Chapter Text
Nightmares had become a thing in his life since the incident, at first the doctors said they’ll fade away into his memory in a few months, then they said a year, then it kept going up until the present day, when they stopped having an answer, or a solution.
So, Bruce forced himself to live with it, he forced himself to live on less than four hours of sleep and caffeine, was it healthy? No, most likely not.
Harvey told him as much every morning at school, but soon grew tired of it and just started to point out the ever-growing bags under his eyes.
But he couldn’t help it. The nightmares kept repeating the same image in his mind, over and over again. The warm liquid splattering on his clothes, the sensation of it seeping into the fabric, sticky and horrifying. His mom’s pearls hitting the ground, each one like a bullet to his heart, but it hadn’t been him why couldn’t it be him? the sound echoing endlessly in his head. His dad’s jacket turning red, the vibrant color spreading like a sinister bloom, his mind refusing to accept what his eyes were seeing, it had to be a nightmare, he’d wake up anytime and his parents will be there to take him to the movie, they’ll be there, and they’ll go back home chatting about it, and Alfred will be waiting for them with hot cocoa and-
Their eyes locked on him. His mother’s once warm and gentle gaze now cold and empty, void of the life that used to be there. His father’s strong, reassuring eyes, now soulless and staring through him, as if blaming him for not being able to stop it. why was he so useless?
His world shattered. He could hear his own breath, ragged and panicked, his heart pounding so hard it felt like it would break his ribs. The overwhelming sense of helplessness, the crushing guilt, the terror that gripped his chest and made it impossible to breathe. He tried to scream, to reach out, but his voice was gone, trapped in his throat, as his tears choked out of his eyes, wetting his shirt, leaving big marks on it, until-
Every time he closed his eyes, he was back there, frozen in that moment, unable to move, unable to change anything. The same scene played out, the same horror, the same loss, and he was powerless to stop it. The nightmare wasn’t just in his sleep; it lingered in his waking hours, a dark cloud that never left him, making his every breath a struggle, every heartbeat a reminder of what he had lost, every time he looked in the mirror he saw them both in his own face, in the features the people loved to say he had inherited from them, his eyes, his chin, his hair, his mouth-
They were ghosts on his own body.
Sometimes, it made him cry himself to sleep, sometimes it was comforting, a way to remember them.
This one wasn’t one of those times.
He had stayed awake, again, as always, even as his eyes begged to be closed, and when he went to the bathroom -for a fifth time in the night- his own reflection did nothing to help, so he ran away from it, ran away like the little eight-year-old he once was that run away from dad trying to take a picture of him in his new suit.
That kid was far gone, and what remained of him was the shell, empty of life, filled of fear and regret, and anger and-
And sadness, Bruce admitted to himself as he felt the tears fell down on his pillow, as he let his own screaming fade into the soft fabric that hold his head.
He didn’t realize he fell asleep too.
He was back there, back in the alley, and he knew what would happen. He tried to scream, but his voice didn’t come out. Even if he had managed to cry out, he knew it would be useless. No one could hear him. No one noticed.
The same scene played out in front of his eyes, over and over again, a relentless loop of horror. His mother’s cry for help echoed in his ears as soon as his dad fell. The sound was sharp, desperate, and it repeated too, like a haunting refrain he couldn’t escape.
He saw her body hitting the ground, the lifeless thud reverberating through his very soul. The pearls scattered, bouncing off the cold, unforgiving pavement, each one a tiny reminder of the shattered life they represented.
The smell of gunpowder filled the air, acrid and suffocating, mingling with the metallic tang of blood that invaded his mouth and nose. It was a taste that clung to him, bitter and nauseating, making it impossible to breathe without being overwhelmed by the memory.
His heart pounded in his chest, a frantic drumbeat of fear and helplessness. He was trapped, frozen in that nightmare, unable to move or change anything. The scene replayed endlessly, a cycle of agony and despair that consumed him, making his every breath a struggle, every heartbeat a reminder of the life that was stolen from him.
His mother's eyes, wide with terror, locked onto his. They were pleading, desperate, yet they had already begun to lose their light, turning cold and empty as life slipped away from her, again, and again and his father's jacket, once a comforting shield, was now soaked in blood, the vibrant red spreading like a cruel, unstoppable tide.
The alley, dark and oppressive, seemed to close in around him, the walls becoming insurmountable barriers that trapped him in this moment of unimaginable loss. He felt the weight of the world pressing down on him, crushing his spirit, suffocating his will to fight back why couldn’t he just give up?
