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Bruce had been the one to insist on it. He’s ten years old now, after all, and anyway he feels so much older than all of his classmates. Ex-classmates now, he supposes, since Alfred pulled him out to homeschool him after his fourth fight in as many months. Either way, he’s more than old enough to stay home by himself for a little while.
But, “a little while” was supposed to mean a few minutes. Half an hour, tops. Just enough time for Alfred to run to the store and get the onion he forgot. (Just enough time for him to get away from Bruce for a while, to finally have some peace and quiet.)
It was Bruce’s fault he forgot it anyway. If he hadn’t been so obnoxious and difficult while they were at the store, Alfred wouldn’t have been distracted and somehow missed something on his neatly-organized shopping list. He didn’t mean to be so awful, Alfred certainly didn’t deserve it, but sometimes he can’t help it. He didn’t even realize that he was being terrible until Alfred had snapped at him to stop.
It’s Bruce’s fault he forgot the onion, so it’s Bruce’s fault he had to go back out. That means that it’s also Bruce’s fault that he’s in the house alone and Alfred is thirty minutes late.
Lightning flashes outside, lighting up the dark window even though his pulled-shut curtains. Bruce flinches against the sudden brightness, smacking his hands over his ears and ducking his head between his knees to try and block out what he knows is coming next. It does very little, the thundercrack so loud that he feels it shaking in his bones.
Objectively, it sounds nothing like a gunshot. Bruce is smart. He knows it’s not a gunshot. He knows.
That doesn’t stop the involuntary flinch that jolts through him at the loud sound, causing him to curl in on himself even tighter. His muscles are starting to cramp up, but he doesn’t think he could bring himself to let go of where he’s gripping his knees even if he wanted to. He’s holding the fabric of his pants so tightly he’s afraid the fabric might rip. Just another problem he’d be creating for Alfred.
That is, if Alfred ever comes back.
The sob tears through him before he even begins to process the thought. No, no, no. This isn’t like that night. Alfred isn’t his mom and dad. The grocery store isn’t Park Row.
But car accidents happen all the time, especially with the dark storm clouds that rolled in so suddenly and eclipsed the setting sun, and the rain is so thick and heavy that Bruce can’t see out of his bedroom window. Surely it’s no different for a car windshield.
Alfred is late. Alfred is never late, but he is right now, after he promised Bruce that he would be back in under half an hour. And Alfred doesn’t break his promises.
Oh god, Bruce got him killed. He’d killed his parents and now Alfred too, everyone who’s ever cared for Bruce just gone, leaving him alone in this empty house that’s too big for one person, especially one ten-year-old child. Everyone who has to put up with Bruce dies; it’s like he’s cursed or something. He must be, he has to be. It can’t be natural for his heart to hurt like this, to feel so cold and lonely that it’s physically painful.
He ruins everything he touches, destroys everything he loves.
“I’m sorry,” Bruce sobs out to no one but his own empty bedroom. If he weren’t so numb, he might be startled by the sudden wetness on his face, tears blurring his vision and rolling like rain down his cheeks. “Please, I didn’t mean to. I didn’t mean to! I'll be good from now on, I swear.”
He ducks his head again, yelping and flinching at the next violent crack of thunder. His tears soak straight through his slacks as he curls up as tight as he can go. Maybe if he makes himself even smaller, he’ll just vanish. Maybe if he disappears, Alfred will come back, his mom and dad too. Surely they can live on without all of Bruce’s difficulties to weigh them down.
(It’s too late, he’s too late, they’re already gone.)
He is too lost to notice when there is a rapping against his bedroom door, or when said door swings open upon getting no response. He is too lost to recognize the other person in his room, at least until someone or something flips the light on. The sudden change startles him like another flash of lightning, but this one lingers, doesn’t dim.
“Master Bruce, what on earth are you doing holed up here in the dark? Are you quite alright?”
Bruce unfurls from his twisted-up knot so fast that it makes his joints pop. Alfred is here. Alfred is here, slightly waterlogged and frowning but alive and unhurt. He’s back.
“Alfred,” Bruce breathes for the first time in what must be thirty minutes . “You came back.”
Alfred moves quickly to his side, settling on the edge of the bed even as Bruce shifts to meet him, needing to be closer. He tips sideways as soon as he’s within proximity, his shoulder surely digging painfully into Alfred’s upper arm.
“Oh dear child, of course I did. The wind merely knocked a tree into the road and I was forced to take a detour. I’m very sorry to have worried you like that.”
He runs his fingers through Bruce’s hair, pushing it back off of his forehead. Alfred’s smile is gentle, although slightly pinched around the edges, something else hidden there. Sadness, maybe? Or worry? Bruce can’t quite figure it out, but he doesn’t like it. Seeing Alfred upset only reminds Bruce that it’s his fault his guardian is unhappy. Is always at least a little bit unhappy.
