Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The alley spread before him.

It’s twisting, swirling as his damaged vision merges with his tears. A natural blurry filter as he watches the unforgettable scene playing before him.

Bruce winces as he sees two silhouettes, their features erased by the contrasting street light.

‘No’

He blinks two times, letting the newly formed tears stream down his face.
His parents' argument resonating in his head, their voices blending perfectly in Gotham’s noisy night.

‘Not again’

Two voices mixing with the sound of the man’s footsteps.

‘Please’

They couldn’t have heard it, their passion masking their moribunds.

‘...’

It just took two seconds.

‘I can’t watch it again’

Two gunshots.

‘...no’

Two bullets.

Bruce looks at his hands, the blood staining his cuffed sleeves, the crimson droplets sliding off his fingers to meet the dark pavement.
He looks up, eyes darting at the shadow above him, the light forming a halo around the killer’s head, presenting him like some kind of saint.
Manic eyes reach the innocent ones, an unwelcomed visit of a stare.
There was no mercy in this visionary meeting, no pity, no regrets.

And as quick as he arrived, the man left, his gun slightly lighter.

Bruce’s ears are ringing, staring at the two bodies in front of him, the noise morphing into some sort of beeping sequence. The repeating commotion slowly kills him, he suddenly wished the traffic was louder, that the people on the street talked more intensely.

He puts his hands on his ears, blood dripping on his face.

The tears, the blood, the sweat… the cold sweat.

‘Mom, Dad..’

Bruce finally opens his eyes.
He jolts up in his canopy bed, gripping the drapes, gasping for air while his lungs remain empty.
The boy pants slowly as he realizes where he lays.

His senses are completely overwhelmed, he stays seated, slowly gaining the control of his body back. His eyes are wide open, just staring at the feet of his bed, waiting for his heartbeat to stop pounding his brain.

He lets go of the sheets to pass a hand through his hair. Some sweat from his bangs falls on his face. His palm then makes his way on his brow bones, creating a shadow to help with the uninvited sunlight.

A ray of sunshine forced its way through the teenage boy’s room, meeting his face warmingly.

Bruce composes himself ;

‘It was just a nightmare.. What a terrible way to start the day tho-’

His thoughts get cut off by the obnoxious alarm reminder, with a swift movement, the teenager clicks the snooze button on his digital clock, taking all the strength in him to not bash it against the wall.
He glances at the hole it made the other day.

‘..Let’s not do that again’

Chapter Text

“Ah, Master Bruce, good morning, are you ready for school ?”

“Hm..”

“How about we stay out of trouble today, hm ? Your principal called me last week agai-”

“How about you stay out of my business Alfred.”

Alfred gazes at the boy in front of him with a frown, he’s hunched over the food he’s playing with, not even taking a bite.

 The man sighs softly, he isn’t sure what he’s going to do with Bruce. He is uncontrollable and won’t talk to Alfred about anything. He’s always acting out, threatening people about bankrupting them if he doesn’t get his way.

The butler closes his eyes at the thought, shaking his head slowly.

“Master Bruce, I believe you should at least try to eat.”

“Hm.. not hungry”

“I see, I will wash up your plate then”

Alfred reaches for the plate full of food, considering putting one of his hands on the boy’s shoulder, a pat of reassurance.

His fingers clench by his side.

He decides against it, knowing it will probably do more harm than good.

“Right, … thanks”

The teenager stands up, still shaking slightly. The sound of the chair scratching the hardwood flour echoes throughout the manor, breaking the silence that followed the small interaction.

“Master Bruce, shall I drive you to Gotham’s Institute today ?”

“..no i’ll walk. … See you tonight Alfred”

“Have a good day Master Bruce”

“Mm. Y’too”

The butler just stares as the boy picks up his backpack and makes his way out of the hall, towards the front door. He knows the teen will get in trouble again, no matter how much the school threatens to expel him, there’s not much they can do against an emotionally unstable billionaire kid. 

He walks over to the kitchen, his shoes squeaking against the perfectly cleaned tiles. He opens the faucet and gapes over the running water for a moment, thinking. 

He was seriously worried for Bruce, he knows the boy never got over his parents death, and he’s not expecting him to, but it seems as if there is no progress in his mourning, even after all these years. 

His eyebrows furrows.

 Deep down.., Alfred knows why,

It’s the press.

The servant opens the trash can, throwing away the uneaten food.

After all, a tragedy makes a good headline.

‘ hm. ’

With every new article written about Bruce, the boy becomes more and more closed off, people talking about him like an animal, an unhinged lunatic with behavioral issues.

“THE DOWNFALL OF WAYNE’S ENTERPRISE?”

“BRUCE WAYNE IS GOING MAD”

“WHOS THE REAL KILLER ?”

“THOMAS AND MARTHA WAYNE’S SON LASHING OUT AT REPORTERS”

“BRUCE WAYNE ON HIS PARENTS DEATH, THE ONLY WITNESS”

‘ It sure isn’t helping..’

The man rubs his left temple as he washes the dish, his head already hurting.

He remembers the countless interviews, the rumors, the pictures.. How can he move on when he’s being reminded everyday of the worst day of his life.

A person can’t breathe while being drowned by others.

Alfred closes the faucet, his hand accidentally touching the flow of water, the liquid seeping its way through his sleeve.

“Urgh”

He shakes it off, turning around to grab one of the rags perched on the oven door handle, drying up his forearm and the clean dishware. 

He paces around the large kitchen, stopping in front of the plates’ cabinet, carefully placing it inside, on top of the others. The sound of the porcelain rubbing against itself hurts the butler’s old earring, he retracts his fingers at the noise, quickly aiming for the door handle. He slams the cabinet harshly, the bang resonating through the rez-de-chaussé . He perks at the break in the silence, scaring himself in a way. He didn’t mean to close that door so aggressively. 

His attentiveness seems to be trickling away no matter what he was doing.

“sigh”

 Alfred places his head between his hands, carefully massaging his forehead, trying desperately to clear his mind.

 Before he knew, he was walking down the hallway.

He needs some kind of distraction.

‘ Perhaps reading. .’

Slowly, he makes his way to the main living room, where he grabs a dusty book and sits down on his usual chair. The butler crosses his legs, placing the thick manuscript on his lap, but once again, he just stares at it. 

The concentration needed to read is being used somewhere else.

‘ How can I help this boy.. When the whole city is after him .’

…

‘. ..maybe ’

The older man stands up, making his way to the fixed phone, book still in hand.

Chapter Text

The cold breeze hits Bruce’s face as he closes the mansion’s door. The creek of the rivets announcing his departure.

His fingers stayed on the door knob for a few seconds, not wanting to lose the cold metallic feel pressed against his skin. He slowly pulls his hands in his pocket, warmth instantly reaching his freezing limbs. 

He looks up, eyelid half closed, wondering where the sunny morning had gone. 

The sparse rays of sunlight being absorbed by the grey sky, completely hidden from the Gothamites.

