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Six days ago.
Bruce looked at his page of notes, a haphazard list of ghost traits, completely unorganized. It wasn't like him, to write on paper or to allow anything he made to be so disjointed.
"Built of emotion," was followed by, "live in the space in between dimensions." That was crossed out and replaced with "mostly in the infinite realms but may exist on earth." An arrow pointed to the margins, where he'd written, "need a source of energy: emotion, ectoplasm, fulfillment all work." A dozen more pieces of information collected and scribbled out were all he had to show for this last hour of research. Finding information about ghosts was much harder than organizing a dinner with all his family, though each one hurt in the same way.
A week ago.
"Your majesty," Alfred greeted as Phantom floated into the Batcave, "the Batman is waiting for you in the room to your right. May I take your coat?" Danny paused for a moment—green fire crown casting reflections across the dim expanse—and took in the juxtaposition of cutting edge technology surrounded by looming stalactites. He shook himself and rubbed the back of his neck.
"Thanks Mr. Pennyworth, but I got it." With a wave of his hand, the coat melted into shadow. Alfred nodded and stepped primly back. One more bashful smile and Danny flew through the wall into the indicated room.
"Hiya, Bats! Thanks for letting me come to the cave." He floated to where Batman stood and peered over his shoulder at the paper-strewn table to see what Bats called him to consult on.
"Hnn." Batman wasn't very verbose, but Danny could read the waves of focus-concentration that he emitted. Perks of partially being emotion imprinted on supernatural goo.
"I didn't know Alfred was the Wayne Manor guardian ghost," he said as he glanced over the files, just to keep up some small talk, "I thought he was just a sort of all-around guardian". Danny was a Midwesterner through and through. You could take a ghost out of the Midwest, but you couldn't take the Midwest out of the ghost, and all that.
Batman stilled, but Danny didn't notice.
A silver watch in an open oak box lay at the center of the table and Phantom could almost smell the ectoplasm radiating off of it, sharp and acidic. Well that was certainly not supposed to be here.
"Ope, I better take that off your hands." He snatched it up and tucked it away in his dimensional pocket. "I think I know who it belongs too, but I need to get it out of here before someone gets possessed."
Batman didn't respond. When he looked up, Phantom was gone.
Many years ago.
"Young Master!" Alfred was yelling from the other room, again. Bruce didn't want to hear it. He flopped into the crease of the couch and pulled a throw pillow over his head.
"I say! I shall not have this level of slovenliness in this house." Bruce groaned, but all the wishes in the world didn't stop Alfred's voice from getting louder. Bruce burrowed further down as the feeling of disapproval grew.
Alfred tutted as he pulled Bruce out of the cushions and sat him upright at the edge of the seat, kneeling in front of him.
"What has gotten into you?" Alfred's grey eyes were sharp as they searched Bruce's face, but he didn't meet them. Who even cared anymore?
"You are the Master of this house, my boy, and you may govern it as you see fit when you are of age. But until that day comes, it is my responsibility to instruct you in correct principles." Alfred looked a moment longer, just until Bruce acknowledged him with a short nod, then clasped Bruce's shoulder and stood up. His perfectly shined black Oxfords clicked against the newly waxed floor as he walked away, and Bruce felt a hot surge of anger rise in him. Alfred was always talking about principles and correct behavior. Why did he get to tell Bruce what to to? Why was Bruce always doing something wrong? Why did it have to be Alfred who was here? After all…
Bruce rocketed to his feet.
"I don't have to listen to you," he yelled. "You're not my father!"
Alfred froze in the doorway. Bruce waited, seething. His vision—or maybe the room—darkened. Alfred turned his head so that Bruce could see the profile of his face silhouetted by the light of the hall. His shadow stretched across the room.
"I dare say I am not. But until you are of age, I will guide you." Bruce shivered, all the fight melting out of him. Alfred sounded so cold. He rubbed at his eyes and when he looked back, Alfred was gone.
Fine then, he thought as he threw himself back on the couch, when I'm eighteen, I'll move out!
It never crossed his mind that Alfred could be separated from the house, instead of Bruce leaving it. Still, the foundations shuttered at his declaration.
