Work Text:
Bruce Wayne was not to blame for what happened that day.
Bruce Wayne hadn't been anything but to blame in a long while. You see, it all started on a different cold night, far before he was not Bruce Wayne, before he was Batman, before he was an orphan. He was just a child when he fell onto a well carved onto the estate grounds surrounding the mansion. He was just a child when he started learning all the rules. “Be polite, stern, precise, and unapologetic”.
Be a man.
He was just a man when he decided he could change the world. He was just a simple man when The League of Assassins trained him, just a man as he learned to speak with his actions and shut his mouth. He was just a man as he started to see the power of being conspicuous. His inability to go unnoticed had haunted him for his whole life, and from necessity, it seemed he had learned to make the best out of the situation.
Bruce Wayne had decided -a long time ago- that who he was behind his many masks didn't matter. He had decided that Batman needed to be more than just who Bruce Wayne was. So, he needed to be more than just a man. As he sat near the fireplace, staring ahead with a glass in his hands, he doubted. After all, he was just a man. His punishments should be as human as he.
Did people deserve to suffer as much as he had? Had he not been good enough to deserve fairness? Had he not atoned for the sin of having too much? Eating sufficiently, taking too much space, overly committing? Was he being punished for playing god or for being human?
He took a drink out of his glass. His hands trembled.
He was not a simple man anymore. It is excruciating to be simple in Gotham. Having to appeal to the public with a persona with nothing behind his eyes had been appealing ten years ago when he was a younger man. It felt like a relief to be able to wear a persona so simple-minded, so incredibly dainty and forthcoming. Incredibly separated from who he was so that he could create himself up from the ground instead of molding old clay onto some amalgamation of who he was. Burdened by his knowledge of the world, he thought being dumb -ignorant- would be easier. Is it easier now? Now that he has to pretend he doesn't know his son died screaming for him to save him, believing in him?
Is it easier now that he has to ignore fairness? Is it easier to look himself in the eyes and remind himself he is not a person when he wears that cursed mask? That he has no right to burn the world down just because he could?
When did it all start, if not 30 years ago: when he fell into a stupid well?
Perhaps none of this would have happened if not for that well.
(If not because he’s afraid)
It seems Bruce is always afraid.
Afraid of Dick dying to some stupid goon, of having cursed him with his burden. Afraid of Jason haunting him, of forcing Tim to do something as reckless as vigilantism. Of himself, relenting towards some postmodern tribalism to be right without effort. Relenting towards a half-minded exertion of justice, acting as judge and jury while refusing to think.
"Master Bruce?" He snapped back to reality.
"Yes, Alfred?"
"It is quite late," a phrase at the heart of his life. He bared his teeth and stared ahead.
"It is," he echoed, like an epigraph, reminding himself of everything he lost. He hears Alfred sigh and hears the light footsteps fill the silence.
Alfred sits on a small chair near the fireplace, just a couple meters away from Bruce, attempting to maintain a semblance of distance as if giving him a choice to run.
"Did you wake up?"
"I didn't go to sleep," Bruce replied calmly, avoiding Alfred's gaze.
"Is that so? I had hoped the comfort of your silk pillows would persuade you to rest from time to time," Alfred said while crossing his legs and fixing his gaze on Bruce.
"You should know me better by now," he said petulantly. Alfred huffed a laugh.
"Yes, you were never one to indulge in comforts," Bruce looked at him for a split second, trying to decipher Alfred's demeanor.
"Alfred, before you say anything-" Alfred raised his hand unbothered as if to stop him from interjecting.
"Master Bruce, I have tended over Wayne Manor ever since my father died. I have tended over what's rightfully yours, and know this place intimately. I have seen how it looks when you are... content."
Alfred's gaze burned with the weight of his life, "I have... been here for longer than I've been a good man," Flashes of a younger Dick, crawling on every surface, taking in every detail, "by your side through it all. Through every choice you've taken, from the moment you chose to train to your prolonged absences from the manor." Memories of all the missed recitals and the restless nights guarding over threats that weren't here yet. "I have... been here for years, and I have never seen you overwhelm yourself quite like this,"
"Alfred-"
"No, Master Bruce," Alfred leaned forward stiffly and stared at his hands crossed over his knees. "I've seen you endure public scrutiny, brush off doubts about your integrity as both Batman and Bruce Wayne. I was there when Master Jason... passed away."
Alfred looked up at him. Bruce stirred on the chair, staring ahead pointedly.
"Alfred, you don't understand-"
"I believe I understand more than you think, Master Bruce," Alfred said firmly. "I've watched you grow from a grieving young boy into a man haunted by your past. I've watched you carry the weight of Gotham on your shoulders, and I've seen the toll it's taken on you."
"I won't stand by as you destroy yourself again," He hears, more than feels, his own chest constrict. He doesn't show his own surprise at how the words affect him.
"Alfred," his voice grew a silky tone only ever used to charm his way through socialite events. His eyes grow colder, and a reassuring smile plays across his lips.
Had anyone else been in the room, they would not have noticed the slight twitch of his fingers, the tenseness in his jaw that is forced out as he says, "You don't need to worry about me so much." Alfred notices.
"I'll be in my office, should you need me for anything," Bruce leaves his glass on the small table and stands up, forcing his legs to support his weight.
Alfred stares.
Had Thomas been here he would have- He'd have... done something. He would have said the right things and grasped at your emotions before you understood them. Martha following close behind him. Recklessly honest and willing to overcome everything. Had they been here, they would have chased him and-
"Bruce-" Alfred stood up.
"Good night, Alfred."
It's morning. The rays have just started hitting below the closed curtains of the manor. Had they been here, the curtains would have remained closed for another couple of hours.
Alfred slammed the curtains open. He grabbed the ornamented half-full glass and threw it in the nearest trash can. For a split second, he doubted if anybody would miss it before leaving the room without glancing back.