‘ Would’ve been weird if it was actually sunny.. ’

Bruce breathes in, the air is heavy with mist, small water droplets weighting down the atmosphere.

He exhales, warm condensation leaving his mouth, coldness slipping through.

A small shiver jerks him awake, making him move forward.

One foot after the other, he goes down the staircase, walking calmly through his front yard, the overgrown vines and plants matching the gothic architecture of the manor, the foggy day being the cherry on the top.

The clouds cover the horizon, hiding the top of sky scrapers, fogging up the streets and plunging the city into a dark, eternal night.

‘ How depressing.. ’

His back slumps as he leaves his property. He knows today won’t be so different, it’s going to resemble yesterday, and the day before that.

The wind slaps his face, lifting up his bangs slightly, showing off his sombre eyes, they match with his dark circles, the tainted windows of his soul.

He shakes his head, replacing his messy hair in its usual place. His locks are dampened with the cold humidity, sticking to his forehead uncomfortably. 

He continues down the road, tumbling on the crack pavement a few times, bumping into one or two people, ignoring their curses and insults as he quietly pursues his way without apologizing.

Bruce isn’t a big walker, him being rich meant he was usually driven around, mostly by Alfred. 

He just couldn’t handle the butler’s questions today.

 He’s not in the mood to discuss his feelings with a servant , someone he literally pays to stick around.. 

Alfred could come up with any comforting words if he wanted to, Bruce knew how the gentleman really felt.

He doesn’t love Bruce, no, he didn’t even tolerate him.

He felt it, the quick glances, the frowns, the sighs…

He is disappointed.

And it’s not like Bruce was trying to be likeable, he doesn’t blame Alfred for not wanting him around.

Nobody wants him around.

He’s too impulsive, too unpredictable.

His heart speeds up, beating up in his throat, a lump he can’t swallow. He feels dizzy, the air weighing a hundred tonnes on his shoulders.

Bruce has no loved ones, not anymore, he pushes everyone away, he repulses everyone.

He bites his lips, trying hard to concentrate on actually breathing, but his mind won't let him. Spewing nonsense in every directions.

He doesn’t need Alfred.

‘ He doesn’t actually care anyway, he’s just there for his paycheck .’

Or maybe, he doesn’t deserve Alfred.

‘ I never did, I never will. ’

Alfred is just some old butler anyway, no one actually needs him.

‘ He’s useless .’

Bruce swallows hard, not even believing himself.

A compulsive liar,

A coward,

A hothead,

A child.

His eyes starts watering, tears quickly trapped as he squeezes his eyelids tightly. The warm droplets caged behind his skin, behind his pride.

‘ Sensitive cunt ’

It’s fairly common for him to dream about that faithful night, he doesn’t know why he is so shaken up today.

His fingertips leave his hoodie pocket, reaching towards his face, wiping any tears that managed to escape his imprisoning facade.

‘ Just breathe in, get through the day, put your head down. ’

Why was Alfred always up in his business anyway.. It’s not like he’s his dad.

‘...’

His dad.

Bruce stops walking at the thought.

Memories of the night flooding is brain, blinding his mind.

The blood, the ringing, the sick man that walked away with his mother's pearls.

 His stomach flips over, throat suddenly so tight it hurts. 

The image of his parents, of their bodies.

He opens his mouth, trying to breathe.

He feels dizzy, recalling the buzzing of neon signs, the gunshots.

He opens his eyes, not knowing he had closed them.

Everything's blurry, the world is spinning around him.

There was so much blood, on him, on the pavement, on his parents.

A wave of nausea hits, his hands clenched on his abdomen, he’s going to throw up, 

throw up his intestines, his guts,

 the guts he doesn’t have.

'I just stared'

 Everything will finally spill out, there, on the sidewalk. 

His emotions, his thoughts, his insides

And maybe, for one second, he will finally see a reflection he tolerates, his true self, splattered on the floor, 

his soul shining through the cement’s cracks.

He's gasping for air.

Maybe Alfred will finally see who he is.

The man who raised him.

A man who always tries his best despite Bruce's protests.

‘ He’s always there for you, so why can’t you just- ’

“Bruce-, Bruce Wayne ? Bruce Wayne ! Hi, I'm a reporter from-”

His heart skips a beat.

The boy’s head snaps back, eyes widening. 

One last tear rolls down his cheek, finally freed.

He chokes on air, hands on his chest.

'shit..

 This is why i don’t fucking walk .’

He closes his eyes.

He can already see the headline ;

“BRUCE WAYNE CAUGHT CRYING ON HIS WAY TO SCHOOL”

He cringes at the thought.

The young billionaire starts marching forward.

The last thing he needs right now is the press breathing down his neck.

Bruce speeds up, hearing the interviewer behind him, screaming his name and a handful of questions. The people on the sidewalk hear the commotion, staring at the man screaming, staring at the boy running. He could feel their eyes on him, their judgement, their thoughts. 

The heavy air barely breathable as he tries to escape the crowd, pushing his way through the overpopulated city.

His steps were heavy, loud. Even as the sound of the reporter fades away, Bruce keeps on running. The cold air picking at his flushed skin, sweat dripping from his face.

He’s panting, hoodie clinging on his skin, sweat droplets latching on every fabric fibers, making it unbearable to wear. He continues his jog nonetheless, paranoid that a camera is following him, that a discreet paparazzi is watching his every move.

He arrives at his school’s intersection, immediately finding a wall to lean his back against.

Hands on his knees, he wheezes, his hair is soaked in sweat and the humidity is trapping his body heat around him. 

He takes a second between breaths to reach for his sweatshirt, taking it off rapidly. He catches glares from nearby students, but wearing a t-shirt in 6 degrees celsius weather is a pretty odd occurrence, so he doesn’t think much of it. Bruce grabs his backpack, shoving his wet hoodie at the bottom, and starts to walk slowly towards the establishment.

He keeps his head low and shoulders high, trying to not catch any attention. He squeezes his way to his locker, his hand slightly trembling, he has a hard time turning the lock to the right combination. The sweat on his hands makes it hard to grip it and his mind can’t concentrate to remember the right numbers. He struggles for a few minutes, holding the lock and preparing himself to just give up and bring his backpack to class. He closes his eyes, trying one last time to coordinate his hands and brain, until he hears the too familiar footsteps behind him.

Wren Akers.

“Hey Wayne, trouble with the razor last night ? Forgot how to shave correctly ?”

The taller boy, Wren, snickers. His friends behind him, enabling his behavior by snorting at the teasing. 

Wren has always picked on Bruce, especially since his parents passed on, it made him irritated easily, giving a reaction worth bullying for. 

Bruce knows that his retaliations make the situation worse, but he’d rather die than lose to this troglodyte, he has pride. 

Though.., for once, he was confused at the remark.

Razor ? 

Shaving ? 

What the hell was this dick talking about?

“Huh, what in god’s name are you spewing around now ?”

Bruces says with the utmost sincerity, he has completely given up on the lock now, accepting his backpack carrying fate.

He blushed a bit, out of embarrassment as the group of boys in front of him laughed at his answer.