Four days ago
Bruce was done with patrol, a single figure in an empty cave. He had been done for two hours already, showered and report entered, but Alfred was asleep so this was the best time for him to… do what? Stalk the man who raised him? Dig into the past of the person he trusted most?
The cave echoed with his sigh.
Bruce wasn't ready to admit any of those things, even to himself, but he subconsciously knew that was exactly what he was doing. He turned his focus to locating Alfred's birth records, under the assumption that he would be able to find death records—if they existed—from there. As he searched, he came to an unsettling realization: he didn't know Alfred's age.
Years ago.
Bruce leaned against the wall, kicked the ground as he waited. It had been a shit day. All his stupid classmates had said stupid things and stupidly weren't able to answer Ms. Write's Algebra II questions. Bruce didn't volunteer to answer, but stupid Ms. Write had called on him anyways. He didn't have a response because he hadn't done his homework. Ms. Write held him back after class and said "I'll have to talk to your parents about this, Bruce," and "this is the fifth time this month, Bruce," and "this isn't sustainable, Bruce." Joke's on her, his parents are dead. How she didn't make the connection to him when the tabloids are still talking about it years later, Bruce had no clue.
It was just, there was so much more he could be doing! People were still dying every single day, and Bruce was expected to sit back and fill out a math worksheet?
"Ahem." A polite cough from the pickup lane.
Bruce shook himself out of his ruminating ("Pray do not look so sullen" was Alfred's most common refrain these days).
And indeed, Alfred raised one brow, a silent reprimand to mind his behavior, from the understated black Bentley he most commonly picked Bruce up in—unless Bruce had been "a credit to his name" and "refrained from aggravating the adults unduly" at a gala, in which case he show up in the red 1959 Ferrari 250, instead. Bruce peeled himself off the wall like overcooked spaghetti and flopped himself into the passenger seat. Alfred sighed, but had learned not to fight the battle of proper seating by now.
They rode in silence most of the way, until Bruce said, "Ms. Write is going to call to make an appointment with my parents." He said it strong, confident. If he presented a good front, then he wouldn't have to acknowledge the vice around his heart. Alfred readjusted his grip on the wheel while Bruce watched him out of the corner of his eye.
"I shall prepare to receive her call, then." His voice was calm as ever. Bruce felt a knot in his chest, but wasn't sure if it was tightening or loosening. Had Alfred meant to imply he was Bruce's parent? Or was he judgmentally acknowledging what Bruce said?
"She should know I don't have any," is what came out.
He immediately wished he hadn't said it. Alfred's mouth tensed. Bruce pretend not to watch as he consciously tightened and relaxed his grip. The damp multistory buildings started to thin, and then they were on the Robert Kane Memorial Bridge, just a few minutes from Bristol. The grey Gotham bay faded into fog on the horizon.
Finally, Alfred spoke.
"Guardian or Adult would indeed be more inclusive terms,"—a pause—"but she is not wrong in assuming you have someone to care for you."
Bruce let out his breath and fell back into his seat; from Alfred, that was as good as saying it all outright. He pressed his forehead against the window to get a glimpse of the bay as they rounded a hill. Bruce smiled slightly as he felt Alfred's annoyance at the smudge he was leaving on the glass, and then outright grinned when Alfred decided to let him be.
The manor gates swung open, and they were home.
Two days ago.
Bruce didn't go to breakfast yesterday, which meant that if he skipped today, it would definitely be noticed. His children would make comments on patrol, at the very least, and come to drag him bodily to the table at the worst. But Bruce found the thought of facing Alfred's impeccable calm more alarming.
Alfred was always put together. His uniform was crisply starched, his shoes without a scratch, the hair he had left perfectly in place. It was almost too good to be true, and if what Phantom had said—offhand, mind you, as if it was common fact—was correct, then it was to good to be true.
Bruce walked over to the windows and threw them open. He leaned against the sill, dragged a hand over his face. From what Bruce knew of ghosts, their appearances were a reflection of their will imposed on reality, guided by their strongest desires in life. What did it say about Alfred that he chose to serve, to haunt the Manor, to raise generations of Waynes? Bruce still didn't know when Alfred died or how old he was supposed to be. But if he had been dead for a long time, what did eighty years of Bruce's human life mean to him? And if he'd died recently, was his relationship to Bruce only one of obligation?