Every detail was etched into his mind with excruciating clarity: the harsh click of the gun being cocked, the blinding flash of the muzzle, the deafening bang that followed. He could see the gunman's shadowy figure, faceless and monstrous, looming over his parents with an air of finality that made his blood run cold.
The sense of powerlessness was overwhelming. He tried to move, to reach out, to do anything to change the outcome, but his limbs were heavy, unresponsive. It was as if he were wading through molasses, every motion slowed to an agonizing crawl.
It crawled under his skin as it woke him up.
His chest tightened with an attempt to scream, the sound trapped within him, a silent wail of anguish that tore at his insides. Tears blurred his vision, yet he couldn't look away, couldn't escape the sight of his parents' lifeless bodies crumpled on the ground.
He could feel his pulse pounding in his ears, a relentless thud that seemed to synchronize with the unending replay of his parents' murder. Each heartbeat was a painful reminder of his loss, each breath a struggle against the crushing weight of his grief.
In the depths of his mind, he knew this wasn't real, that he was trapped in a memory. But the pain, the fear, the overwhelming sense of helplessness felt all too real, like he was really back there, and not years down the aftermath. It was a torment he couldn't escape, a wound that never healed, a memory that haunted his every waking moment and plagued his dreams.
He was alone, utterly alone, in that dark alley, surrounded by the ghosts of his past. And no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't save them. He couldn't save himself from reliving this horror over and over again, a prisoner of his own tortured mind.
And no matter how hard he tried to call for them back, the wouldn’t come back, there was no one at his side, there was no one to call to, no one to-
No one to… pick him up…
How did he ever get out of there?
Did the commissioner drive him? He did, but there was someone else there, someone holding him, someone soothing him, passing a hand on his back.
There was someone, and afraid, little, lost and desperate, he called for him with all the strength he had left. “Daaaad, please, please come…!”
Bruce didn’t know how much time had passed, but by the time he opened his eyes, Alfred was there. "D-dad..."
He couldn’t see Alfred’s eyes clearly, tears blurring his vision but he clung to the older man as soon as he was within reach, burying his face in Alfred's chest. A hesitant hand landed on his back, drawing soothing circles. "There, there, dear boy, there..."
Bruce sobbed, choking down his words. "Please don’t go... please..."
"I won’t." Alfred's voice was firm, filled with unwavering assurance. "Please don’t leave me, too..."
"I wouldn’t even dream of it, my boy," Alfred repeated, hugging him close. "Never."
The warmth of Alfred’s embrace began to seep into Bruce’s chilled bones, slowly thawing the frozen terror that had gripped his heart. He felt Alfred’s steady heartbeat against his cheek, a calming rhythm that contrasted with the frantic pounding in his own. The nightmare began to fade, replaced by the comforting reality of Alfred’s presence, he was there, he was in his room, in the manor, not in the alley, Alfred was giving him a hug, he wasn’t alone.
"You're safe now," Alfred murmured, his voice gentle and soothing. "You're safe, and I’m here. I’m always here."
Bruce’s sobs gradually subsided into quiet sniffles. The smell of Alfred’s familiar cologne filled his senses, grounding him, pulling him back from the edge of his nightmare, the man’s hand continued its calming motion on his back, a constant reminder that he wasn’t alone, that he was loved, he was wanted here, he had to stay, he couldn’t leave Alfred alone, could he?
"I’m sorry," Bruce whispered, his voice barely audible.
"There’s nothing to apologize for," Alfred replied softly, maybe knowing of his thoughts, maybe not. "You’ve been through too much. It’s alright to be afraid sometimes."
Bruce pulled back slightly, looking up at Alfred with red-rimmed eyes. "Thank you," he said, his voice shaky but sincere as he tried to dry his tears with the sleeve of his pajamas, the man offered him a handkerchief that he took with a little smile.
Alfred smiled back, gently, brushing a stray lock of hair from Bruce’s forehead. "You don’t have to thank me. It’s my honor to be here for you, always."
For a moment, they sat in silence, the only sounds in the room their mingled breaths and the distant hum of the outside of the manor. Bruce felt a sense of peace wash over him, a rare and precious moment of tranquility, as for a moment, the grief left his body.
"How about some hot chocolate?" Alfred suggested, his tone lightening, still a hand in his wards back. "It always helped when you were a younger boy."
Bruce nodded, a small, grateful smile widening on his lips. "I’d like that."