“You know-”

The sound of the bell echoes loudly in the hall. Students around them scatter quickly to their respective locals, not wanting to be late for their morning classes. 

Bruce takes the opportunity to pick up his backpack and escape this humiliating exposure, but as he does so, Wren grabs his wrist, keeping him in place.

“Ouch ! What the hell is your pro-”

‘ Oh ’

‘...’

‘ Trouble with the razor ’

He usually has his sweatshirt on all the time, but because of the events of the morning, he had taken it off. He looks down, head tilting towards the floor for what seemed the hundredth time today, eyes quickly glancing at his forearms.

‘ Who picks on people about self harm.. ’

The embarrassment rushed to his cheeks once again, from the situation but also for how slow his realization of the whole ordeal was. 

But, behind the shame, Bruce’s anger is growing in his chest. 

Not even Alfred knew, this was personal.

 But so was his parents' death, and Wren seems to always target the most sensitive topics to get a rise out of him.

‘ What an ass ’

“Let go off me, this isn’t any of your fucking business Akers.”

Wren smirks, knowing he’s getting under Bruce’s skin.

“If it wasn’t my business, why are you parading around like that, don’t you already have enough attention on you ? God you’re such a narcissist Wayne, aren’t you tired of being the freaky weird kid ?”

Wren is basically spitting the words at him, hands still clutching Bruce’s wrist. The slightly shorter boy doesn’t make eye contact, feeling tears piercing his eyes. 

‘ Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry ’ 

He mumbles,

“Let go Wren”

“Or what ? You’re gonna call your mommy ? Oh wait.. How sad”

His laugh resonates in the empty school, screeching like a hungry hyena.

Bruce looks at his wrists, salty tears puncturing his corneas. 

One tear, two..

They keep on falling, Bruce was trembling, with shame,

With rage.

“PF Haha ! Look guys, the nepo baby is cryin-”

Wren couldn’t finish his sentence, as he’s being knocked hard in the face.

With his free fist, Bruce punched the other boy at full force, making Wren step back, bumping against one of his friend’s shoulders.

Before he could react, Bruce straddles him to the ground.

One punch, two..

They kept on coming.

Bruce’s eyes were staring at the increasingly bloody face of his bully, tears streaming down his face as he shakes with anger.

Wren’s friends gape, they stand around them, watching Wren getting mauled by Bruce.

The hits didn’t stop.

A classroom’s door swings open.

“Who is making all this ruckus- ..

Oh lord !”

The teacher rushes to the extremely violent scene, desperately trying to get Bruce off this kid, the students from the class all run to the hall in morbid curiosity, some of them starting to chant to continue the fight, if you could even call it that.

Bruce couldn’t hear anything but the sound of his own heartbeat, synchronizing it with the rhythm of his punches. His hands hurt, knuckles bloody and painful, though he continues.

He was going to smash his face in until he couldn’t eat solid food anymore.

He talked about his mom for the last time.

Made a snarky comment to Bruce for the last time.

Humiliated him for the last time.

Wren was sobbing, pleading with Bruce to please stop.

“Im sorry, im so- URGH im SO sorry!-”

Bruce doesn’t even notice when one of the male supervisors pulls him off, screaming at him.

All he did was stare at his victory against Wren Akers, tears still falling on the red stained cold tiled floor.

Chapter Text

“Hello ?”

“Is this-, is this Ms.Kent ?”

“Yes ?”

“This is Alfred Pennyworth, from Gotham”

The butler is pacing around the vanity where the phone is placed, playing with the connective cord. Twirling it around his fragile fingers.

‘ Calm down’

“Oh Al ! You cheeky little thing ! You haven’t called in forever. How are you on this blessed day ? How’s little Brucie doing ? He must be all grown up by now, haha they age too fast don’t they ?”

Clanking noises can be heard on the other side of the line, sounds like dishes being put in the sink.

“O-oh, my apologies Ms.Kent-”

“Oh please ! Call me Martha, what can I do for you old friend ?”

“Well I'm calling in regards to Bruce.. He’s been.., less than, well, good.”

“Oh no ! What’s happening to our little superstar ?”

Despite calling the Kents less than two times a year, they’ve always been there for Alfred. 

Their meeting was a fortunate one, the Kents visiting the state capital for vacations while the Waynes were meeting an investor in Topeka.

Three year old Bruce Wayne wasn’t very happy with journalists planting cameras in his face, and as soon as his parents turned around, he bolted. 

He got lost quickly, his parents searching for him all afternoon, the reporters already interviewing them about their son’s disappearance while the couple tried desperately to find their boy.

Then, they received a phone call, a woman with a thick country accent asking if their son was lost.

They met at a nearby park, Bruce being immediately scolded for running off.

They thanked the Kents profusely, offering a paid compensation for the trouble, though the humble married couple refused right away.

Instead, they kept in touch, calling every now and then, the wives sometimes meeting if one of them were outside their states.

When the Waynes passed away, the Kents attended their funerals, but didn’t talk to Bruce, as Alfred asked them to leave the boy alone for now.

Alfred calls them for parenting advice, for laughs or just to talk, thinking that keeping the friendship with the Kents was what Thomas and Martha would’ve wanted.

But now, he’s nervous as she talks to him on the phone, picking at his nails while he starts hinting about the troubled teen he’s trying so hard to raise.

“He’s.. he’s been uncontrollable recently Martha. He keeps getting in trouble at school, I do think he’s being picked on, but he won’t talk to me about anything !”

“Oh Alfred, you know how teens are! Always in their little world-”

Alfred cuts her off, cursing himself for being rude.

“No, no he’s.. He’s really not doing well Martha”

The woman on the other side of the phone stiffens, she inhales abruptly, hands clenched on the telephone.

“Is everything alright Alfred ?”

Her accent thickens, voice hinting for the older man to continue.

“He just.. He has no place to grieve. No matter how much space I give him, how much therapy I recommend, he’s just getting worse and worse, and I'm afraid…”

His voice cracks.

“Im afraid i might lose him Martha”

The woman exhales quietly, not knowing what to say right away. Letting the butler have space to talk openly. 

They weren’t that close by any means, but she would always be there for the Wayne family. Their generosity was out of this world, they did a lot of good for their community, she respects that.

“I..”

Alfred starts.

“Articles are being written about him everyday.., intrusive questions, conspiracies, his personal life exposed..”

He trails off.

“I guess he never really liked reporters”

She smiles as she cracks the small joke, recalling the day they first met, trying to lighten the call a little bit.

Alfred chuckles softly.

“Right, right.. It does check out.”

He’s silent for a second.

“Martha, I have a favor to ask.”

He breathes in.

“Sure, what is it-”

Martha’s interrupted by the Call Waiting feature.

A sequenced beeping noise alerting the butler of an incoming call.

“Wait, sorry Martha there’s an upcoming call, hum-”

“It’s okay Alfred, you can take it, I'll be waiting for you to call back, everything’s alright.”

