Chapter Text
Age 9
“This is the third time this month, Master Bruce,” Alfred repeated, trying not to let his exasperation seep through.
There was a shift of fabric in the backseat, but Bruce didn’t respond. In the momentary pause of a red light, Alfred glanced at the rearview mirror and found him curled into himself on his seat, face hidden in his arms. All Alfred could see of his head was the shaggy black hair he refused to cut.
Allred sighed. Lately it seemed impossible to know what was on Bruce’s mind. Any time he thought they were in a good place, the boy would act out suddenly and set them back again.
Like this incident. The school called while Alfred was in the middle of sweeping. He was really tired of being interrupted in his cleaning by the Gotham Academy headmaster. Instead of spending his afternoon bringing the first floor reception area to peek cleanliness, he spent it in a school office being passive aggressively scolded for his poor child management.
It was another fight. Apparently, Bruce had jumped an older kid in the hallway, unprovoked, hitting him in the face until blood poured from his nose.
Every time, Alfred hoped for an explanation, an excuse, some proof that Bruce wasn't as damaged as all the school staff seemed to think, but the kid would just sit in broody silence as the principal sentenced him to three days' suspension, not even bothering to defend himself.
Alfred's optimism was waning. Where Bruce once used to be a sweet kid obsessed with puzzles and cars, someone you could trust to say precisely what he felt even when horribly inappropriate, now he was a complete mystery. It was hard to tell if his behavior at home or at school was a more true personality, or if the boy was so broken as to be split evenly between the two.
The whole thing made him feel incompetent, even though he knew this was never meant to be his job. There was nothing in his work history to qualify him for this. And Bruce had so many unique challenges, things that even a proper parent would surely struggle with.
Not Martha, though, he reminded himself. Not Thomas. For the twentieth time that day he found himself wishing they could be here, performing this job in his place. He could keep to the duty he deserved, driving the car with his steady hands and focused eyes while the boy’s parents performed their magic in the backseat.
Instead it was just Alfred and Bruce, sitting in painful silence. Normally he might concede to the quiet of his ward, turning on the car’s built-in radio to the jazz station he knew Bruce enjoyed, but he could not risk rewarding any of the day’s behavior.
So many options materialized in his mind, but morphed before they could slip past his pursed lips, finding form in the most professionally distant way they could.
I’m disappointed, he thought. But that was too personal. Too presumptuous to suggest that Bruce might care about his opinion.
“Your parents would be disappointed,” he said instead. Those are the opinions Bruce should care about. The approval that should weigh on him.
I want better for you. Too desperate. Too high of a chance that his voice would crack, that he’d let something loose he couldn’t dare bear to a child.
“You need to do better.” That was more appropriate. Professional.
Bruce didn’t say anything. A quick glance back gave him the same sight as before, a body curled tightly into itself.
His heart hurt. He wanted to reach behind him, to put his hand on Bruce’s arm like a comforting parent.
“Take your shoes off the seat,” he said instead, and he kept driving in troubled silence.
~
Age 9
The boy needed a punishment, and there were only so many Alfred was qualified to provide.
He reminded himself of this, watching the boy cry. His little nose was red and swollen, his cheeks wet with tears. He looked so young, so adorably pathetic as he picked apart the broccoli’s florets.
A shaky hand grasped a few little buds between his fingertips and brought them to his mouth. As soon as they touched his tongue he gagged dramatically, more tears slipping out, but he swallowed them swiftly with a grimace.
“All of it, Master Bruce,” he instructed, and then he found an excuse to leave the dining room, too weak to watch the pitiful display any longer.
It was stupid. The boy was being childish, refusing the greens over their texture even when they were the only food being offered.
What a spoiled child to make such a fuss.
He took the opportunity to wash some dishes, appreciating how the noisy faucet masked his ward’s sobs.
~
Age 10
“It’s too loud, Alfie,” Bruce whined.
He wasn't wrong that the market was bustling with noise. Early on a Saturday was the best time for collecting high-quality fresh local vegetables, and all the best chefs in town knew it too. Alfred may have been familiar with the atmosphere, but Bruce didn't usually come shopping with him, so he much have been surprised by the crowd.
Alfred tutted.
“You volunteered to accompany me, Master Bruce. Now you must deal with the consequences.”
