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Eleven years old
Bruce’s ribs hurt, he registered as the adrenaline began to fade. Carefully, he shifted in the hard plastic seat, trying to alleviate the pain, but finding no respite. Instead, Bruce let his eyes flicker around the school office, watching the receptionists fill out paperwork behind the desk. As if she felt someones eyes on her, one of the receptionists looked up, the beads of her glasses chain swishing with a faint clack. Bruce smiled, small and unsure. The receptionist looked at him for a moment, her eyes stoney and her lips pursed disapprovingly before returning to her work.
Bruce looked away, his stomach swirling with emotions he couldn’t quite identify. He shifted in his seat again, until he felt the burn of his ribcage under his skin. It hurt, it was grounding, it was real.
The door to the Principal’s office opened, and Bruce sucked in a shaky breath as Alfred walked out, shaking hands with Principal Marini and smiling pleasantly. As soon as the door clicked shut and Alfred’s eyes were on Bruce, his smile dropped, his face stormy.
“Car. Now.” Alfred said.
Bruce said nothing. He slid out of his seat and past the receptionists who refused to look at him, not allowing himself to wrap his arm around his ribs in comfort. Alfred practically tore the door off of the car, his knuckled white as he grabbed the steering wheel and breathed. Bruce nibbled at his lip, eyeing Alfred with caution.
“Well?” Alfred demanded, his tone harsh. “Have you got anything to say for yourself”
“I’m sorry.” Bruce whispered, head bowed.
“Look at me when you are speaking to me.” Alfred snapped.
“I’m sorry.” Bruce repeated, trying not to squirm as he met Alfred’s steely eyes.
“No you’re not,” Alfred said, and Bruce felt his stomach twist into knots. “If you were sorry, I would not be receiving calls from your Principal every bloody week about you getting into another pointless fight!”
“It wasn’t pointless!” Bruce cried, indignation rising.
“No? Beating up every student that crosses your path like a mindless bully isn’t pointless? Please enlighten me as to what led you to this conclusion, Master Bruce.” Alfred replied, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
“They…they call me names, Alfred.” Bruce said, ignoring the way his vision blurred with tears and his bottom lip wobbled.
“I’ll dare say you deserve to be called names with your behaviour.” Was all Alfred said in response.
“They- they say stuff about my parents! They push me over! They try and take my things!”
Alfred was silent for a moment, and Bruce dared to let himself hope that Alfred would see his side. Bruce wasn’t trying to be bad, and he wasn’t trying to upset Alfred, but he had to defend himself. If he didn’t, then his classmates had won. They’d think that they could say whatever they wanted about Bruce’s parents, that they could take his things as if it belonged to them, because they would know Bruce was weak. He had to fight back.
“Do you think your parents would be proud, knowing their son was fighting in the school hallways like some juvenile delinquent? How do you think your father would feel, knowing how many times you had been suspended from school for your vile behaviour at eleven years of age?”
Alfred’s voice was level, almost eerily calm, yet his words hit Bruce like a tonne of bricks, his ears ringing distantly as he processed what Alfred had said. Bruce swallowed down the acidic taste in his throat, head spinning as he thought about his father’s face, screwed up in anger and shame at the violent child his son had become as blood soaked through his shirt, just like it had that night.
“Nothing to say, hmm?” Alfred said.
Wordlessly, Bruce shook his head, ignoring the way tears dripped from his cheeks onto his navy trousers, peppering them almost black.
Alfred sighed, finally pulling the car out of the parking lot and into the lawless bustle of Gotham’s streets. Bruce tried to quiet his sniffs as he cried silently in the passenger seat, steadfastly ignoring Alfred’s glances.
“You used to be nice.” Alfred said, voice soft but full of disappointment.
Bruce’s chest hiccuped with a suppressed sob, feeling sick to his stomach. The rest of the drive to the Manor was silent, with them both ignoring Bruce’s ragged breathing.
Fourteen years old
Bruce stared at the leaflet in shock. It was an innocuous little thing, the glossy page shining colourfully on the dark mahogany of the table. Alfred said nothing, he didn’t even acknowledge Bruce as he had walked into the dining room, content to sip his tea.