The woman is talking softly through the phone, trying to appease the already distressed man on the other side.

“Alright I’ll talk to you later Ms.Kent”

“Later Al.”

The last syllable of his name barely cuts as Alfred checks the other call, he presses on answer.

“Hello, this is the Waynes residence, how may i help”

His voice still cracking a bit, heart beating rapidly in his chest cavity.

He tries his best to remain professional.

“Hi, is this Alfred Pennyworth, legal guardian of Bruce Wayne”

He gulps.

“Yes, how may i help-”

“We have your son in the director’s office, he has heavily injured another student.”

Alfred closes his eyes, inhaling sharply.

‘ son ’

“Could you please join us at Gotham's institute ?”

“Yes, of course”

“Thank you sir”

The call ends, leaving the man alone in the living room. His breaths are heavy, the only noise in the gigantic manor.

He shakes his head slowly, putting the phone back in its holder.

He quickly grabs his coat and car keys, leaving for the school.

Chapter Text

The road is foggy, car lights reflecting on the mist, forcing the drivers to slow down.

The trip seems to be taking forever, Alfred’s heart’s beating so fast it might explode.

What happened to the little boy he knew ? 

The boy who wore the biggest smile as Alfred announced he was making his favourite meal for dinner.

The boy who came into the butler’s room when he had a nightmare.

The child who seeked Alfred’s hugs when his parents fought.

What happened to his little superstar..?

He sighs at the distant memories, wishing he could go back to holding Bruce when he wept, when the boy would share secrets he didn’t trust his parents with.

When the boy considered him as the best option.

When he felt safe in his presence.

Alfred doesn’t fight the tears appearing at the corner of his eyes, letting the sorrowful drops roll down his face, falling on his lap as he drives.

He knew Bruce was rude to teachers, never respecting authority, having trouble concentrating in class, falling asleep during exams.

What he wasn’t aware of is that he would get into fights.

…

Not fights, " severely injured another student” .

He just.. can’t believe it.

‘ Bullying other kids..?’ ’

The air gets stuck in his throat.

He coughs it out, choking slightly as he gasps for oxygen.

‘ What did i do wrong.. ’

He always tried his best, caring for Bruce like he’s his own flesh and blood.

After his parents death, he continued to make his favourite meals, to kiss his injuries better, to sew the holes in his socks.

Bruce just didn’t smile anymore.

Didn’t ask for bedtime stories,

Didn’t ask to be driven to the park.

His childhood just stopped, ended at an age when children still believe in Santa Claus.

His head was always down, the boy was lost, even in his own home.

Alfred grips the steering wheel tighter, his chest hurting, a knot in his guts forming.

Maybe, he just wasn’t fit to raise a kid.

He raised him as his own son, but he wasn’t his father.

He just.. isn’t.

He never will be.

The older man shakes the thoughts off, pulling into the school’s parking lot.

He cracks his knuckles, bringing his fingertips to his suit’s front pocket. He pulls out a handkerchief and carefully wipes the remaining tears with it, making sure to dry his lacrimal glands. 

He looks around before opening the car door, seeing an ambulance to his left. The alarm wasn’t on, but he could see the paramedics closing the back door.

A sudden feeling of shame grows in Alfred.

‘ Poor kid.. ’

His brows furrowed, determined to get to the bottom of this.

Bruce could hate him all he wants, hurting classmates, hurting others was out of the question.

He steps out of the car with a new fiery passion, the sadness slowly morphing into anger as the situation settles in his head.

‘ He better have a good reason for this mess ’

But as much as his head was fuming, his heart was singing another song.

He straightened his shoulder as he walked into the building, maintaining his professional posture.

It just didn’t seem like what his boy-...

Like what the boy would do.

He speeds up his cadence, confused by this whole situation, stuck between the facts and his bias towards Bruce.

‘ You don’t know the whole story yet. ’

He keeps telling himself.

He breathes one last time before knocking on the principal's door.

‘ What happened, superstar..? ’

Chapter Text

The door opens after a few seconds, swinging open to a red, disheveled looking man.

He locks eyes with the butler, pupils constricting. He’s leering down at him, his grand but crooked frame taking the whole doorway.

Uncomfortable warmth is emitting from him.

Alfred keeps his chin up, posture still looking impeccable.

He opens his mouth to greet the headmaster, but as he does so, a drop of sweat falls on the older gentleman.

He pierces his lips tightly.

It takes every fiber of his being to not react, to not show disgust as the droplet rolls on the lower part of his slightly wrinkled cheek.

The heat coming from the other man is already worth grimacing for, but the transpiration is just the cherry on top of this horrid cake.

The principal grits his teeth, forcing out a sour smile at Alfred.

Pennyworth glances down in discomfort. He notices the director’s right hand, clasping the door knob with visible effort, his veins popping out between his knuckles and tendons, shaking a little bit.

His respiration is heavy.

His eyes are not leaving Alfred’s, staring him down.

The man was fuming.

‘...’

“Mr. Pennyworth, please, come inside.”

The man steps to the side with a slight wobble, holding out his left arm, showing an empty chair with his moist hand.

The office is small, natural light being the only source of luminosity in the room, casting a grey-ish tint in it.

The butler steps forward, grabbing his tissue for a second time, quickly cleaning his face. He looks around, multiple school staff standing to his right ; a supervisor, a school counselor and the vice-principal.

Alfred knew all of them by name, though he never saw them all in the same room.

He gulps, throat suddenly scratchy, he raises his hand, carefully touching his neck, trying to get the feeling out in a natural manner. He stops in the middle of the room as he hears the door closing, catching a sight of the cheap wooden desk in front of him. It’s covered in various forms, papers scattered everywhere on top of it.

But his attention is redirected somewhere else.

Half a meter away, Bruce is seating quietly, next to the empty chair that was offered to Alfred.

The boy’s hoodie is back on his shoulders, the sweater still somewhat damp from the morning chase.

He’s hunched over, shaking slightly. The boy's head is down, seemingly very interested in staring at his shoes, not making any effort to turn toward his butler.

He doesn't want to face him,

face his disappointment.

Alfred hears the directors dragging his foot along the floor, making his way to his desk, sighing loudly as he sits in his leather chair. He looks up at the man standing in the middle of the room. He seems to be calmer than a few seconds ago, mouth faintly less clenched.

Eyes appearing a bit softer.

“Please,”

He says, pointing to the chair once again.

“Have a seat.”

A small, polite smile tugs at his lips.

The servant pulls the chair and sits down elegantly, back as straight as a ruler, shoulders pushed back. He turns his head to face Bruce, the principal following his lead, trying to catch a glimpse of the boy's eyes.

Bruce was avoiding his concerned look like the plague, hands clenching each other, rubbing his damaged knuckles with his fingers, caressing his wounds.

The butler’s eyes widened a bit at the sight, swallowing a gasp, trying to appear calmer than he actually felt. Alfred wants desperately to say something, but his voice chokes in his oesophagus, the itching still present,

latching in his neck,

daring him to pronounce a single word,

forbidding him to utter even one syllable.

