Archive of Our Own

Bruce Wayne is ten-years-old when his life changes.

His mother beams at him one day as she presses his smaller hand to her rounded stomach and tells him he’s going to be a big brother (Bruce remembers Martha telling him this at least once before, but he doesn’t really remember because he was only little then, but his mother looked incredibly sad when he asked her about it, so he knows he’ll never ask again) and his father smiles, happy, then tells Bruce, “It will be your job to look out for her, Bruce.”

Her, because apparently, Bruce is going to have a little sister.

Bruce isn’t 100% sure what to do with a little sister.

Which Bruce finds distressing because he wants to be a good big brother.

When he voices this fear his best friend, Thomas Elliot, stares at Bruce like he’s been especially stupid. “I don’t know what the big deal is,” Thomas has been spending a lot of time at Wayne Manor since his father died in a car accident several months ago and now he’s picking through a box of blocks trying to find another red one for the castle he’s been building for the past two hours. “It’s not like she’ll be able to do much at first,” Thomas points out, “She won’t even remember if you’re a crap brother.”

“But I don’t want to be a crap brother,” Bruce grunts, brows furrowed in distress.

Thomas blinks as if he hadn’t considered that, mumbling, “Oh, well, okay.” He pauses in the construction of his castle to think over his friend’s dilemma, lips pursed in a frown. “Harry has a little sister, doesn’t he?” Harry’s the son of his mother’s friend and Thomas hates when his mother arranges playdates between him and Harry. He’d much rather play with Bruce. “He’s always complaining that she makes him watch Cinderella and have tea parties with her. She even made him wear a tiara once, I saw the pictures,” His grin turns a little manic when he adds, “Maybe you will have to wear a tiara, Brucie.”

Bruce waves a dismissive hand, “It’s his cousin, not his sister.” His face morphs into a frown when he tacks on, “And I’m not going to wear a tiara, Thomas.”

“You might not have a choice if you want to be a good big brother, Your Highness,” Thomas laughs only to yelp, ducking out of the way when Bruce throws a handful of blocks in his general direction. Bruce’s annoyance only makes Thomas laugh harder as he rolls on the ground, tears leaking from his eyes.

Bruce scowls, leaning back against his bed and broods, his brows furrowed.

Thomas’ laughter eventually subsides, and he looks up at Bruce, his smile instantly replaced by a frown because Bruce looks like he’d been content to mope until his parents come home from the hospital with the baby Wayne, and that is completely unacceptable. If Bruce isn’t going to be fun anymore just because he has a little sister now, Bruce’s parents can leave the baby at the hospital as far as Thomas is concerned.

“Okay,” Thomas announces as he rolls over onto his stomach, his chin balanced on his hands. “Maybe you don’t know how to be a big brother, but who cares? She won’t know how to be a little sister. The two of you can learn together,” He suggests reasonably because he’s older than his friend by almost a year. “And sisters can be cool, I guess, sometimes,” Thomas waves a hand when Bruce aims his frown-y face at Thomas, “It’s like having a friend that lives here.”

Bruce isn’t lonely by any means, but he admits that does sound kind of nice.

He has Alfred and Louisa, who are more like family than employees, and he has his parents, but his father works long hours at the hospital and his mother is busy with the Martha Wayne Foundation. He also has a lot of cousins, but he doesn’t see them all that often. Bruce thinks it’ll be nice to have a friend that doesn’t have to go home at the end of the day, someone with whom he can read his favourite books and watch his favourite movies, and maybe his sister will even like to play tag when she’s a little older?

Having a little sister sounds nice.

Bruce’s contemplation of the benefits of having a little sister is interrupted by Alfred. “Master Bruce?” Alfred knocks on the door gently before he pushes it open, his head poking around the corner, and Bruce asks, confused, “Yes, Alfred?”

Alfred walks fully into view now that he’s been addressed and his mouth quirks in amusement when he sees the castle. “Impressive construction, Mister Elliot,” Alfred compliments and his kind eyes twinkle in amusement and then he turns his attention to Bruce, saying, “I’m terribly sorry to interrupt, Master Bruce, but Mister Elliot’s mother is here to collect him.”

“But I don’t want to go home yet, Mister Alfred,” Thomas protests, jutting out his lower and Bruce can’t help but think his friend looks utterly ridiculous as he looks up at Alfred from beneath his raven-coloured bangs.

“That may be so, Mister Elliot, but I’m sure you mother misses you terribly,” Alfred says mildly as the young boy climbs to his feet, then his hand is on Thomas’ shoulder and he’s steering him out of the bedroom. He pauses in the doorway to address Bruce, smiling back at him over his shoulder, “If you go down to the kitchen, Master Bruce, I believe Louisa is preparing a snack for you.”

Bruce nods, smiling, “Thanks, Alfred.”

Thomas whines that he would like a snack too, and maybe his mother can come back to pick him up after he’s been fed? Because surely his mother wouldn’t want him to go hungry.

Bruce snorts in amusement because his friend is utterly ridiculous and then he’s making his way to the servants’ stairs that will bring him down to the kitchen. The stairs are hidden behind the wall. It’s one of Bruce’s favourite things about Wayne Manor, all the hidden passageways. There’s so many that he’s sure he still hasn’t found them all.

When Bruce walks into the pristine, top-of-the-line kitchen, Louisa Ricci, their housekeeper, is fluttering about as she hums the familiar tune of a show-tune. Her dark hair is piled on the top of her head so that it isn’t in her way as she moves around the kitchen.