Bruce throws himself at Alfred suddenly, arms wrapping around his neck as he buries his face in Alfred’s shirt. It’s still slightly damp from the rain and Bruce sobs again, remembering how he’d driven Alfred out into the rain all alone. Alfred startles just slightly before Bruce finds himself being wrapped up, his hug returned almost as fiercely, his head tucked under Alfred's chin.
“I thought you were gone,” Bruce says, voice cracking. “I thought I killed you, like how I killed them. I thought you were gone forever.”
Alfred inhales sharply at his words, suddenly squeezing tightly. His hand rubs up and down Bruce’s spine, rhythmic and grounding. “Oh my dear, sweet boy. No. You did nothing of the sort, to either myself or your parents. What happened to them was not your fault, do you hear me? Not your fault in the slightest, and I will not allow you to continue to blame yourself for even one minute longer.”
Bruce presses even closer, feels his tears beginning to wet the fabric of Alfred’s shirt. He shakes his head, mouth glued shut. Alfred is wrong. He’s just trying to make Bruce feel better. He knows it’s his fault. He’d wanted to see that movie, he’d been tired and cranky and made them take that shortcut. Without Bruce, his mom and dad would still be alive. And Alfred wouldn’t have had to risk his life driving in this storm. Even though he didn’t, he still could have died, and that would have been all Bruce’s fault.
He hurts everything he touches, ungrateful and bratty until the moment it’s yanked from his grip, the tips of his fingers left torn and bloody, hands empty nonetheless. It would be easier, he thinks, to just stop. Stop caring. Stop holding on at all. Losing people has got to be so much easier if you don’t love them.
But he’s just so lonely, all the time, and he doesn’t know how to live with it. He barely knows how to think or breathe or exist sometimes. It’s all too much. Loving people is scary and being lonely is even scarier. He feels constantly bogged down, neither option a viable one in the long-run.
“Please don’t leave me,” is what he whispers now. Doesn’t have the words to express just how desperate he is. “Please. Never. I'll be good.”
“You are good," Alfred says. "And I will do everything in my power to stay with you for as long as you need me." His voice is so calm and soothing. Bruce nods rapidly, as though this is an option he can choose and not something wildly out of both of their controls.
“I’m sorry,” he says again. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”
“Hush now, you have nothing to be sorry for. Everything is alright now.”
Bruce shakes his head, burying his face against Alfred’s shoulder. “I’m so horrible,” he says. “I don’t mean to be. I’m sorry. I just, I don’t know how to stop. I think there’s something wrong with me.”
“No,” Alfred insists readily. “No, there is nothing wrong with you, you hear? You are a brilliant boy, and a kind one. You have such a big heart, one that I am so proud to be able to know. You have been dealt a difficult hand, Master Bruce. I cannot fault you for stumbling a bit every now and then. You are grieving. I understand. The situation is often difficult, you are not. It does not make you a bad person to grieve, nor a burden. It does not make me love you any less.”
Love is not a word either of them say easily anymore. Even now, Bruce can’t seem to force it out. It lodges in his throat or sticks to his tongue, a phantom weight that he can feel, choking and sour. He thinks it, though, thinks it every single day. It flows in his veins, as sure as the rush of air in and out of his lungs. He feels it, desperately, a physical sensation in his chest and his throat and even the very tips of his fingers and toes. Bruce breathes and squeezes tighter, wishing that for once he could say it.
“I really must get started on dinner,” Alfred says eventually, the soothing hand brushing up and down along Bruce’s spine never ceasing its comforting movements. “It will already be quite late as it is.”
Bruce shakes his head so rapidly that it makes him a little dizzy. “Please,” he whispers, not even sure what he’s asking.
Alfred studies him for a long moment, face clouded and unreadable. Bruce is nearly ready to begin sobbing again by the time he finally speaks.
“Perhaps you ought to join me, then. I’m feeling rather lonely, and I would greatly enjoy your company. You can even help me prepare our supper.”
Bruce nods immediately. Please, he needs to do something, anything, to stop feeling like this, itchy and uncomfortable and wrong. He’s felt wrong for so long, and he just wants to be better.
He wants to be a good son again, even if the person raising him is different now.
“Alright then,” Alfred says, his gentle, sad smile returning. “Are you alright to move or would you like another moment to compose yourself? It’s alright if you do. I’m in no great rush, so long as you are alright with a bit later supper than usual.”
“I’m okay,” Bruce says. He feels wrung out, head beginning to dully ache from all his crying. He lets Alfred extract himself the rest of the way from the tangle of Bruce’s limbs, following close behind and grabbing hold of Alfred’s shirt when his stomach rolls at the idea of being separated.
Alfred notices and stops them in the middle of the hallway to wrap an arm around Bruce’s shoulder. He then does the unexpected, leaning over sideways to press a lingering kiss to Bruce’s hair.
“I’m not going anywhere,” Alfred murmurs. “I promise, dear child. I will always be here for you.”
Bruce just holds on tight. Maybe this time he’ll be strong enough.