But in the end, it doesn’t matter, since the headmaster begins to speak.

“Sir, we’ve called you concerning a .. "fight".. your son was involved in today.”

Bruces closes his eyes, feeling the tears coming back.

Alfred stiffens at the sentence.

Both clinging to the same word.

‘Son’

“Bruce, would you mind telling your fathe-.. Your.. Mr.Pennyworth what you did ?”

The school's director blushes a bit at his mistakes, but brushes it off quite quickly as he remembers the boy’s actions.

His eyes slightly opened as he commanded the teen to repeat the earlier events, now staring at him intensely.

Bruce glances at his principal, then Alfred. His mouth is vaguely ajar, his bottom lip trembling. He squeezes his eyes shut, shaking his head, making his hair fall in front of his peepers. He tugs on his hoodie strings, legs bouncing up and down, shaking like a leaf.

Alfred looks at the boy sorrowly, wanting to hug him. The thoughts in his head stopping him from doing so.

'“Heavily injured another student.”'

He coughs, finally clearing his throat.

“Bruce ?”

“I-.”

The teen whispers, voice barely audible.

“He, hE-..”

His voice cracks, shutting him up abruptly.

He could feel the stares on him, making him dizzy.

Alfred, the principal, the school’s staff.

Their eyes piercing his insides,

crushing his soul.

His mind starts to race, wanting to spill out everything,

the teasing,

the years of bullying.

All he endured in silence since the start of high school, since middle school, since his parents' deaths.

He wishes he could open up, to his father figure, to everyone in this room who just isn’t aware of the truth.

Aware of the monster called Wren Akers.

He chokes up.

Water building up at the corner of his eyes.

He just,

couldn’t do it.

He can’t talk,

he can’t open up.

“Fine.”

The principal’s voice cuts the tension, the silence.

“Bruce severely injured another student called Wren Akers. The boy’s friends witnessed what happened, saying that Bruce jumped on him for no reason.”

Bruce bites his lip, fists closing in anger. Eyes jolting up to meet his director’s.

“While we know these kids can be trouble makers, Bruce hasn’t said anything about the situation. Making him seem quite guilty, hm?”

His tone insinuating a question, looking at the teen accusingly. He waits a couple seconds, letting the boy a chance to maybe finally speak his mind.

Dead silence, except maybe the stifled breathing of Bruce Wayne, trying his best to hold it together in front of the concerned adults.

Alfred’s eyes were moving between the principal and Bruce, trying in vain to see a crack in the story, a reason, a motive, anything to defend his boy-,

the boy’s fate.

Nothing.

“..Mr. Pennyworth, this type of behavior is completely unacceptable. While we know about Bruce’s situation regarding his parents, this doesn’t excuse the endangerment of other students.” He continues, “Bruce hasn’t been a motivated student, his grades are low, he isn’t putting any effort in his educational journey.”

Silence.

“Mr. Pennyworth, I'm afraid that after today, Bruce just has no place in this establishment.”

Chapter Text

Rain droplets fall on the asphalt, puddling up on the sides of the roads and streaming down the gutters. The rhythmic noises of the sky crying tumbling down the roof of the school.

The walk to the vehicle was quiet, Bruce trailing behind the butler with his head down and hands in his hoodie pocket. Some dry blood and tear marks still staining his lean face.

His brows were furrowed, creased into a pitiful expression, his eyes not daring to part from the floor. 

Shame is controlling his every move, his every thought.

He bites his bottom lip, still trembling, spasming under the anxiety.

The edge of his mouth becomes somewhat bruised by the pressure of his teeth on the sensible tissue.

A drop of blood seeps from under his canine, rolling down his chin. The teen lets it fall, not even bothered to let go of the tight grasp on his lip.

Alfred is walking fast, posture somehow straighter than usual, more tense. 

He’s not sure what to think. 

He doesn’t know what to say. 

‘I have to somehow talk to him, I have to get to the bottom of this.’

The older man gently pushes the metal door that leads to the parking lot, the outside, and holds it for Bruce. 

The teen stops at the small gesture. He knows it’s basic manners, but he’s still touched by Alfred’s gentle mannerisms.

He speeds up a bit, not wanting to keep his da-..

Alfred waiting.

He perches his head up, whispering a small thanks at the butler. The gentleman’s head tilting back at Bruce, his hands slowly reaching for the small pocket on his suit.

With a confused glance, the boy watches as Alfred picks up his handkerchief and brings it up the teen’s mouth.

“What are you-..?”

He flinches a bit as the tissue presses on the small cut on his lip.

He wants to burst into tears, right there and then. 

He places his hand on the small napkin, holding it in place, permitting the butler to retract his fingers away from his face.

They both look at each other, eyes conversing in a way that words couldn’t.

The rain splatters on them quietly, each drop soaking into the diverse tissues of their outfits, rolling down their faces, hiding some uncontainable tears that manage to escape.

The butler is the first to look away, turning and making his way to the car, Bruce following suit almost immediately.

The pair of steps are heavy, walking in an automatic manner through the lot, neither of them avoiding puddles, their minds focus on other, more important thoughts.

‘ I can’t tell him ’

‘ I have to make him talk ’

They reach the car, the duo opening their respective doors and making their way inside. Both of them are soaking wet, uncomfortably squirming on the leather seats.

With a sigh, Alfred furrows his brows, he puts both his hands on the steering wheel, without actually starting up the car.

Bruce glances at the corner of his vision, head straight ahead toward the dashboard, tissue still being held on his mouth even if the cut stopped bleeding a minute or so ago. 

‘ There goes nothing ’

He grips the wheel a tad more.

“So.. mind telling me what happened ?”

Bruce gulps, swallowing the shame rushing to his face.

His mouth is sewed shut, his eyes squinting slightly in front of him, pretending like he didn’t hear Alfred.

“I’m not starting this car until you answer the question young man.”

He pries.

He knows forcing out answers isn’t the greatest method, but he also knows Bruce. He knows he won’t say anything, but a conversation must be held about this kind of behavior.

He couldn’t let this slide.

Bruce grunts, eyes shutting tightly. He leans his head on the passenger window, finally letting his right hand fall onto his lap, next to the other one.

He starts to fidget with the handkerchief nervously, his breathing slightly picking up the cadence.

He decides to play the deaf ear again, even if his body clearly showed signs that he caught the question.

The butler turns his head to face the teen.

“Master Bruce.”

He says firmly.

The boy glances at Alfred, eyes immediately retracting on the stirring stick.

He lets out a breath, mumbling something out.

“It’s nothing really..”

Alfred’s jaw clenches a bit.

‘ Nothing ? ’

“Nothing ?”

He voices the question, losing patience by the second.

“Nothing ? Bru-, Master Bruce you sent a kid to the hospital for christ sake !”

Bruce grits his teeth, head burrowing further into the window, desperately trying to hide.

He stops his fidgeting, hands instead clutching into fists, knuckles slightly turning white at the gesture.