Louisa’s face erupts into a wide smile when she sees Bruce, one that he can’t help but return because, like their butler Alfred Pennyworth, Louisa is family. She’s been a part of the household since before Bruce can remember and she’s always there to sing him to sleep after a nightmare and to make him tomato-rice soup when he’s sick.

Bruce climbs onto a stool, his elbows resting on the island, and Louisa quickly brings him the snack (cheese and crackers and grapes) that she’d prepared for him. “Here you are, Tesoro, is Mister Elliot gone home?” Louisa asks, her head tilted to the side.

Bruce tosses a grape into his mouth as he nods. “Yeah, Mrs. Elliot came to pick him up because he’s her date for some charity event,” Bruce explains and then he rolls his eyes when he remembers his friend’s opinion on the matter, “But Thomas claims his mom just uses these parties as an excuse to stuff him in a monkey suit.”

What Bruce doesn’t say is that Thomas’ mother has been dragging her son to these events ever since her husband died in a car accident. Roger Elliot’s death is just one of those things that don’t get talked about, but Bruce can’t help but note that Thomas doesn’t even seem sad. Even at the funeral, Thomas hadn’t cried. Bruce only remembers because he’d found it odd.

He doesn’t know what he would do if he ever lost either of his parents.

But Bruce thinks the loss would destroy him utterly.

“It’s nice of him to attend even if he doesn’t want to,” Louisa says mildly and her mouth curves into a small smirk when she steals a piece of cheese, Bruce huffing in amusement when he notices but then his expression slowly falls, and he chews on his bottom lip. “I know that face,” She murmurs knowingly, and she reaches across the counter to squeeze his wrist to catch his attention. “Today is not a day for morose thoughts, Master Bruce,” Louisa smiles gently when Bruce looks at her, “Today is a good day and this is a good thing.”

Bruce stares at Louisa for a long moment. He’s torn between how terrifying it is that he’s about to be a brother and how excited he is to have a little sister. “Have my parents called,” Bruce asks, and he barely resists the urge to fidget when Louisa’s eyebrow hikes. Sometimes, Bruce swears, it’s like Louisa can read minds.

Louisa’s eyes soften when Bruce starts to fidget, and she nods, saying, “They did, Master Bruce.” Louisa doesn’t bother to try and hide her smile. It has been a long, long time since a baby’s cries have echoed through these walls and she’s almost as excited as Mr. and Mrs. Wayne. “Your father called to say that your mother and the little Bambina are both doing well and that the three of them should be home in time for dinner.”

Bruce’s terror must show in his face because the next thing he knows, Louisa is walking towards him, reaching out to cup his face.

“This is nothing to be afraid of, Tesoro,” Louisa soothes, “You have such a big heart and now you have someone else to share it with.”

Bruce swallows tightly. “What if I’m bad at it, Louisa? Being a brother,” Bruce despairs because suddenly the reality of the responsibility seems daunting. “I don’t know how to be a brother,” He cries.

“Oh, Master Bruce,” Louisa clicks her tongue like she always does when she thinks someone is being utterly ridiculous. “You will be this girl’s favourite person in the whole work,” She assures, “You will be her teacher and her protector. You will be her big brother. If you love her, then that is all that can be asked of you.”

Bruce’s mouth purses and he stares at Louisa, dubious. It cannot be that simple.

“But,” Louisa continues as she reaches out, brushing his dark hair out of his eyes, “Not only will you be her favourite person, she will also be yours. She will be your partner in crime and in life.” Louisa’s eyes twinkle when she adds, “Then, on some says, she will be the reason you wish you were an only child.”

Bruce chuckles under his breath, “That doesn't sound so bad.”

“Like I said, Tesoro,” Louisa says, patting his cheek lightly, “This is a good thing.”

Bruce chooses to believe Louisa and, three hours later, he’s sitting on the main staircase waiting when his parents finally walk through the door. He greets them with a wide smile, and then he chuckles when he notices that both his father and Alfred’s arms are loaded down. Cards, presents, balloons, flowers of every colour: presents that well-wishers had sent to the hospital upon hearing about the birth of the new Wayne.

Martha’s arms are full too and he feels his previous anxiety returns when he sees the pink bundle that his mother’s holding in the crook of her arm. “Hello, love,” Martha smiles as she holds her free arm open for Bruce, holding him close and kissing the top of his head when he buries his nose in her blouse, inhaling the familiar scent of her perfume. She pulls back from Bruce, asking, “Are you ready to meet your little sister?”

Bruce’s wide eyes dart from his mother to the baby and then back again before he nods.

His mother beams before she slowly makes her way over to a chair and sits down carefully, the precious bundle still in the crook of her arms. “Hello, my beautiful girl,” Martha says when she realizes her daughter is awake, “There’s someone here that wants to meet you.”

Bruce shuffles his feet and his mother waits patiently for him to walk over to her side. “Felicity, this is Bruce,” Martha introduces when her son finally peers down at his little sister, his brows furrowed, “Bruce, darling, this is your little sister.”

“Hello, Felicity,” Bruce greets awkwardly. He offers his finger to Felicity, his face blooming into a wide smile when her tiny hand latches onto his finger, and he feels himself fall in love with Felicity.

He hasn’t spent a lot of time around babies. Bruce was five when his cousins Katherine and Elizabeth, twin girls, were born but he so rarely sees them because their parents are constantly moving around for work. The only baby he’s really spent any time with his youngest cousin Bette (Mary Elizabeth Kane, called “Bette” by her family) and she’s nearly two.

Bruce hasn’t spent a lot of time around babies.

He doesn’t know what makes babies cute, but he thinks his little sister is beautiful.