With shaking fingers, Bruce pulled the leaflet towards him. ‘Arkham Boys Rehabilitation Home’ shone in ruby red, contrasting with the clear blue sky, clearly saturated to make the imposing gothic building in the centre look less imposing. Almost as if in a trance, Bruce opened the leaflet his eyes catching on ‘troubled boys,’ ‘mental instability,’ and ‘psychiatric facility.’ Bruce looked up, mouth open but no sounds coming out as he stared at Alfred. Alfred took another sip of his tea before meeting his stare, nonplussed.
“You’re- you’re not serious, Alfred.” Bruce stammered.
“Deadly, Master Bruce.”
Bruce felt his heartbeat begin to race in his chest as he looked into Alfred’s eyes and found no trace of a lie.
“I’m not…’mentally unstable.’” Bruce quoted, wafting the leaflet.
Alfred looked at him consideringly, and with growing horror, Bruce realised Alfred was trying to find a polite way of telling Bruce that he believed he was.
“I believe this facility would help you greatly.” Alfred settled on.
“I don’t need to go to a facility!” Bruce cried, and he could hear his own hysteria in his voice. “I’m not fucking crazy!”
“Language!” Alfred shouted before attempting to school his face back into something more calm. “I am not suggesting you are crazy. I simply think this facility would allow you to gain…more control over your own emotions. To behave as a Wayne should.”
“You’re sending me to Arkham!” Bruce shouted, his voice almost shrill in his panic.
“It is not Arkham Asylum. Arkham Boys Rehabilitation Home is a separate organisation.” Alfred explained.
“It’s the same fucking name!” Bruce yelled as he felt his control of the situation slip out of his grasp.
“I will not be spoken to with such language!” Alfred yelled back, standing up and towering over Bruce, truly enraged. “You fight! You sneak out! You isolate yourself! You make everybody miserable! I am doing this to help you!”
Bruce dropped the leaflet, his hands burying themselves in his hair and yanking hard as he screamed. It was ugly, the wail of a desperate child as Bruce sank to the floor at Alfred’s feet, sobbing loudly as he begged almost incoherently.
“Please, Alfred. I’ll be good. Please don’t send me away. Please, Alfred. Please.”
Alfred looked down at the sobbing, pleading boy, his face devoid of any emotion.
“You were such a nice young boy,” Alfred said. “One day you will understand that I did this for you.”
Bruce bawled.
Sixteen years old
Bruce’s stomach dropped as he walked into his room, his schoolbag falling onto the floor with a heavy thunk. Alfred was stood at his desk, messy papers and books missing from where he’d left them scattered about in his own organised chaos. Instead, on his desk laid his razor blades, easy to explain on their own. The pile of bloody bandages besides them, however, were not.
“Why are you in my room?” Bruce snapped, harsh and defensive.
“I was tidying up,” Alfred began softly. “Would you like to explain this to me?”
He gestured to the paraphernalia on the desk, and Bruce breathed in and out, slow and controlled.
“Why were you digging around in my trash?” Bruce demanded, deflecting.
“Why are their bloodied bandages in your rubbish?”
“None of your business.” Bruce snapped.
“I believe this very much is my business, Master Bruce. I am still awaiting an answer.” Alfred replied, not giving Bruce an inch.
Bruce felt red hot fury burning in his chest as he glowered at his guardian. Who did Alfred think he was? He had no right to snoop around in his room, digging through his private things. He had no right to question him. He had no right to make Bruce feel this…trapped.
“Fuck you.” Bruce spat, like an animal caught in a trap trying to gnaw off its own leg.
Alfred refused to rise to the bait, the profanity he detested so much suddenly water off a ducks back.
“Explain these items.”
“No. Get out of my fucking room.”
“Show me your arms, Master Bruce.” Alfred said, and it was not a request.
“No,” Bruce refused, seething in rage. “You don’t tell me what to do!”
Quicker than Bruce had ever seen him move, Alfred was in front of him, twisting Bruce’s arms into a tight grip that had him gasping in shock and pain. The butler wasted no time in wrenching Bruce’s sleeves up, the fabric catching against the raised scabs of fresh wounds that had Bruce hissing for air through his teeth.
“Oh, Bruce.” Alfred whispered.
Bruce swallowed, his eyes burning with unshed tears as Alfred stared at his arms in disbelief.
“Let me go. Please.” Bruce begged, his voice cracking.
It took a moment, but Alfred slowly released his grip and Bruce immediately retreated until his back hit the wall, a gulf of space between child and guardian.
“Why…why would you do such a thing?” Alfred asked, staring at Bruce as if he’d never seen him before.