He wants to tell the truth, spill out everything, but he just couldn’t, the words getting stuck in his throat as tears take their place.

His frustration bubbles up in his chest, shame finally getting the best of him. His pride leading the sentence out of his mouth.

“He deserved it.”

Alfred just gapes at him, in slight disbelief.

‘Deserved it ? Was this kid picking on Bruce ? Why didn’t he say anything in the director's 

office ? ’

Alfred is getting more confused as the minutes flee, what was going on with Bruce.

‘ What is actually going on ? ’

“What happened Bruce..?”

The question is led with worry and persuasion.

The butler hands leave the steering wheel, one of them making their way to the boy’s shoulder.

But as soon as the hand reaches the boy, Bruce flicks it away with a swift motion.

“Why do you care so much anyway ?!”

He snaps, not meaning to actually raise his voice.

His head turned as he asked the question, locking eyes with a shocked butler.

His brows tense, eyes welling up.

He knows he just hurt Alfred, the guilt quickly making his heart squeeze. 

His nails are digging up his palms, hands shaking slightly at the impulsion of his action.

“Why do I-.. Why do I care so much !? Master Bruce you’ve just been expelled ! This is no small matte-”

Alfred couldn’t believe his ears, looking at the teen with wide eyes and a slightly ajar mouth.

Bruce cuts him off, pride getting the best of him.

“So what, I'll just sue them or something.”

“Excuse me ? You will do nothing of the sort.”

The butlers breathe his fastening, anger rising at the incoherence of the teen.

“Yeah ? And who will stop me ?-”

“Master Bruce !”

“What ?”

Both of them are looking profoundly at the other, the tension growing rapidly in the small environment. 

There was silence for a moment, the only discernable noise being the raindrops falling on top of the car.

Alfred breathes in.

“Tell me what happened, now.”

His voice is assertive, determination written all over his face.

He is not letting this go.

The same can’t be said about the boy on the other side of the vehicle.

Bruce's sadness, his anxiety, his fear, all his emotions are mixing, transforming into a disturbing, rising anger.

His teeth clench, he needs to say something, anything.

He has to let something out. 

He’s just holding too much, he can’t think straight, his heart bashing his head, his nails puncturing his skin.

His thoughts, his emotions, his inside,

His pain,

He redirects them all at the man in front of him, screaming.

“I don’t have to tell you shit, you’re not my fucking dad Alfred ! And stop pretending like you give a damn about me alright ?! Just grab your paycheck and do your fucking job! I’m tired of you pretending to love me okay ?”

‘...’

“We’re not family, so just drop the act!”

He bangs his fist on the dashboard, making a small dent. The cuts made by his nails splattering a small amount of blood on the front window. 

His breath is heavy, blood rushing to his face. His heartbeat is deafening, tears are streaming down his face as he chokes on his own respiration.

He shuts his eyes, waiting for a yell, a remark, a comeback.

‘...’

But nothing was said.

The rain is still melodically pouring down, replacing the absence of words.

Bruce aggressively wipes his tears, rubbing his eyes so hard it makes him see stars.

He doesn’t move, the silence killing him more than if Alfred was screaming at him.

His head tilts up, stare still filled with the same raging emotions, tears falling down with wrath.

He looks at the butler, leering at him,

Until he actually sees the man.

Guilt piercing his chest like a stab wound.

Alfred just sat there, mouth trembling, eyes as sweet and confused as a doe.

One tear, two..

They just kept on falling.

The pair just looks at each other, words lounging in the air, not leaving the crime scene they just created.

‘... Alfred’

“I’m sor-”

“What happened to the little boy I knew.”

Alfred looks at his side, breaking the eye contact.

Bruce freezes.

“What-”

“You used to be so nice.

What happened ?”

Alfred brings a hand to his mouth, closing his eyes in regret, not believing the words he just uttered.

“Bruce I-”

“No, I get it.”

Bruce turns around, opening the car door, letting the rain pour down inside.

Alfred grabs his arm, trying to get the boy to stay seated.

“Bruce plea-”

“Ouch !”

‘...’

The sleeve the butler holds retrieved a bit at his sudden movement, showing a small wound.

A cut.

Bruce just gets out of his grasp, closing the door behind him as he walks away.

Alfred stayed in the car for a while, staring at the empty passenger seat.

Chapter Text

A thunderous growl makes Bruce nearly jump out of his skin, the lightning bolt enlightening the street for a second.

It causes the boy to misstep into a small pool of water filling the corner of a crossing, wetting his shoes and socks in the process.

He shakes his head and exhales quickly, trying to calm down his heart from the sudden scare. 

‘ Stupid weather.. ’

He didn’t care about the rain while he was dramatically exiting the argument, though he hadn’t predicted the climate to get that bad.

To get this cold.

The rain had morphed into a storm quite rapidly, flooding the streets of Gotham with litres and litres of water, puddles forming over the blocked manholes and old gutters.

The passers-by scattered at the sight, not wanting to get drenched, unlike Bruce, who pretends he doesn’t care or feel the shivers running across his spine.

The boy’s walking fast, stumbling in no directions in particular, just wanting to get away .

Get away from the school, the argument,

Alfred .

He gulps at the thought.

He’s cold, hungry and he can’t think straight.

His head is throbbing.

His bag is becoming more of a problem by the second, aching his shoulders and scratching his back. The teen almost just left it on the pavement a couple of times, feeling crushed by all of his senses.

His vision is blurry, eyes watering while the fog restricts his sight, leaving him almost completely blind as he roams the city.

The heavy rain pounds on his head, deafening his ears, while inside, his heartbeat is so loud it makes him sick.

He exhales rapidly, trying in vain to gain some control over his body.

He feels something warm between his fingers.

A breath gets stuck in his throat.

Bruce finally notices the pain coursing through his hands, he looks down, just to see that his nails completely mauled his palms in distress, blood mixing with the water dripping from above.

He looks at his right hand, still holding Alfred’s small white cloth, now stained in red.

He clenches his teeth, fangs finding their way on his bottom lip once more.

The insertion is quick, and soon enough crimson droplets are trickling down his face again.

He halts, suddenly overwhelmed by the scenery, by his emotions, by everything. 

The neon signs shining through the mist, the noise of the rain attacking his earring, the pain he feels in his face, in his hands, in his heart.

He slumps his shoulders, knees buckling, bruising as they make contact with the cement under him.

His bag falls with a thud, one of the straps gliding down his arm.

His strong facade, his stubbornness, his pride…

They're all melting away. The flow of water transporting everything he’s ever been down the sewers.

He brings his hands over his ears, blood dripping down his face.

The situation is all too familiar.

He stays there, suffocating, unable to breathe properly.

He hiccups, tears mixing with the red liquid falling from his hands, a disgusting art piece creating itself on his face.

He feels so exposed, his emotions finally spilling after all those years of being restrained.

His lacerations making him more vulnerable than he’s ever been, showing his soul, 

who he is, through the cracks of his skin. 

His heart is hammering inside his chest cavity, everything is closing in on him.