Felicity’s features aren’t distinct yet, nothing that sets her apart as a Kane or a Wayne, but she has their father’s nose and their mother’s impossibly blue eyes. And she has a small, delicate skull that is already crowned with a head of curly dark hair that matches his own.

“I’m your big brother,” Bruce tells Felicity.

He doesn’t say, I’m always going to be here for you.

Bright, bright blue eyes that are shaded by long, dark lashes peer up at him and Bruce hears, I know.
 

 

Days turn into weeks and the August sun is high in the sky when Bruce walks out into the gardens, shielding his eyes with his hand as he walks down the pathway, the warmth of the sun beating against his back as he searches for his sister and mother.

Martha can always be found in the gardens during the summer months enjoying the sun’s warmth, curled up with a good book, or wearing a floppy hat as he kneels in mulch, planting the brightest flowers she can find. Wayne Manor’s gardens change every year, and it is always Martha's project. But this late into the summer the gardens have been already been finished (this year adorned with sweet violets, bright orange geraniums, a mixture of blood-red and blinding white petunias, and begonias of every colour) which means Martha’s curled up somewhere with a book.

Martha beams at her son with a smile of welcome when she sees him approach, waving him over to the tree where she and his little sister have decided to take shelter from the sun’s rays. She’s wearing a simple blue sundress and a red floppy hat that looks silly and, not for the first time, Bruce wonders what the people of Gotham would think if they ever saw Martha Wayne looking so relaxed and ordinary.

Felicity’s lying a large cushion at their mother’s side, wearing a bright yellow gown and matching hair buckle, kicking her bare feet and revelling in the free movement of her chubby legs. Born in June, Felicity’s almost three-months-old now and she’s a lot more fun than she was when she first came home, back in the days when Bruce was almost too afraid to pick her up because he was afraid he’d break her.

Bruce leans down to brush a kiss on his mother’s cheeks, pretending the flush on his own cheeks is from the sun when Martha’s expression softens, and then he plops down in the grass to smile at Felicity. His sister seemingly gurgles at him by way of greeting and he laughs.

“Fee looks like she’s smiling,” Bruce notes, delighted, head tilted to the side.

Martha smiles. “Of course she is, love,” She laughs, “You’re her brother and she loves you.”

Bruce’s heart almost feels too big for his chest because it’s so full. “I love her, too,” Bruce murmurs and it’s true. He’s only had a little sister for a couple months, but he can barely remember the time before Felicity. He was so worried about being a good brother, so afraid he would mess it up somehow, and he still fears he might, but he cannot imagine not having his sister in his life. It’s almost like Felicity was always meant to be here.

Bruce absently picks a buttercup and twirls it under his sister’s chin, smiling when her chin glows yellow. He then occupies himself with making faces at Felicity, lost in his own little world, one where only he and his sister exist, and he doesn’t pay their mother any attention until she picks up her book and he realizes what she’s reading.

“’I have my breath back now.’ the man in black said from the rock. ‘Thank you for allowing me my rest,’” Martha reads.

Bruce looks up from where he is playing with Felicity, and stares at their mother like she’s grown an extra head. “Mom,” Bruce says in a tone that holds all the exasperation that a ten-year-old can manage, dropping the buttercup he’d been holding. “Are you actually going to read that out loud,” He asks, horrified.

Martha’s stretched out with her back resting against the tree that’s shading them, absently playing with her pearl necklace. It was an anniversary gift from her husband, and Martha never takes them off. “I thought this was your favourite book, darling,” Martha says innocently. Her bright red lips spread into a smile that lights up her entire face when her son shushes her.

Bruce opens his mouth to adamantly deny his mother’s all-knowing claim, but his mother raises a pointed eyebrow, and he deflates with a sigh. “If you ever say that in front of someone who is not a member of this family, I swear I’ll disown you,” Bruce warns as he glances around, ensuring no one else heard Martha’s claim, then he looks at his sister and smiles, “Fine.” He relents, covering himself, looking up at his mother from beneath his bangs, “You can read it, but only because Fee likes it.”

“Of course, my darling,” Martha nods, mock-serious.

Bruce leans down to brush a kiss against his sister’s head before he crawls over beside Martha, tucking his legs up in under him as he curls into her side, his ear pressed against her chest. He listens to the steady beat of her heart and stares down at the well-worn book.

Martha smiles and opens the book back up, and, once she’s sure Bruce is settled in, she begins reading again.

'We'd best get on with it then,' Inigo replied.

The man in black stood.

'You seem a decent fellow,' Inigo said. 'I hate to kill you.'

'You seem a decent fellow,' answered the man in black. 'I hate to die.'

'But one of us must,' Inigo said.

Martha notices that her son’s eyelids are getting heavy and she continues to read, and eventually, she sees them slide over his tired eyes.  

 
Autumn arrives in Gotham City and the leaves turn from green to rich shades of red and orange and yellow. There’s just a hint of a chill in the air, but Bruce barely notices, his cheeks flushed as he races through the grounds of Wayne Manor. Thomas Elliot is on his tail, so he runs faster, leaves crunching beneath his boots, his breaths coming in pants as he rushes towards the greenhouse.

It’s the best hiding spot on the grounds, but Thomas is right behind him, so close that Bruce cannot tell their footsteps apart.

“Bruce,” Thomas shouts, mere steps behind him, “Slow down.”

Bruce takes a sharp right and jumps into the bushes beside the greenhouse, crouching down out of sight, exhaling in relief now that he’s out of sight. The bushes provide him with enough coverage that Thomas doesn’t see him when he darts by, his narrow face scrunched in confusion as he spins around in a circle, calling, “Bruce? This is cheating, Bruce,” Thomas accused, face red, “Were playing tag, not hide-n-seek.”