The day was uncharacteristically bright, for Gotham. The sun was nearly breaking through the perpetual clouds, in no way deterred by the fact Gotham hadn't had a sunny day for a full three months. There was even a bird singing melodically nearby. When Damian moved in, he brought his grandfather's ecological values with him, and the once English-style gardens were now filled with sprawling native plants. Native fauna had moved in, and the consequence was birds cheerfully tweeting as Bruce went over every interaction he ever had with the man who raised him, trying to understand them in a new context. He couldn't bare to add any more data to go over, so he stayed where he was.
No one came to get him.
Upon returning to Gotham for the first time.
Bruce was silent in all things, now. His time training taught him to quiet his thoughts, muffle his steps, hold his tongue, and enter unseen.
He planned to quickly check the manor from afar, set up some cameras to see who was tending to the grounds and if anything untoward was happening before officially returning. If there was, he wanted to be able to take care of it quickly. Bring order to one's house and one's affairs will fall into place, after all.
But when Bruce got there, the house was dark and the driveway was empty. Despite that, the bushes retained their perfect right angles. the windows were so clean that they reflected the haze of Gotham. He frowned and circled the property, careful to stay out of camera sight-lines.
When he'd gone almost halfway, he noticed a glow in one of the servant quarters windows. It was dim; just a door cracked, letting in light from the hallway. He went still as it creaked open, then his mind blanked as a figure walked into the room. Even from so far away, the silhouette was unmistakable—that was Alfred. Bruce immediately vaulted over the fence to get a closer look. He landed in a noiseless crouch on the other side.
After this whole time, Alfred was still caring for the manor. He was still here, even though Bruce had left without so much as a goodbye. Bruce was expecting him to be long gone and the estate in the hands of Wayne Enterprise's board. At least now he understood how the windows were so clean; Alfred would never allow enough dirt to accumulate that it was noticeable, no matter how many or few people were there to see it.
Bruce had planned to check and leave, but Alfred off-balanced him. He felt pulled inwards, so comfortable, so close… Ever so silently, he crept up to the back porch. It looked as he remembered. He began to reach towards the planter for the spare key when the door swung open. Light cut the night in half, centering Bruce in stark definition. He dared not look up as dull Oxfords came closer and stopped right in front of him. A white-gloved hand reached forward and raised his chin. Blue eyes met grey for the first time in years. Goosebumps rose on Bruce's skin. Alfred seemed to waver and solidify, and then they were embracing.
Time stopped. Alfred's arms felt thinner than when he left, but they surrounded Bruce like a blanket nonetheless. Nothing could hurt him here. Bruce tentatively raised his arms to return the hug; as soon as his hands pressed gently against Alfred's back, he fell into the absolute outpouring of love. The manor seemed to swell around them, as if it couldn't hold their emotions without growing.
"My dear boy," Alfred's voice was choked, "you came back."
Today.
It was dark, which was good. Bruce may not actually enjoy bats, but they had the right idea, living in caves, and all. It was easier to think in the dark. The absence of light wrapped around him and turned the whole room into an extension of his mind. No distractions. No interruptions-
A light rapping on his door.
Bruce ignored it and pulled his blankets up over his head. No. interruptions.
But manifestation never worked for him, and he heard the door swing open. The hinges were perfectly oiled, so it was more a displacement of air than a creak. Alfred never did let the house fall into the least disrepair. The only time he'd seen dust in even a spare room was when he returned from overseas training, but as soon as he was back, Alfred rallied and dusted away every last speck. The bed dipped, Alfred sitting down beside him. A hand fell to his shoulder and gave a bracing squeeze. Bruce froze. This was the first time they had touched since Phantom told Bruce that…
"You're a ghost." The words fell out of his mouth. They had been circling around his head for days, faster and faster, until they flew out of him without his conscious say-so. A ghost. Why did everyone close to him die?
