothes getting bigger, the hours he spent too distracted to eat, his habit of leaving the house hours before Alfred woke up, to avoid eating breakfast at the table. He almost hopes so. Almost hopes that Alfred has noticed, that Alfred will corner him in the same way he did a year ago, presenting him with facts and asking him to stop.
Bruce thinks he would stop, if Alfred asked him to. But his mind tells him that, if Alfred had noticed, it would've been months ago when this first started. That if he hasn't brought it up yet, it's because he doesn't know. Because he hasn't noticed.
The realization almost makes Bruce sad, before he remembers that he's the one who's been trying so hard to avoid being caught, even unconsciously, even without realizing that he has a problem. He's been the one leaving the house, making it impossible for Alfred to know if he ate or not, using the upstairs bathroom when he knows Alfred is in his office and can't hear the noise of him gagging and puking out whatever dinner he had been served that night.
If Alfred hasn't noticed yet, Bruce knows it's his fault. His fault for getting better at hiding things from him, his fault for keeping everything to himself, close to his chest.
His journey down the stairs is slow, and calculated. He tries to gather his thoughts, his feelings. His feet are taking him to Alfred's study before he can rethink that decision. His hands are shoved in his pockets, and his shoulders are tense as he walks in, eyes immediately drifting to Alfred, sitting at his desk.
Alfred looks up towards him, his hands stilling where they had been typing on his keyboard. He waits a second, for Bruce to say something. He takes a steadying breath before he opens his mouth to speak.
“Alfred, I…” He pauses, carefully considering his next words. “I think I have a problem.” Is what he settles on, as Alfred stares at him, patiently waiting for an explanation. Bruce takes a few more minutes to think, and Alfred's eyes glance down towards Bruce’s arms, held tightly against his body. Bruce notices.
“No, no, it's not… it's not that, don't worry.” Bruce peels his arms away from his side, turning them towards Alfred, showing the still pale skin only decorated by already healed scars. Alfred gives a grateful nod before motioning to the chair sitting in front of his desk, wordlessly asking Bruce to sit down.
He does, silent as well. He leans back, glancing at Alfred every few minutes, arms crossed over his chest. He doesn't say anything, and he can tell Alfred is starting to worry, to get restless, as he waits for Bruce to tell him what exactly his problem is. Bruce doesn't like worrying Alfred, really. But he can't find the right words yet, so he stays quiet.
Finally, he manages something.
“I haven't been eating well.” Alfred nods, slowly, prompting him to say more. He knows Alfred won't comment until he understands exactly what Bruce needs, so he continues, despite the pit in his stomach. “I've been leaving before breakfast and throwing away the lunches you pack me and…”
The pause doesn't go unnoticed, and suddenly Bruce is all too aware of his bruised knuckles, still on display where his hand is resting on his forearm. He almost tucks it under his arm before he remembers that this is what he's here for. To stop hiding, to be honest with Alfred, to get help.
He sees the moment where Alfred's eyes glance down towards his hand, when he recognizes his red knuckles, when the dots connect in his head. He hears the sigh. He opens his mouth to speak but Alfred interrupts him.
“It's alright, master Bruce, I understand. Thank you for telling me.” Bruce nods, sharp and quick. He can feel the knot forming in his throat, the pit still in his stomach. Another layer of silence forms, tense this time, when neither of them say anything else.
“Will you… Will you help me?” Bruce barely glances up at Alfred through his bangs before the man is standing up, walking around his desk to help Bruce up. He nods, of course he nods, and Bruce doesn't know why he ever doubted that he would. Maybe because he had already asked for so much help, maybe because he already had so many problems.
He freezes when Alfred hugs him, but he doesn't push him away. He never wants to push him away again.