Bruce snickers, quickly covering his mouth with both his hands before his friend can hear him, then he crouches as low as he can. Thomas howls, throwing his head back and releasing what can only be described as a pterodactyl cry of outrage before he takes off running again, calling out for Bruce.

Bruce rolls his eyes when his friend threatens to all the cookies Louisa made earlier that morning as retribution, then he climbs to his feet, brushing dirt from his trousers, eyes widening when he hears a sickening crack.

Bruce doesn’t even have a chance to scream before he’s falling, falling, falling.

Pain shoots up his arm when he lands with a sickening crack at the bottom of the well, then he sees Thomas, raven-coloured hair falling into his eyes when he peers down into the well at Bruce. “Bruce,” Thomas calls, voice hesitant, but he’s taking off into a run back towards the manor before Bruce can answer, screaming, “Mr. Wayne! Mr. Alfred. Come quick,” He shouts the entire way to the Manor, but his voice lacks any hysteria. He’s calm. “It’s Bruce,” Thomas implores.

Bruce winces when he tries to push himself up, but his arm really, really hurts.

He releases a ragged breath. He can’t hear his friend anymore, and logically he knows it’s because his friend is gone to get help, but he’s scared and hurt and he’s alone until he’s not because suddenly there are bats. They’re all around him and Bruce screams, and screams, and screams…

Bruce doesn’t know how long he’s in the well, but he screams himself hoarse even after the bats have gone, and he flinches in surprise and fear when he feels his father’s hand on his shoulder. He hadn’t even realized someone was on their way down the well. “It’s okay, Bruce, I’m here, you’re alright,” Tom promises as he gently helps his son to his feet, brushing from of the dirt from his sweater, eyes impossibly kind when he asks Bruce, “Do you know why we fall, Bruce?”

Bruce frowns, brows furrowed, and shakes his head.

Tom smiles, “So we can learn to pick ourselves back up.”

 
Bruce tucks his feet under him as he crosses his legs, leaning back against the plush chair in his father’s study. Tom’s office is one of his favourite rooms in the entire house because of the comfy chairs and the stash of candy that his father hides in his desk for when he’s working.

It’s his father’s weekend on-call and he left for the hospital a little over an hour ago, which means the office is free for Bruce to use, which is a blessing at this moment because Tom’s office is on the second floor of the Manor. Which means it’s far, far away from Felicity’s screams.

Bruce loves Felicity, truly he does, but his little sister has been sick ever since they travelled to Crest Hill for their cousin Bette’s birthday party. He remembers walking into the nursery two nights ago, his heart shattering as he watched his mother try to soothe Felicity, both with tears in their eyes, “It’s okay, darling girl,” Martha soothed, her blonde hair a frizzy mess, deep bags under her impossibly blue eyes, “I got you, Mama’s here.”

It had taken his mother over an hour to soothe his sister’s cries, breaking his heart because his little sister was miserable and sick and there was nothing he could do, now two days later and Bruce just can’t listen to her cry anymore. He’s reached his limit, which is why he’s taking refuge in their father’s office.

Alfred hums in concentration as he sets up his own board and his brown eyes keep flickering up to Bruce’s face every so often. “It’s such a beautiful day today, Master Bruce,” Alfred’s gaze drifts to the window where the sun is shining low in the sky, the slight breeze stirring the leaves and causing them to flutter about, “Are you sure you wouldn’t much rather spend the afternoon outside?”

Bruce bites his lips as he looks outside. He hasn’t spent much time outside since he fell in the well nearly a month ago, but he doesn’t want to admit that out loud, not even to Alfred. It makes him sound weak, even to his own ears. “No,” Bruce mumbles, looking back at Alfred, “What I want is to enjoy the peace and quiet for a few hours before Felicity wakes up and starts bawling. Again,” He balances his bowl of Fruit Loops on his knee, “Now quit stalling and set up your board.”

“Patience, Master Bruce,” Alfred scolds lightly as he finishes setting up his pieces, “You must have patience.” His mouth stretches into a wide smile then and he’s leaning back in his own leather chair, brow arched because he’s just as competitive as the young Wayne. “And I do believe it is your turn to go first, young sir,” He adds, eyes twinkling.

Bruce’s own mouth widens into an excited smile because, ever since his fall down the well, he’s spend the past month working his way through the pile of board games he’d received last Hanukkah (Martha’s side of the family is Jewish, while his father’s family is Catholic, and as a result Bruce’s holidays have always consisted of a hodgepodge of different traditions) as a gift from his Uncle Jacob and Aunt Gabi.

Uncle Jacob, his mother’s eldest brother, is his favourite of his mother’s siblings even though Bruce sees him the least. Uncle Jacob is a colonel in the military, while his wife Gabi holds the rank of captain, and the two of them move around a lot.

Last year they each accepted a posting working with NATO, whatever that is, and as a result, it’s been a little over a year since he last saw them and their two daughters, twin girls, Katherine and Elizabeth. They haven’t even met Felicity yet, but the family of four is set to come home over the holidays, and Bruce can't wait.

“Are ready to admit defeat?” Bruce asks half an hour later before shoving another spoonful of cereal into his mouth. He’s not bothered in the least by the scowl on Alfred’s face, if anything, he’s amused by it. Alfred’s frowning, his mouth a straight pinched line, and his brows are furrowed in the middle of his forehead.