Bruce pouted, pressing in closer. For once, Alfred didn’t stop him. All around, parents carried their children through the crowded market. A part of him wished to reach out, to grasp Bruce’s little hand to keep him close, but that would be unprofessional. He’d have to settle on Bruce’s hand gripping his forearm.
It was just a little more distant, a little removed from the affection Alfred wished was appropriate. A double layer of fabric lay in between their skin.
Bruce’s little hand tugged. Alfred looked down to the kid, who was staring back up at him, face creased in upset.
“Alfie please, can we go?”
“Not yet, young sir. We still need more ingredients. And please use appropriate names.”
There was a part of him that loved the stupid childish nickname, but he fought against that. It wouldn’t do for others to hear and make assumptions.
He moved to the next stall, with locally-grown eggplants. They would make for a lovely eggplant parm Monday night. Alfred purchased two in a transaction that lasted much longer than necessary due to frivolous pleasantries. The kind old woman had a grandson who looked a little like Bruce and was very talented on the piano, and Alfred spent several minutes politely listening to a rambling story about his most recent recital. Bruce kept tugging on his sleeve occasionally, but Alfred came to ignore him. It was surely another impatient request to leave early, and Alfred would not disrupt his developing rapport with any of the local farmers by departing so rudely from the conversation. Bruce could wait.
The woman's grandson played an excellent rendition of that one song from the recent movie. The one with that actor. Alfred nodded sagely.
Bruce jarred him out of the conversation with a hit to his arm.
“Master Bruce, calm yourself,” he scolded, but the child continued, as though he’d lost all control of his body.
His arms were flailing, and tears were streaming down his face, though Alfred had no clue when he’d started crying.
The lady he’d been speaking to was now looking at him in sympathy, and Alfred flushed in embarrassment.
He wanted to protest, to prove that Bruce could behave normally when he chose to, and that Alfred had not failed in his duties—though of course he had.
He let his bag of produce drop to the ground so he could grip Bruce’s arms, pressing them against the kid’s body so he couldn’t move.
Bruce tried to struggle, but he was still so small, and Alfred was able to hold him there with hardly any difficulty.
“Master Bruce, behave,” he ordered, though it sounded more like a plea.
Bruce was shaking, sobbing, making little clicking sounds between his breaths. Alfred glanced around at the crowds watching them, judging them. Surely this meltdown would be all over the next day's gossip magazines, because when a child was a Wayne, every breath of misbehavior was newsworthy.
He squeezed harder, a quick but intense pulse where he could feel the solid bones of Bruce's upper arms. That seemed to finally jar Bruce out of his moment. His noise collapsed into tiny hiccuped breaths as he stared at Alfred with an open expression.
“You’ve got my attention then, Master Bruce,” Alfred said harshly, frustrated. He was painfully aware of the crowd around them, the people with their cameras and their judgement. “What was it you wanted?”
“I,” Bruce stuttered, seeming to pull into himself as he noticed the attention they’d gathered. Tears continued to cloud his eyes, like he couldn't control himself at all. “I just wanted quiet.”
“Don’t worry, Master Bruce. I’ll be happy to never bring you back here again.”
This time, Alfred was the one with his grip on Bruce's arm, dragging them back through the crowd as they each quietly sulked at a ruined day.
~
Age 12
“Sunday is Father’s Day,” Bruce said, unprompted.
Alfred paused in his mixing to glance at the boy. Sometimes Bruce liked to linger in the kitchen as Alfred cooked. He couldn’t claim to know what would be so entertaining about the process of making soup, but he didn’t mind the company, so he allowed it so long as Bruce completed his homework beforehand.
“Is there something you’d like to do? Perhaps I could make a special breakfast.”
He’d done it for Mother’s Day. Surely he was spoiling the child, indulging this even as Bruce grew into double digits, but he sympathized too well with the grief. It was hard to look at Bruce and not want to coddle him a bit.
“I think you should choose the food,” Bruce said quietly, peering up at him with those intense blue eyes. “Maybe I can make it.”
Alfred thought for a moment. “Thomas enjoyed French toast. I could show you his preferred preparation.”
He tasted the soup and added a little more salt, glancing at Bruce when he realized the boy hadn’t responded.
The kid’s expression was shuttered, different from the nervous-happiness a moment before. Alfred didn’t know what the change was, but it made him ache.
