Chapter Text
“Master Bruce?” Alfred exclaims, and in his surprise, he drops the cup he had been washing. It’s a pretty, fragile teacup that falls to the bottom of a sink with a clatter. By nothing short of a miracle, it cracks instead of shattering, leaving a large scar along its left side. He had heard the boy approach long before he saw him, his small but nevertheless audible footsteps echoing throughout the manor. “I was not expecting you and your parents to return so…” his voice trails off as he finally turns to face Bruce.
Something is wrong. Horribly wrong. Silent tears stream down what is normally a bright, happy face. And there’s blood. There’s so much of it. On his scraped knees. On his hands. A smear on his face. Alfred glances over Bruce’s shoulder, searching for his parents. His worry only increases when he realizes the Waynes are nowhere nearby. “Everything will be alright my dear boy,” he assures the trembling child, “so take a deep breath and try to answer one tiny little question for me. Where are your parents?”
Bruce, the brave boy, does his best to comply with his request, making multiple attempts to take deep breaths. Instead of calming breaths, however, his breathing comes in rapid, panicked gasps. “I… They…” Bruce replies, “They’re dead, Alfie. They’re dead and only I survived. I’m so selfish, Alfie. I’m so awful.”
There many questions that Alfred is currently unable to answer, questions such as when were they killed? Where were they killed? And how did Bruce get home? But no matter these questions, there’s one thing he is sure of -- Bruce is not awful. He is not selfish. He is merely a child who was forced to experience loss way too soon. “Oh Master Bruce,” he coos, gently pulling the boy in for a hug, “oh my poor boy. Come here. Let’s take this one step at a time, alright? Let me get you cleaned up. Then we can talk some more, alright? Nod if you understand.” Bruce replies with a small nod. Scooping the boy up, Alfred takes Bruce to the bathroom to clean his wounds, and to clean what he assumes to be his parents’ blood off his hands.
-----------------------------------------
He doubts Bruce would lie about something so serious, however, he finds Bruce’s explanation of what happened difficult to believe. The poor boy is likely just confused. The whole experience must have been horrifying to both witness and be a part of. “I’m sorry Master Bruce,” he replies, giving the boy’s shoulder a gentle pat, “I don’t think I’m following you. You said you fell and scraped your knees,” that for sure happened - Bruce has the scraped knees to prove it. “But it didn’t end there? When you hit the ground you continued to fall… You fell through a shadow and ended up here? So you’re saying that you fell through a shadow and teleported home?”
“Yes,” Bruce mumbles in reply, clutching his teddy bear closer to his chest. After getting him cleaned up, Alfred had him change into some pajamas. Although it is unlikely Bruce will be sleeping anytime soon considering the traumatic experience he just went through, Alfred thought it would be best if he at least attempted to get Bruce to sleep. “I know it sounds crazy but it really did happen, Alfie. Honest.” For Alfred, seeing is believing but he most certainly isn’t going to tell Bruce that. As it is, he can’t seem to come up with many other logical explanations. Bruce must have gotten a ride home. There’s no way he could have ran home all the way from the theater downtown. The theater is over 20 miles away.
Before Alfred can respond, there’s a series of loud thuds - it’s the sound of a fist colliding with the front door. “Gotham PD, anyone home?” At this interruption, Bruce flashes Alfred a wide eyed look. It’s a look of pure panic. He may be a child, but even he is aware of how people treat those they don’t understand. Leaning close to Bruce, Alfred whispers, “Everything will be alright, Master Bruce. I will talk to them. I won’t tell them what happened. Not the truth. That’s just for you and me to know. So stay here, alright?” Alfred waits for Bruce to nod in agreement before leaving the room.
Like any careful Gothamite, Alfred first looks into the peephole before answering the door. The men are in uniform and there is a cruiser sitting out front. Appearance wise, they seem to be who they claim they are. But that doesn’t really mean anything. Police Officers claim to protect, but they seldomly serve anyone other than rich, bigoted white men or themselves. Cracking the door open a few inches, he greets them. “Good evening officers. I was just about to call you. I’m assuming this is about Master Bruce’s parents? He arrived home not too long ago. His parents protected him and he ran. It seems he managed to get a cab home. I don’t know the details but he told me his parents were killed.”
One of the police officers, a middle aged man with pale skin and greying hair, visibly relaxes at Alfred’s words. “Yes, they were killed. And when the boy was nowhere nearby we feared he had been kidnapped or worse.” The other officer, a woman with tan skin and brownish-black hair, nods in agreement. “We have finished gathering evidence from the scene, all we have left is Bruce’s interview,” the male officer adds, shooting him an expectant look.
“Now?” Alfred replies with an incredulous laugh, “Now? It is nearly midnight! And Master Bruce is a child. A child, might I remind you, who watched his parents get murdered. He is in no condition to be awake right now, much less give an interview. I admire your diligence but he will not be talking to you tonight or even tomorrow. He needs time to recover. He needs therapy.”
“And he needs his parent’s killer apprehended,” the female officer insists.
“That is true,” Alfred agrees, “but you know what he needs more? To be okay. That boy is in there blaming himself for his parents' deaths. He feels guilty for surviving. He hates himself for it. You will get his interview when he’s ready. If he ever feels ready.” And with that said, he pulls the door open wider just so he can have the satisfaction of slamming it in their face.
Not long after he closes the door, Alfred feels a tug on his jacket. And, low and behold, Bruce Wayne is standing behind him, his small forming rising up out of his shadow. Hearing about Bruce’s shadow teleporting powers is one thing but seeing it… Seeing it is another thing. “My goodness, you truly are a special boy,” Alfred remarks, hoping his words will comfort Bruce. Sadly, they have the opposite effect.
“No,” Bruce corrects him, blinking rapidly in an attempt to keep the tears at bay, “No Alfie, I’m not special. I’m cursed.”
It is in that moment Bruce reminds Alfred of the teacup he had dropped earlier. Bruce is fragile. Bruce is broken. But Alfred will not let him shatter.