Alfred’s scowl deepens. “The game is not over yet, Master Bruce,” He says absently, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees as he sizes up the board, trying to figure out where the boy’s remaining battleships are. “And you shouldn’t gloat,” He scolds lightly, “Because, as they say, the kiddie gloves are now off.”

Bruce raises a skeptical eyebrow, “Really?”

“Yes, Master Bruce,” Alfred says primly, “Really.”

Bruce smirks before he juts his chin in an impossibly smug way, “Well then, as they say, I hate to rain on your parade.” He mocks as he does his best imitation of Alfred’s accent, “But I’m going to have to go with… G7.”

Alfred scowls.

“Say it, Alfred, you have to say it.”

“Master Bruce,” Alfred says with a long-suffering sigh, “You sank my battleship.”
 

Bruce sulks as he sits between his parents in the town car because it turns out, Thomas Elliot was right when he claimed that mothers use formal events as an excuse to stuff everyone in a tuxedo. Earlier that day, Martha walked into his bedroom with all the grace and poise expected of the Wayne family matriarch, announcing, “We’re going out tonight, darling,” She had beamed, walking into his closet to retrieve his best tuxedo before hanging it on the back of his door, while Bruce glared at her petulantly because his mother’s taking him to the opera.

His family has seats reserved at the Monarch Theater. All it had taken was one call to let them know the Wayne family would be using their seats that night, and the next thing Bruce knew he was being ushered into a bath before Louisa wrestled him into his tuxedo.

Bruce sinks further into his seat because he doesn’t want to go to the opera. The only thing that makes the whole ordeal bearable is the fact that his father looks just as miserable as Bruce. Tom’s sitting on Bruce’s left, tugging his own bow tie looser for the third time, much to his wife’s annoyance.

“Tom,” Martha warns, reapplying her lipstick.

Tom sighs and slumps back against the seat, sharing a wink with Bruce, causing the young Wayne to snort in amusement. Bruce doesn’t want to go to the opera and he doesn’t want to be wearing a bow tie, but he will admit that it is nice to be out together, just the three of them.

Bruce can’t remember the last time it was just him and his parents but, since the opera is no place for a six-month-old, Felicity’s been left at home with Louisa and Alfred.

He has his parents all to himself for the first time in months.

Bruce loves Felicity. He wouldn’t trade her for all the world, but there is a small part of him that misses when he was the only one that occupied his parents’ free time.

It’s for that reason that Bruce keeps his complaining to a minimum as he trails behind Tom and Martha, his smile wide when they walk into the theatre and make their way to their seats. He sits between his parents, leaning back in his seat when the orchestra starts to play, but Bruce quickly descends into giggles when his father releases a long-suffering sight and then winks at Bruce.

Admittedly, Bruce doesn’t hate the opera. Not really. He hates it when they run into one-hundred of his parents’ closest friends in the time between leaving the town car and finding their seats. When that happens, Bruce must deal with a lot of people pinching his cheeks, telling him that he’s the image of his father, except for his smile. Bruce has Martha’s smile. “And the Kane nose,” Martha always adds.

This production is better than the last one his mother dragged him and his father too, back when she was still pregnant with Felicity, but it all goes so terribly wrong during the chorus of the warlocks and witches during Act 2, Scene 2. Performers dart and twirl around the stage dressed like bat-like monsters, and suddenly he can’t breathe.

Bruce doesn’t even have a chance to scream before he’s falling, falling, falling.

Bruce shifts in his seat and flexes his fists in his lap, trying to calm himself down. It’s been over two months since he fell down the well and the bats and it’s ridiculous that he’s still afraid. Bruce struggles to remember what his father told him, that the bats attacked him because they’d been afraid of him. “Everyone gets afraid sometimes, Bruce,” Tom said, ruffling his son’s hair, “Even bats.”

He’s all alone at the bottom of the well until he’s not because suddenly there are bats all around him and Bruce screams, and screams, and screams…

He can’t hide the flinch when the performer use ropes to spin around and around in mid-air, and he turns to focus on Tom, his eyes heavy with tears. “Can we go,” Bruce pleads, when his father turns his attention away from the performance to focus on Bruce. “Please,” He flinches again, his eyes darting towards the stage, “Please, dad, can we go?”

Tom’s brows furrow but the stark fear in his son’s eyes tell him what’s caused this. His son has been having nightmares about his fall down the well and the bats off and on ever since it happened and he’s sure, after the opera tonight, he’ll wake to the sound of Bruce’s screams again tonight. “Yes, of course, buddy,” Tom promises with a comforting smile, “We can go.”

Martha frowns in confusion when her husband and son climb to their feet, but one look from Yom is all she needs, then she’s climbing to her feet and following them towards the exit. They stop to retrieve their coats, then take the side exit to avoid the press, not wanting them to crowd Bruce when he’s already tense and scared, and the cold December air hits them when they walk out into the alley.

“Bruce, sweetheart,” Martha murmurs when she turns to look at Bruce, concern marring her features when she sees the sheer terror that’s etched into his handsome face, “What’s wrong, love?” She asks, pulling on her coat before she crouches in front of Bruce, holding his smaller hands with her own.

Tom’s expression begs his wife not to make a big deal out of this when he says, “No, no, this was me.” He catches his wife’s gaze and says, “I just needed some fresh air. A little opera goes a long way, doesn’t it, Bruce?” Tom winks, teasing, and they both watch as Bruce relaxes in the face of his father’s joke.