“I’ll prepare an appropriate bouquet and take you to the graveyard before lunch,” he offered.
“Thank you, Alfred,” Bruce mumbled, getting up from his stool and slumping away.
Alfred stared at that empty space for a long moment, befuddled. He supposed he could make a pie, too.
His heart really was weak to anything that might bring the boy a little smile.
~
Age 14
“Alfred. Is that what it’s always like?”
Alfred glanced to the back of the car. Bruce looked so smart in his suit before, dressed to the nines for his very first official public appearance as the Wayne heir. Now, after hours of the event, his white button-down was open at the top and his hair a bit ruffled.
Darn that boy’s habit of running a hand through it. There was a reason Alfred spent twenty minutes combing and gelling it before they left.
“Always how? I wasn’t there, remember?”
“Yeah,” Bruce responded, quiet. He trembled with what Alfred assumed was the vestigial energy of a dazzling party. “Yeah, just. There was a-a person.”
Alfred huffed a laugh.
“A person. Was there really? You have a talent for being magnificently evasive, young man.”
“Right. Sorry, just—” Bruce cut off again. “She. I guess she liked me.”
“Ah,” Alfred said, understanding. It recontextualized the details. He wondered if the wrinkles in Bruce’s collar were from hands other than Bruce’s own. The thought itched at him, and he wanted to protest, to defend the innocence of this boy who was so like his son and yet somehow not.
He didn't ask any of the questions that burned at him—he had no right to.
“Your father was quite the playboy too, before he met your mother. I’ll hope you find a bit more modesty, though. You’re rather young to form such a reputation.”
There were so many other things he itched to say. He knew his advice wasn’t wanted.
Already, Bruce had gone quiet in the backseat, done with Alfred’s pitiful attempt at parenting.
Alfred kept driving in silence.
~
Age 21
Alfred stared at the costume in bafflement. He liked to think of himself as a put-together man, as someone ready for anything. Nothing he'd ever experienced in his many years of life had prepared him for this.
“Seriously, Master Bruce? What are you thinking?”
The hulking creature that he now knew was Bruce moved forward, and it was a challenge not to shrink back. It was difficult to read him as anything other than a threatening monster, hidden behind a mask and lenses that disguised even the movements of his eyes.
When Bruce spoke, it was with a voice low and gravely, intense and focused.
“Gotham needs a protector. Her people are struggling. I’ve trained for this. I’m ready.”
He said this like it was reasonable, as though it really explained anything.
“You’ve ’trained,’ have you? What training possibly precedes dressing in leather and slipping out at night to fight criminals?
“Take that thing off,” he ordered, and Bruce complied with a notable reluctance.
Even without his mask, the sentiments of his expression were illegible to Alfred. The child he once knew, who’d cry over broccoli or a busy crowd, was gone. He’d been replaced by this heavy creature in matching skin.
There was so much to take in, to consider in a new light. The stiff biceps of the man who returned from abroad were forged for this ridiculous mission. The grey circles lingering under his eyes were a symptom of nights spent in the dark alleys of Gotham instead of the comfortable bed Alfred prepared for him.
“I get that you don’t understand,” Bruce said. His voice was so deep now, so mature. “But can you still—would you—”
He cut off, glancing at the floor, and for a moment he looked just like the boy he once was. There was a hesitancy in him, a vulnerability that was so at odds with the weaponry tied around his waist and the way his muscles strained under the tightly-wrapped fabric of his suit.
And as always, Alfred was so weak to him.
The outfit was ridiculous. The plan was dangerous. The actions Bruce had already taken as this ‘Batman’ were terribly illegal.
And yet.
“I won’t turn you in,” Alfred conceded. “I will not let you die on this mission, however foolish it is.”
Bruce’s lips parted, his brow furrowed for just a moment before it smoothed back into blankness.
“Of course. Thank you, Alfred. Your… your service is appreciated.”
Service. That wasn’t an inaccurate word. But it felt so cold. So distant.
It’s the word that should be appropriate for an employer and his butler.
Alfred bowed his deference and did not look back into Bruce’s glittering eyes.
He was pretty sure that if he did, he’d break. His heart would crack open and he’d spill the decade of hidden emotions onto the floor of this hidden cave, an ugly mess that he knew Bruce had no desire to see.
So then—as always—he left in silence.