The street seemingly so small it resembles an alley.

The clouds, so dark and dense it looks like night.

The blood on his face being so irremediably out of place, foreign.

It just couldn’t be his.

Bruce closes his eyes, the gruesome scene not stopping behind his eyelids.

‘ Mom.. Dad ..! ’

A familiar sight, a known sequence, a spoiled ending.

A terrifying memory.

No matter how hard he squeezes his head, squints his eyes, he can’t help but remember.

Two adults are laying on the floor, unresponsive, their blood seeping through the fissures of the alleyway. The liquid makes its way towards the kneeling child, staining his dress pants and new shoes as he trembles in fear.

He couldn’t move,

couldn’t think.

He couldn’t do anything except stare.

Stare at the gun, at the man.

Stare at the broken pearl necklace.

He grabs his throat, gasping, choking.

He just couldn’t breathe

He can’t breathe,

‘ Oh god ’

Bruce’s eyes snap back open violently, coughing his way back into reality.

His hands make their way on the floor, where they hold the weight of his entire body.

He gradually stops wheezing, his brain finally getting the much needed oxygen.

The teen grunts, looking forward onto the empty street, feeling the water running along his back and nape.

He stays there for a second, on all fours, his scrambled brain screaming for him to get up.

Shakingly, he pushes himself back in a sitting position.

He’s cold, upset.

‘ I need to go home… ’

Just the thought of it makes him grimace, the last thing he wants to do is see Alfred.

‘“ What happened to the little boy i knew ”’

‘ “You use to be so nice, what happened ?” ’

The boy gets up, the words imprisoning his mind.

He starts walking, zoning out as the sentences repeat in his head,

over and over again.

Chapter Text

The sound of thunder doesn’t even make him flinch.

Alfred hasn’t moved since Bruce left, tears prickling down to his chin, where they agglomerate, just to fall down on his lap.

His gaze didn’t leave the empty seat beside him, the sound of the car door closing echoing in his mind like a cursed melody.

‘I'm sorry, I’m so sorry.’

He clenches his teeth,

memory of the scene torturing him.

“You used to be so nice, what happened ?”

His words keep repeating in his head, intoxicating him with regret, remorse.

A deadly broken record, scratching his very insides, shame and guilt itching their way through his body.

He brings his palms up, carefully holding his forehead, sobs escaping through the gaps between his fingers.

He collapses on himself, folding in his seat. He tries to breath, head still in his hands, elbows digging in his thighs while holding his entire torso in place.

Alfred’s respiration is inconsistent, interrupted with hiccups and shivers, the air barely making it to his lungs.

He shuts his eyes, tears still finding a way to pierce their way out, unmercifully dripping down between his digits.

“We're not family, so just drop the act !”

Reality slaps him as he remembers the words that were spat at him like venom.

‘We’re not family’

Bruce is right, they’re not family.

They share no blood, no name, no legacy.

But despite this comment burning a hole in the butler’s head, despite the ache in his heart when he recalls the sentence, he can’t help but wanting to go find and hug Bruce.

Hug him like a dad would.

Embrace him to wash all his worries away.

Cuddle the scared little boy he so dearly loved.

Hold him until it feels familiar.

Hold him till they’re a family.

Bruce might not consider Alfred as a father figure, but Alfred considered the boy as his son.

No arguments, no doubts, could ever change that.

And he feels stupid for ever thinking the contrary, even for a second. 

‘I need to apologize’

The way he acted, raised his voice, like an immature teenager.

He sighs, nerves finally cooling down, shivers of remorse running through his back, following the shape of his spine.

‘He already had a rough day and I..’

He raises his head slowly, reaching for the front pocket of his suit, but the handkerchief is missing. 

His eyebrows clench, creating a crease in the middle of his forehead.

‘If I can't even make him feel secure..’

He presses both his hands on the steering wheel, remembering the conversation with Martha.

The genuine worry in her voice, the understanding on the other side of the phone.

“It’s okay Alfred, you can take it, I'll be waiting for you to call back, everything’s alright.’

He sighs, grabbing the small phone in his pocket. He composes the number with a slight struggle, still shaking from the earlier events.

The phone didn’t ring for long.

“Hello!”

It wasn’t Martha’s voice on the phone.

Alfred sniffles, hardly keeping all his emotions inside.

“H..Hi is this… Is this the Kents ?..”

His voice is uncertain, thinking that maybe he typed the wrong number in his nervousness.

“You betcha’! Are you looking for Pa’ ? He’s in the fields right now.”

‘Pa ?’

Confusion quickly turns into realization. 

‘Oh ! Oh right, the Kents have a son.’

He completely forgot that detail, now feeling foolish for even thinking he could send-

A lady’s voice creeps through the line, almost inaudible, snapping Alfred out of his thoughts.

“Clark, pumpkin, who ya talkin’ to ?”

“I’m not sure Mama, he seems confused.. Thought he was here for Pa’ but he ain't talkin’ no more..”

“Ope ! Must be my friend from earlier, here, pass me the phone big boy. And go help your poor dad!”

“Sure thing Ma’.. but who’s this ?”

“Just a family friend.”

“C’mon Ma’, don't give me the runaround-”

“I’ll tell ya later pumpkin’.”

“Mama-”

“ For cryin’ out loud Clark, go outside, your dad’s needing another pair of hands..”

She sounds visibly stressed. Her breath is short, voice a little shaky.

There was silence for a second, then a sigh.

“Alright then.”

The boy’s voice suddenly rang loudly through the phone.

“Here mister, passing you to my Ma’, have a good one.”

And before Alfred could say another word, the phone was given to the woman, the sound of a door closing faintly erupting from behind the line.

His thoughts are interrupted, once again, by a loud voice.

“Alfred! You made me worry ya old fool! What happened ? You were gone longer than i thought, what kinda call you folks havin’ in the big city? ”

“Martha, I’m so sorry for the wait..something came up.”

Alfred is tired, the emotional situation draining the energy out of him. His voice is groggy and broken, barely louder than a whisper.

He sighs, head titling while his shoulders tense. He shakily let go of the steering wheel to bring his hand to the side of his forehead, where he rubs his temple in a soothing motion.

The woman’s silence encouraged him to speak more, to explain himself, to open up.

“I.. Bruce-. He.. How do I even begin?”

A small breath escapes his lips, breaking his professional facade once more. 

For what seems the hundredth time that day, Alfred doesn’t know what to say, the words can’t make their way out of his throat, the air can’t make it pass his lungs, the oxygen is too busy pumping his heart, flowing through his blood.

He furrowed his brows, getting angry at himself. He’s pitiable, pathetic, crying on the phone to a woman he barely knows.

He closes his eyes, ready to say something, anything.

His mouth opens, sentences dribbling out like vomit, words coming from his guts rather than his brain.

 His heart is seeking this conversation, while his mind can barely form a thought.

“Bruce got expelled from school. He’s uncontrollable, Martha. I need help.”

That was.. surprisingly concise, he opens his eyes in shock.