Martha straightens and plays along. “Honestly, Tom,” Blue eyes roll in mock-annoyance as she smacks her husband’s arm, “It wasn’t that bad. Just because you can’t appreciate the finer things, doesn’t mean others don’t,” She ignores the way her sap of a husband states I appreciate you, Martha and she pulls her son into her side, wrapping her arm around his shoulder. “The music was lovely, wasn’t it, love,” Martha kisses the top of her son’s head as they walk down Park Row.

Bruce smiles but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes, but some of his colour has returned as they walk towards the waiting town cars. “Sorry, mom,” He apologizes as he looks up at Martha, affection etched into every crevice of his face when he adds, “But I agree with dad. It was kind of lame.”

“There’s no such thing as kinda, Bruce,” Tom snorts, “It was so totally lame.”

Bruce’s face breaks out into a smile so wide that Martha’s words are only half-hearted when she grumbles, “You two are so judgmental.” Strands of blonde hair tumble from her updo when she shakes her head, “Honestly, you two are peas in a—”

Her words are cut off with a gasp when a man steps out of the shadows, aiming a gun at her husband, and Martha’s arms immediately tighten around Bruce. She shields him as best as she can when the man looks between her and Tom, demanding, “Wallets and jewellery. C’mon, fast.”

Tom raises his hands, trying to make it seem like he’s not a threat, reaching to the breast pocket for his wallet. “That’s fine, take it easy, here you go, take it easy,” He soothes as he hands over his wallet, resisting the urge to flinch when the man snatches it from his hands. “Take it,” Tom says and steel enters her voice when he adds, “Now go.”

The man hesitates, then says, “I said jewelry too.”

Bruce flinches when the man swings the gun to aim at Martha, and he immediately knows what the man’s referring to, he’s talking about the pearl necklace Bruce helped his father pick out for his parents’ last anniversary. It’s the only piece of jewellery his mother wears on a regular basis apart from her wedding ring a pair of diamond studs she’s had since she was a debutante, back before she married Thomas Wayne.

“Hey,” Tom warns as he moves in front of Martha and Bruce, “I said take it easy—”

Bang.

“THOMAS!” Martha screeches when her husband goes down and she falls to her knees beside him, flinching when the man dives for her pearl necklace.

Bang.

Bruce flinches and watches as the pearls fall one by one onto the wet pavement (it snowed earlier that day, the first snowfall of the season, and Martha had insisted on bundling him up in his black wool coat and a pair of mittens Louisa made for him last winter) and then his mother is limp on the ground beside his father while the man takes off down the alley.

Bruce is numb to the world around him as the gunshots echo in his head and he drops to his knees, the man’s steps echoing in the alley, and he shakes his parents roughly. “Mom? Dad? Can you hear me,” Bruce pleads and he shakes them harder like he has to on Christmas morning before dawn when they’re both so stubborn and desperate to hold onto sleep. “Please you have to hear me, please,” He sobs, “Mom? Dad?”

Bruce screams.
 

Bruce Wayne is ten-years-old when his life changes.

He doesn’t know how long he’s kneeling on the cold pavement beside his parents before he’s blinding by flashing blue and red lights. He’s numb to the world around him and he startles when a detective claps him on the shoulder, asking, “Are you okay, son, are you hurt?” His gruff voice cuts through Bruce’s thoughts and he shakes his head.

He isn’t hurt, not physically, but he’s as far from okay as he’s ever been.

The detective looks like he doesn’t believe Bruce, but he simply nods before he ushers the boy to where a police car is waiting to bring him to the GCPD. Bruce is silent the entire ride to the station. He hasn’t spoken since he told the detective what happened, voice hoarse and scratchy as if he’s been screaming all night. Maybe he has been.
Bruce keeps his eyes to the front and his head high as he makes his way through the precinct towards the commissioner’s office. He knows everyone is looking at him, he hears the whispers around him, but he doesn’t react.

“Jesus Christ,” one officer says, eyes wide, “That’s Bruce Wayne.”

“His parents were mugged down on Park Row,” Another adds, “They didn't make it.”

“The poor bastard,” A detective murmurs to his partner, his voice sympathetic when he adds, “The kid saw the entire thing.”

But Bruce is used to unwanted attention, after all, he’s Bruce Wayne, so he doesn’t react to their words. He won’t let them see him cry.

He keeps his head high until he’s left alone in the commissioner’s office then he exhales, sitting on the edge of one of the leather chairs. Bruce is certain he heard one of the detectives say something about calling his legal guardian, but Bruce doesn’t know who that is now that his parents are gone. Maybe Alfred and Louisa? Or his Uncle Phillip, his father’s brother.

Bruce’s knuckles are white as he grips his father’s wool coat in his hands, anger and heartache and sorrow and guilt rushing through him and battling for dominance, and he drops his head into his hands. His parents are dead. It doesn’t make sense to Bruce, he doesn’t understand why, and he can’t wrap his head around the fact that everything all went wrong so fast. If he hadn’t made them leave the theatre—

“Is that your father's coat?” A voice asks.

Bruce startles, eyes wide, and when he looks up he’s met with the concerned eyes of a police officer. He doesn’t know what it is about the man, but Bruce immediately knows he can trust him.

“Here,” the officer says as he moves to wrap Tom’s wool coat around Bruce’s shoulders, murmuring that it’s okay and he’s okay, and Bruce doesn’t have the heart to tell the man that he’s wrong. His parents are dead. Nothing will ever be okay again.

“It’s okay, son,” the officer says as he crouches in front of Bruce. “My name is James Gordon, I’m an officer with the GCPD, but you can call me Jim,” Gordon murmurs as he lightly squeezes the boy’s hand, hoping to assure him that his world didn’t just end. “It’s okay,” He repeats when Bruce doesn’t say anything, “You don’t have to talk.”