"I was wondering what had you in such a state." Alfred sounded the way he always had. Despite his years of serving the Wayne family, he still spoke with the Queen's English, bringing to mind tea parties and proper etiquette and sitting up straight. "You've missed breakfast again."
Bruce rolled away from Alfred's hand, pulling the comforter with him, to face the closed curtains. They were heavy red velvet, luxurious. The faintest sliver of grey light eked its way into the room, lighting nothing, only a reminder of the vast sky that weighed on them all, suffocating. He could feel Alfred at his back, waiting, but what was he supposed to say? Again, his mouth decided for him, more birds—or bats—desperate to leave the cage of his mind.
"Alfred, you're dead." He choked on the last word.
Suddenly, the blanket was too tight. The walls that were bearing down on him fell away, leaving Bruce floating in a void. He scrambled his way out and lunged at Alfred, the only thing he could imagine that could anchor him to earth. No matter how strange things were, Alfred had been there in the past and Bruce wanted that feeling of safety more than he feared the things he had learned.
Alfred caught him easily.
He didn't sway or rock or fall, but caught Bruce up in his arms and pulled him into his lap, a repeating refrain of how he did it countless nights before, when Bruce was small enough that his head didn't even come up to Alfred's sternum and he'd had a nightmare again. Now, Bruce was nearly twice as wide and half a head taller, but when he ducked his face down into the crook of Alfred's neck, he felt like that boy again.
"If we are being specific, I am a ghost, and that is not quite the same thing." Alfred patted his back.
"But," Bruce turned to peek at Alfred's face, "how did I never notice?"
"It was never important, Master Bruce. I love this house, and you were the one that brought life to it. What does it matter if I am a ghost or not?"
Bruce pushed himself back, hands on Alfred's shoulders—suit not even the slightest bit wrinkled from cradling a two hundred pound man—to look into his face. It was the same as it ever was. It was the face that knelt before him and encouraged his toddling walk, the face that swept him away from the chaos of an active crime seen, the face that scolded and comforted and shaped him into the person he was today. Bruce was called the greatest detective, but what was that worth when he didn't really know who raised him? In fact:
"Do you have a choice?" Bruce stumbled off the bed and began to pace. "Are you stuck here? If you are, I'm sure John, or no, Zatanna might be a better choice for this, I'll call them now, both, just in case-" He lunged for his phone.
"Sir," Alfred intercepted him as smoothly and easily as he used to push him away from the stove when he was small, "none of that, now. Just because I am a ghost does not mean I have lost all agency." He led him back to the bed, firmly pushed him down, then knelt in front of him to meet his eyes. "You are my choice."
Bruce's chest was a gaping wound.
"I lost you," he whispered. "I lost everyone."
"No, my boy. I am right here."
He moved to sit next to Bruce, pulled Bruce's head to rest on his shoulder.
"I have always been here; possibly not in the precise way you thought I was, but I assure you, I am very real and not lost at all."
"Why did you never tell me?" He tried to pull away and Alfred pulled him right back. It hurt. This conversation burned, but Alfred was there, solid as the mansion's foundation.
"Does it matter?" Bruce could feel Alfred's chest rising and falling. A facsimile of breathing, or did he truly take in air? "Regardless of what you know or knew, I will continue to care for you."
Bruce tried to sit up again, and this time Alfred let him. Bruce grabbed Alfred's hand, pulled it to his chest, urgent.
"If you're a ghost then—" His words were just a little too fast and he stumbled; Alfred nodded for him to continue, "—you need emotion and I left. You were here and I left! Did I hurt you?"
Alfred pursed his lips.
"My dear, dear boy. Every pain I suffered was worth it. I may live to serve, for all the value of the phrase, but you are my son in every way, and I would wait for you however many years it took."
Bruce gasped and fell forward, tears building in the corners of his eyes. Alfred's arms were there to catch him, the only constant in Bruce's universe.
The room settled around them, the light under the window a sign that the outside world had survived, in spite of everything. The sky was still there, when he was ready to face it, hidden away by the lovingly starched curtains. They protected him from all the things he still had to do. For now, he would curl into the warmth of his father.
"Alfred, I love you."
"And I, you. That has never been in question."