Alfred helped him up from the bed, guiding him to the kitchen where he began to prepare the comforting drink. As Bruce watched Alfred move about, he felt the last remnants of his nightmare dissipate, replaced by the warmth and safety of the moment.
They sat together, sipping hot chocolate, the silence between them filled with unspoken understanding and love, one he hadn’t ever truly doubted but it was nice to confirm. Bruce knew that no matter what horrors the night brought, he would always have this, this sanctuary with Alfred, where he was never truly alone.
Alfred knew it too well. He had known for a long time that this boy, this little, hurt, and bright boy, was his. Maybe not by blood, as was conventional, but his nonetheless.
He knew since that night. It should have been a normal night, but then he had gotten the call. In less than twenty minutes, he was there. He had to see them, his old friends, deprived of the life they had just a few hours ago. He had to see the boy he had helped raise, shattered, broken, almost gone from reality.
And in that moment, he knew he couldn’t leave him.
Alfred had originally planned to leave this work, to go somewhere else, maybe get married, keep in touch with his old friends. But in the moment, he saw that little boy, he made a decision.
A decision to stay.
It was this moment that he kept coming back to over the years. When Bruce came back from overseas, announcing he’d left med school to become a vigilante. When he came back from the circus with a child in his arms. When he came back from his parents' memorial with another one holding his hand. When he asked Alfred to make adoption papers for Tim, long overdue if he might add, when Damian proclaimed him as his father and took everyone by storm.
When—well, every time his ward decided to add a new member to the family.
He also remembered it when Bruce came back with his second child’s body in his arms, tears long dried up in his cheeks, gone with his soul.
When Dick left the manor, angry at his father, and Alfred knew both had said things they’ll grow to regret.
When Tim’s blood father took him away from them.
When they thought Stephanie to be dead.
When he lost Damian too.
And when all of the kids were home for the first time.
And now, as Alfred sat with Bruce, the man who had once been that broken little boy, he felt the weight of those decisions and the love that came with them. The nightmares that haunted Bruce were fierce, but Alfred’s presence was a constant, unwavering light, and now, they were long gone, sometimes they had been replaced by worst scenarios, but at the end, those disappeared too.
Bruce looked up at Alfred, the warmth of the hot chocolate and the comfort of the older man’s presence soothing his frayed nerves. "Thank you," he said softly, the words carrying years of gratitude and unspoken emotion.
Alfred smiled, the kind of smile that held a lifetime of understanding. "You don’t need to thank me, Master Bruce. It’s my privilege to be here for you."
Bruce nodded, a small smile tugging at his lips. "I don’t say it enough, but Alfred, you are…”
The words hung in the air, heavy with meaning. Alfred’s heart swelled with a mixture of pride and love, he knew, if there was anyone who knew the complex language that Bruce Wayne spoke it was him, and he didn’t need any more to know what he wanted to say, so, he placed a gentle hand on Bruce’s shoulder -on his son’s shoulder- "And you, Master Bruce, are the best decision I made."
They sat in comfortable silence, the bond between them speaking louder than words. Alfred knew that no matter the horrors of the night, no matter the challenges that lay ahead, his boy wasn’t alone anymore, he understood that know. Because family wasn’t just about blood—it was about the choices you made, the people you stood by, and the love you shared, most of the kids under this roof were the living proof.
And in this moment, surrounded by the quiet of the manor and the warmth of their companionship, they both knew that they were each other’s family. Always.
At least until, one by one, the kids started to wake up. “B, who gave you permission to leaveeeeeee.”
One of them complained, as he entered the kitchen, the oldest one. “I had to ask for it?”
“Of course, you do! Dickface clung to me because he couldn’t find you, now get him out of me.” And that was the second one, in order, not in age.
“Not fair, yours doesn’t bite.” The third one complained, and a grunt was heard over. “You should be thankful for being considered, Drake.”
“Koala code, help.” The only (official) girl spoke up. “Nu uh, if they get to, I get to.”
“Could you only cling to Cass at least?” And that was the last one. “Double the power!”
Alfred heard his wards sigh from the kitchen, and the image he had pictured on his head was pretty precise to the one he saw upon coming out of the kitchen, a trail of different colored mugs with him. He looked at them with a smile. “Would you mind some chocolate while I prepare the breakfast?”
In less than a blink, arms were freed and mugs were gone from the trail, along with it, came a line of gratitude.
And in that very moment, he knew, that no matter all the pain along the way, if he could go back, he wouldn’t change a thing.