Bruce wants to take Gordon up on that offer, but it would be rude not to introduce himself, and his mother was always such a stickler when it comes to proper manners. His eyes grow heavy with tears when he realizes that his mother will never scold him for not using his manners or for not eating his peas at dinner even though he doesn’t like them because they’re disgusting.

“Bruce,” He chokes out finally, “My name is Bruce Wayne.”

It’s unnecessary for him to add Wayne, Bruce knows.

There’s not a man or woman in the city that doesn’t know his face.

He’d have to travel thousands of miles for the name Wayne not to mean something.

“Hello, Bruce,” Gordon murmurs softly and he squeezes the boy’s wrist one more time before he reaches up to cup Bruce’s face, brushing away the remnants of tears that are drying on his face. “I want you to know that we are going to find the man that did this. I promise you that, Bruce,” He vows. Bruce’s face is impassive when he meets the officer’s eyes, but he can tell that Gordon means it. He looks as if he’s ready to cover every square inch of Gotham City until he finds the man responsible. “We will find him, and I promise you, no matter how dark and scary the world seems right now, there will be light.” Gordon continues, “There will be light, Bruce.”

Bruce looks down at his hands and rubs them together until the dried blood flakes off. He sees his father stepping in front of his mother, in front of him, and his parents on the ground surrounded by their blood and the pearls from his mother’s broken necklace. “I should have done something,” Bruce whispers quietly, and he hates how he'd just stood there, and he promises to never be that weak again. “I wanted to,” He admits, “But I was too scared.”

Gordon shakes his head, looking incredibly sad. “There was nothing you could have done, Bruce.”

Bruce’s blood turns cold because he can’t accept that. “But maybe if I had been stronger—”

“There’s nothing you could have done to stop what happened, son,” Gordon assures before he takes a steadying breath and looks back up at Bruce. “But there’s something you can do now,” He insists, “You can be strong.” He has more to say and is about to continue when the police commissioner is there, opening the door to his office, his eyes narrowing when he notices Gordon.

“Gordon? What are you doing here?” He demands, “Why do you always have to stick your nose into everything? Get back to work, officer.”

Gordon squeezes Bruce’s hand one more time before he leaves. “Be strong, Bruce,” He murmurs.

Bruce takes a steadying breath before he looks up. Commissioner Loeb is quiet for several moments, his eyes evaluating the young Wayne, but then he allows a shadow of a smile to etch into his aged face. “I have good news, son,” He says, “We caught him.”

 

Donna Smoak’s impossibly blue eyes scan the sea of black as she looks for her nephew Bruce.

Her heels echo against the marble floors as she makes her way through Wayne Manor, nodding distractedly when people offer their condolences as she walks past. For the first time in years, Gotham City’s elite shows her something akin to kindness, but she doesn’t stop to talk to any of them. All she cares about at this moment is Bruce, her sister’s darling boy.

Donna Smoak, born Donna Kane, is Martha’s youngest sibling and only sister. She’s always been the black sheep in the family. Jacob Kane, her eldest brother, is career military and Nathan took their father’s place as the CEO of Kane Industries and perfect, decent Martha married Thomas Wayne while Donna chose to fall in love with Noah Kuttler, a boy from the wrong side of the tracks.

Her family has never approved of Noah, have always taken the time to assure her that she deserves so much better, and her father had threatened to cut her off, threatened to ensure she didn’t see one cent of her inheritance, but she’d waved a dismissive hand, wanting nothing to do with the Kane name or fortune. She'd taken her mother's maiden name and followed Noah to Las Vegas at the age of 20.

“Bruce saw the whole thing, the poor dear,” Donna hears someone murmur, and white-hot anger rushes through her. Everywhere she looks, people are crying and sniffling, wailing about how unfair this all is, but they have no idea because it isn’t their family, it’s hers.

Donna’s heeled-boots clack against the marble stairs as she heads towards the third floor, concern a heavy weight on her chest. Both Louisa and Alfred have expressed concern about Bruce’s behaviour since his parents died, claiming that he spends all his time in either his room or his sister’s nursery, barely talking to anyone.

Jacob and Gabi have both tried to talk to Bruce with little success. Margaret and Nathan are busy with their own toddler who doesn’t understand what has happened beyond the fact that her family is upset. And Phillip, Tom’s brother, has been busy with Wayne Enterprises. Tom and Martha’s will leave Phillip Wayne in charge of the company until such a time either Bruce or Felicity are old enough to take their rightful place as CEO.

Donna’s heart clenches in her chest when she comes to a stop outside Bruce’s bedroom, sorrow wrapping around her heart like barbed wire when she hears her nephew’s heartbroken sobs. Knocking, Donna waits a second before she walks into the room, and she finds Bruce sitting against the wall, his arms wrapped tight around his knees and his eyes red-rimmed. He looks as if he’s been sobbing since Alfred led him back to the house after the funeral, and Donna’s heartbroken when she realizes he probably has been.

Bruce stares up at her in silence, tears carving paths down his cheeks, and Donna’s never felt more unprepared in her entire life. Noah proposed to her months ago, and she fiddles with her engagement ring now, but the two have yet to have the children-talk. She’s the only one of her siblings yet to have children and she feels out of her depth in the face of Bruce’s grief.

Donna huffs as she kicks off her black boots and moves to sit beside Bruce, tilting her head back against the wall as she watches her nephew out of the corner of her eyes. Finally, she asks, “How’re you doing, sweetie?”

Bruce snorts and then wipes a hand under his nose. “Been better,” He rasps.