“I- I need to!” Bruce gasped, pressing his fingers into his arms.
Almost instantly, Alfred was back in his space, pulling his fingers from his arms with an unrelenting grip.
“You understand I cannot allow this to continue?” Alfred replied, his own eyes shiny.
“Why not?” Bruce begged, his tone bordering on desperate. “Why can’t you just leave me alone like everybody else?”
Alfred looked at him with that same expression that made Bruce feel two foot tall.
“It is my job to ensure you are able to continue your parents legacy. The Wayne name relies on you. Wayne Enterprises and all its employees rely on you. You must be capable of shouldering that.”
Bruce sucked in a breath, harsh and trembling. There was a small, tiny part of him that had been hoping, no, begging, for Alfred to say that he cared about him, maybe even loved him as a son. It was a ridiculous and childish dream Bruce should’ve grown out of long ago, but even that knowledge could not soften the blow of Alfred’s words.
Bruce sank to the floor, burying his face in his knees as he sobbed, terrified, embarrassed, and exhausted as his head throbbed with pressure. Distantly, he registered the sound of Alfred’s polished shoes against the hardwood floor as he systematically opened every drawer and cabinet in Bruce’s room, confiscating his belongings without remorse. Bruce couldn’t even bring himself to beg anymore, all he could do was cry as his last source of comfort was taken away from him. Bruce was so lost in his anguish that he didn’t even hear Alfred reproach him until he felt the butler’s gloved hand settle on his head. Lashes thick with tears, Bruce looked up at the man who had raised him for longer than his parents.
“You were such a happy child, so nice and thoughtful.” Alfred said, his face twisted into an unfamiliar expression.
“I’m sorry I’m not nice anymore.” Bruce whispered, face stained with tears and voice thick with grief.
Alfred said nothing. He simply gathered up Bruce’s things and left.
Thirty-seven years old
The walls of the Manor were still verberating after the oak door slammed shut, Dick storming out of the Manor in righteous fury.
Bruce stood in the hall, chest still heaving and cheeks still red from his shouting match with Dick. He’d known from the very beginning that it had been a mistake to bring Dick into this life, letting him become Robin. Bruce could never regret taking Dick in, but there were days when the guilt of allowing his twelve year old ward to become a vigilante felt like a suffocating weight against his chest.
Dick dropping out of college, determined to strike it out on his own as a vigilante in Blüdhaven was Bruce’s nightmare. He desperately wanted Dick to have a life outside of crime-fighting, to get an education, a good career, find love. This line of business invited none of those.
Dick hadn’t cared for his protests, the conversation escalating into a full-blown screaming match, neither willing to hear the other out. Dick was so sure that he was doing the right thing, that this was the path he was always meant to take, but Bruce felt sick to his stomach, imagining Dick out there every night, in a strange city where Bruce couldn’t protect him if a fight took a turn for the worse. Maybe he was being stifling, but at least Dick would be safe. Dick hadn’t seen it that way, enraged by Bruce’s insistence that he was making the wrong decision, and the front door had paid the price as Dick had almost slammed it off of its hinges as he marched out of the Manor.
So consumed with thoughts of his son alone and unprotected in a strange city, Bruce barely suppressed a jolt as Alfred walked into the room.
“He used to be such a nice boy.” Alfred sighed.
“Don’t ever say that.” Bruce warned, the words out of his mouth before he had even processed them.
“I beg your pardon?” Alfred asked, looking bewildered.
“He didn’t used to be a nice boy. He is a nice boy.” Bruce growled, clenching and unclenching his fists.
Alfred cocked an eyebrow, looking at Bruce as if he were missing something obvious.
“The way in which he spoke and the profanity he used was rather the opposite of nice, Master Bruce.” Alfred replied, his tone clipped.
“I don’t care,” Bruce replied immediately, shaking his head. “Don’t ever say that about him again.”
Alfred stared at him, that same look that had made Bruce shrink as a child, but now, Bruce refused to bow, refused to cower under Alfred’s piercing gaze.
“Very well, Sir.” Alfred said eventually, his tone on the verge of insincere.
“I mean it, Alfred. Never again.” Bruce warned.
Alfred pursed his lips, clearly unhappy, but had no choice but to accede to his employer.
“Yes, Mr Wayne.” He said, before turning on his heel and disappearing from the room.
Somehow, despite everything, Bruce felt lighter than he had in years.