Alfred was not one to admit defeat, to ask for help, but there’s a good reason for that. 

The man is very capable of almost anything.

But right now, sitting in his car, rain pouring down, knowing Bruce is somewhere, alone, heart broken.

He feels vanquished.

Today was his trial, to see if he could be there for his teen, his boy.

It was a test.

He failed.

He failed like so many times before.

He just can’t take care of Bruce.

Alfred loves him, cherishes him, he would give him the world.

But the boy doesn’t need the world.

He doesn’t know what Bruce needs.

“I was wondering if maybe.. I-. I know it’s a lot to ask, I'm aware that.. Well that you already have a son and a plentiful life but, I..”

“Alfred”

“I know I-”

“It’s okay, breathe, you know you can ask me anything.”

He chokes up at Martha’s words.

“I..-

I think Bruce should get out of Gotham for a while.”

He sniffles, the line remaining silent, making his voice sound louder than it is.

“It’s a big request, but I was wondering if maybe.. Well, if Bruce could live in your house for a while..-”

The woman’s respiration is caught short by a sharp inhale, the phone picking up the small surprised noise.

Alfred’s heart skips a beat at the sound, suddenly feeling embarrassed.

‘She has a whole family already-’

“Alfred..-”

“You do not have to accept, and I-, It would be normal to say no- we’re practically strangers and I know-!”

His voice is pacing up, elevating in volume in the small car.

“Alfred ! Listen okay ?”

He quiets down.

“I would do anything for your family.. I would gladly accept Bruce into our household! But..-”

‘Here it comes, i knew this was a bad idea-’

“ I’m afraid this isn’t a decision I can make alone. But do not worry, okay ? I will address the issue with my husband tonight, have a real talk with the lad. But knowin’ old Jon, I don't think there’s gonna be an issue.

Go talk to your boy Alfred, I’ll call you up later, alright ?”

“Yes.. yes, let’s talk later..

I..- Thank you so, so much Martha.”

“You’re not alone Al, you’re not alone.”

Chapter Text

He parks the old car in the driveway, engine coming to a stop as the keys get retracted from their holder. 

He clenches them in his hands, playing with the trousseau anxiously. The small metallic resonance is making him feel more serene, the noise quietly filling the vehicle.

The rain is still falling rhythmically outside, the raindrops turning into small streams as they hit the pavement, flowing endlessly toward the gutters. 

The butler stays seated for a while. He doesn’t know what is awaiting him inside the manor.

He worked there for a very long time, ever since he got out of the military, but today, the house looked unfamiliar, scarier, foreign.

It looks too big, too empty,

too uncanny.

He gulps, jaw tensing at the thought of entering the property.

The thought of seeing the owner of it.

The thought of talking to Bruce.

‘Keep it together Alfred, you need to be strong right now.’

He knows he has to, despite the regretful words he said earlier, they really hadn’t talked about Bruce’s expulsion. He clutches the car key harder, hand slightly shaking.

He got to know why the boy acted in such a way.

Was he being picked on ? He did say the boy “deserved it.”  

Or maybe, it was less personal.. Perhaps the articles about his misdemeanors finally got to his head and he cracked.

‘Oh Bruce, what actually happened..?’

The keys finally reach Alfred’s pocket. He unbuckles his seatbelt and carefully gets out of the car, not caring about the rain all that much. He makes sure to lock the doors before making his way to the front of the house.

He unlocks the residence gently, the creaking of the rivets exposing his entrance.

The lights are turned off, plunging the manor in darkness, only a small radiance coming from the living room is illuminating the gothic ambiance. 

The butler closes the door, noticing Bruce’s bag next to the frame. It’s half opened, with a couple of books miserably spraying on the doormat. 

He takes off his loafers and carefully places them next to the teen’s pair near the door. 

Normally, he’d go put them in the entry closet, but he just can’t think about tidying up right now, deciding instead to clean all of this later. He turns his attention toward the only light in the foyer, slowly making his way towards its source.

A shiver runs down his spine as he walks toward the couch, his wet clothes decreasing his body temperature. He places his hand on the couch’s backrest, looking up at the weak glow the TV is emitting. The noise of the machine is barely audible, the subtitles helping the old gentleman comprehending the word’s being said on the screen. He just stares as the news plays out.

“YOUNG BILLIONAIRE BRUCE WAYNE BEATS UP CLASSMATE, HAS HE FINALLY LOST IT ?” 

A low quality video is playing on the top left corner of the television, showing a scrawny boy over another, endlessly punching the other’s face to a pulp. 

The action is vile, sick, violent.

It’s animalistic.

The punches aren’t restrained, hitting the attackee’s face at full force in a rhythmic fashion.

They don’t stop.

They get faster, harder.

Blood is spilling everywhere, a gruesome puddle under the teens’ bodies.

The liquid is mixing with the attacker’s tears, his knuckles digging into the other boy’s flesh, nails broken from the impact with the other’s head.

The boy’s pleading, begging the teen above him to stop,

To spare some mercy,

To forgive.

But his words are in vain, his speech barely understandable as he wheezes and gasps for air, blood from his nose entering his mouth, his lungs compressed by the other sitting on his ribs.

The video stops as the two get separated, letting the reporter explain the situation.

But the image will never be forgotten.

This disgusting scene replaying in the butler’s head, over and over again.

The violence,

The rage.

He sighs, walking around the couch, reaching for where he last saw the remote. He doesn’t want to see, to hear about his son like that anymore.

‘He’s not.. That video.. He can’t..’

He shakes his head, patting the cushions harder, the voice of the reporter ringing in his ear like tinnitus.

He grits his teeth, frustration growing inside his guts as the remote hides from him. He pats the small cover he folded last night, looks under the throw pillows, checks the cracks between the cushions, nothing.

“Urgh !”

He bangs his hand against the sofa, gripping the tissue between his fingers. The noise from the TV hasn’t stopped, the light coming from it seeming much more intense than before. The man kneels on the ground, closing his eyes as the reporter keeps bashing Bruce in the background.

His grip loosens on the fabric, putting his hands to his face instead. He breathes out, slowly, clearing his head as much as he can. He spreads his fingers, creating a small space to look through.

His chest moves up and down slowly, ribs caging his lungs. He stays there for a while, on the floor next to the couch, breathing shakily in the darkness. He closes his eyes, trying to tune out the noise issuing from the old television, a thought interrupting the ringing in his ear.

‘I didn’t turn on the TV this morning.. Nor did I watch some last night.’

‘...’

‘Bruce !’

The old man jolts up, knees slightly shaking. He starts walking rapidly towards the staircase, thoughts spiralling. He turns sharply at a corner, hitting his hip on the wall. Hard to see in the dark.

‘If the poor boy saw the news channel, he'd be crushed !’

He quickly runs up the stairs.

‘But the video… oh god..’

He continues down the hallway, towards Bruce’s door.

‘That’s it, I need to know the truth.’

The butler stops at the teenager's room.

He gulps.

‘Here I go superstar.’

The door creaks open.

“Bruce ?”