“Are you hungry, hon? I’m sure if we went down to the kitchen we could convince Louisa to prepare whatever you like,” Donna’s voice is bright and happy but falls just short of sincere because she knows Bruce’s lack of appetite is just another thing that’s been worrying her family. “Or,” She sings, nudging Bruce with her shoulder, “I’m sure there’s still some ice-cream in the freezer. Mint-chip is still your favourite, right,” Donna asks.

“Yeah,” Bruce murmurs, his voice cracking, and then he looks at his aunt with such sad eyes that Donna feels her heart crack. “It was mom’s favourite ice-cream, too,” He adds as he reaches up to rub at his eyes, “It was all wanted when she was pregnant with Felicity.”

“Well I happen to love mint-chip,” Donna says despite the way her heart aches when she thinks of Martha and the times her sister brought her to the ice-cream parlour on 5th Street. “What do you say we go get some,” She suggests, “I think I can get Alfred to let us eat right out of the container. He’s always liked me.”

Bruce doesn’t answer, and Donna doesn’t know what to do then, what else to say, but then he murmurs, “It’s all my fault, Aunt Donna.”

“Oh, honey, no,” Donna soothes as she reaches for Bruce, pulling him into her arms.

“I made them leave the theatre,” Bruce says softly, voice thick and hoarse with guilt and heartache. “If I hadn’t gotten scared, we never would have left, and they’d still be here—”

“Bruce, no. Listen to me,” Donna pleads as her nephew leans into her, soaking up whatever comfort he can find, his ear pressed against her rapidly beating heart. “It was nothing that you did. It was him and him alone,” She insists, “Do you understand? It was not your fault.”

Bruce’s tears are running down his face even faster now that the floodgates are open and, once his aunt pulls him into her lap, Bruce presses his face into her neck and cries. “I miss them, Aunt Dee,” He cries.

It’s like the words torn from his mouth as he tightens his hold on Donna, and she’s pretty sure this is the first time her sister’s precious boy has allowed himself to cry since the night it happened. “I miss them so much,” Bruce sniffles, hiccupping.

Donna kisses the crown of his head before she rests her head on his messy dark hair. “So, do I, Bruce,” Donna admits as she thinks about her brother-in-law’s wide smile and the way her sister’s blue eyes would twinkle with mischief. “So, do I,” She exhales shakily.

Bruce disappears up the stairs and hesitates outside of his bedroom door, staring at the door across from his own, focuses on the bright yellow sign that’s decorated with flowers and glitter. He’d made it the last time his Aunt Donna was in town (“It needs more glitter,” Aunt Donna had announced, and his mother had laughed, shaking her head, “Stop laughing, Martha. You can never have too much glitter.”) and bright pink letters spell out Felicity.

He sighs, pushing his way into his sister’s nursery, and it doesn’t surprise him that Felicity is awake.

His mom says—

Bruce’s throat constricts.

He brushes the back of his knuckles against one of her chubby cheeks, a ghost of a smile tugging at his lips when Felicity tries to stuff his fist in her mouth. Felicity’s blue, blue eyes that are so like their mother’s stare up at him in the dark and Bruce feels his heart shatter all over again because Felicity’s never going to remember their parents. She’s never going to remember the sound of their voices or how much they loved them both.

Bruce sees a familiar book out of the corner of his eyes and, once he detaches his sister’s hold on him and turns on the table lamp that looks like a panda, Bruce pulls the rocking chair up to the side of the crib and opens the book. His eyes well with tears and the words blur before him, but at that moment Felicity gurgles and kicks her feet almost like she’s impatient with him, and, with a thick, hoarse voice, Bruce begins to read.

How could someone care if she were the most beautiful woman in the world or not? What difference could it have made if you were only the third most beautiful? Or the sixth. What she liked to do, preferred above all else really, was to ride her horse and taunt the farm boy.

The horse’s name was ‘Horse’ and it came when she called it, went where she steered it, did what she told it. The farm boy did what she told him too. Actually, he was more a young man now, but he had been a farm boy when, orphaned and he had come to work for her father, and buttercup referred to him that way still. ‘Farm Boy, fetch me this’; ‘Get me that, Farm Boy – quickly, lazy thing, trot now or I’ll tell father.’

‘As you wish.’

That was all he ever answered. ‘As you wish.’ Fetch me that, Farm Boy. ‘As you wish.’ Dry this, Farm Boy. ‘As you wish.’ He lived in a hovel out near the animals and, according to Buttercup’s mother, he kept it clean. He even read when he had candles…

Bruce continues to read. He gets to the part where Buttercup spends the night unable to sleep because of a Countess that comes to the farm and looks at the Farm Boy, only for Buttercup to come to a realization about her feelings for the Farm Boy, Westley. He reads Buttercup’s confession of her love for Westley before he closes the door in her face. He chuckles then because it was always his mother's favourite part.

Westley admits that he loves Buttercup back and that he's going to go away, across the ocean, to seek his fortune so that he will have enough money to marry her, they kiss, and Bruce is just about to read the part where Buttercup learns of Westley’s death at the hands of the Dread Pirate Roberts when Alfred appears in the doorway.

“Perhaps it’s time for bed now, Master Bruce,” Alfred suggests in a way that isn’t really a suggestion.

Bruce nods and marks his place in the book before he sets it on the table, then, before he leaves the room, Bruce runs a hand over Felicity’s downy head and whispers, “It’s just us now. You, and me, and Alfred and Louisa. But don't worry, Fee,” He soothes, “I’m going to be strong next time. I’ll protect us.”

 THE END.