Work Text:
Alfred Pennyworth clears his throat from just outside Master Wayne’s bedroom door. His young charge- well, recently charge… had been spending the past several hours alone in his bedroom. Meanwhile, he was expected to be present at his first official board meeting for Wayne Enterprises.
It had been four months since Master Bruce had surpassed the age of eighteen. The board was getting restless, with each meeting scheduled being rejected by the young Wayne. Alfred was beginning to feel some embarrassment at the thought.
Alfred, dejectedly, but politely returns to knocking on Master Wayne’s door. “Master Wayne…” he starts, “I understand that this event is not one you wish to be in attendance for… but it is absolutely essential that you make an appearance for the sake of Wayne Enterprise”.
Alfred hears nothing, other than maybe a drop of water leaking from the ceiling. The old gothic mansion is a sight to behold, but it is also consistently in need of structural repair in its oldest components. Alfred ever so slightly increases the intensity of his knocking after a short period of waiting. He sighs deeply. “Master Bruce”, he emphasizes his first name this time. “I believe at this age you should have the maturity to realize your familial obligations. I understand that you have… reservations… to being involved in any part of your parents’ investments and philanthropy, but it was important to them that you carry on their work in Gotham, at the very least.” Again, nothing.
A minute passes by. He checks the clock. The time is 16:56, and the meeting will start at 17:30. He could imagine the young man brooding in his bedroom in ratty attire. Unshaven, unkempt, and smelling like any young teenager does after days of avoiding bathing. That is enough to have him using a more gruff tone: “ Bruce. Wayne. This is borderline juvenile. I insist that you come out at this very moment.” More dripping from the ceiling.
The butler realizes that he must sound quite cross, and ceases his reprimanding. The last thing he wants is to push the lad further away. He’s not the boy’s father, but he can’t help but feel a fatherly connection to Bruce. He has so much pride for the boy, but also quite a bit of frustration in moments like these. Thomas and Martha Wayne have been deceased for nearly 10 years. He wonders passively, if he’s done right by them. Not in just preparing him for manhood, but preparing him for the world.
He waits a few moments more, then pulls out his business cell to call off the meeting by text. This isn’t happening. He lets a few seconds pass to collect himself.
“Bruce,” he says softly, “I’m sorry, I-“
His train of thought stops entirely when he notices drops of water slowly trickling out from under the bedroom door and into the hallway’s wooden floor. He immediately tries for the door knob. Locked.
Alfred doesn’t hesitate. Privacy be damned. He pulls out a spare key and slings open the dark antique doorway.
“Bruce!” he calls out before he’s entered the room. Papers are scattered all over Master Bruce’s bed. A bottle of booze that Bruce had gotten from God knows where was left half empty on the night stand. The floors are not yet flooded, he notices, but the natural curve of the floorboard has a thin stream of water flowing from the closed bathroom door. The butler looks closer at as he quickly moves for the bathroom. The water closest to him is faintly tainted with crimson. He feels a sensation in his body that is colder than any ice he’s ever felt. He rips the door open, thankful to the heavens that the lock that broke months ago hadn’t yet been replaced. “Bru-“
Oh. Oh dear God.
Bruce Wayne is stripped down to his underwear in a pale pink colored bath. He sees a silver glint in the corner of his eye. He lunges for the boy, looking him over and taking in the trauma that has been inflicted to his ghostly skin. He feels a faint pulse in his neck, but the boy is frigid in temperature. Alfred has seen worse, but if he remains much longer there’s no way to be sure that this is reversible.
Alfred doesn’t even let himself feel relief at having found vital signs. He pulls out a first aid kit kept in the counter and prays that what he can provide for the young man will be sufficient for now. He doesn’t remember anything in these next few moments as he feels himself kick into an adrenaline fueled race against time. He doesn’t know how long it’s been, or how such a thing could happen to his poor son. He’s down to the pure basics at this point— hardly feeling anything other than frenzied compulsive action:
- Summon the medical team from downstairs by way of his mobile used strictly for confidential functions. They will have the full staff ready in fifteen minutes, he is sure. This doesn’t feel fast enough.
- Manifest every little bit he knows about first aid from the furthest parts of his mind. He will not freeze up now. Bruce needs him.
- Wrap the jarring jagged gashes that are frighteningly close to his arteries. He feels faint at the thought of Bruce having summoned up the will to make such intentional cuts.
- Check for his pulse again because, God, what if he’s too late? Listen for every breath like it could be the breaking of his sacred oath. Alfred cannot, will not, outlive this child.
- Repeat steps 2 through 4. Rise. And. Fucking. Repeat.
Alfred’s heart leaps when he hears a short gasp come from Bruce’s previously still lips. His too-long inky hair is damp, and draped over his eyes. Alfred gently brushes the hair aside. “Bruce, Bruce. I’m here, my lad. I’m here.”
Bruce murmurs something incoherent and then, to Alfred’s horror, seems to fade again. He gently pats the boys face to keep him here, with him. “No. No Master Bruce. It’s not time to rest. Not yet.” He asserts nervously. Where are the damn medics?
“Al… Alfr’d ” the boy starts. He gets quiet again.
The butler must keep Bruce talking. “Yes my boy, yes. What is it, lad?”
Bruce winces uncomfortably, but he doesn’t seem to feel much. Alfred can smell liquor on his breath. “Alfie” he whines softly. “Alfie, I’m s’ sorry.”
“My boy, what are you apologizing for?” He gently squeezes his hand to keep him in awareness.
“M’ sorry for drinkin’. I know ye rn’t fond f’ it…”
Alfred shakes his head shortly “Bruce, that’s hardly of concern my poor boy. What…” he begins to say, but he doesn’t know what to ask.
“Alfie” Bruce slurs “M’ sorry for wastin’ your time. m’ sorry.” He lets out a shaky breath.
“Master Bruce, no. What are you saying? I am here for you always.” Alfred struggles to keep a towel that’s soaked deep red on one wrist as it slips due to its increasing density.
“M’ no good. I can’t be my Dad.” he lets out a small sob, completely wasted and faint from blood loss. “n’ mom, I’m not a Wayne. I can’t do it, Alfie. It hurts. I know I disappoint you.” Bruce is without filter, unaware of reality as Alfred sees it.
Alfred’s facial expression falls. “Master Bruce, there’s nothing you could do to disappoint me. I care for you-“
Bruce shakes his head with as much control as he can muster. “Alfie.” He says once more. He doesn’t seem to hear much of what the butler is saying, he’s so gone. “Alfie, m’ sorry I wasn’t brave nuff’ to cut right. You shouldn’ have t’ do this. I… tried t’ drink so I wouldn’ feel… so… scared… t’ do it” he trails off. His breathing slows.
His heart breaks into shards. “Master Bruce. Bruce. Bruce. Please, Lad, hang on.” He hears racing up the creaky wooden stairs.
“s’ kay’ Al… you won’ have t’ worry bout me anymore. I’ll say hi to mum n’ da…” God, there’s so much blood.
“No, no, no. I want to worry about you, Bruce. I want to worry about you forever. I want to worry about you until MY last breath. You aren’t going anywhere.”
Bruce certainly doesn’t hear a thing. The doors bust open. As they take him away Alfred spends a moment on the cold wet floor: finally letting himself feel.