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In his own head Bruce can admit that maybe, but only just maybe, it’s his own damn fault he ended up here – wherever here might be.
He’d been down in the Cave, grudgingly heeding Alfred’s instruction not to patrol while his ribs healed up (honestly, they were mostly just a little bruised, the worst not even cracked all the way through, Bruce didn’t know why the butler always made such a fuss) and had been admittedly bored out of his mind.
There weren’t any urgent cases for him to work on, and his kids very much hadn’t appreciated Bruce’s helpful comments over the comms and had summarily muted him, so with nothing to do and feeling slightly frustrated he’d looked for something useful to occupy his time with around the Cave, trying not to feel insulted that Alfred hadn’t been muted like him.
While wandering around somewhat aimlessly, nothing around the main part of the Cave catching his interest, he’d stumbled across an assortment of strange equipment in one of the only seldomly used back rooms - gear from some mad scientist or other they’d busted ages ago and promptly forgotten about as something more important came along.
Well, no time like the present, Bruce had thought, intending to finally figure out what exactly the equipment was even supposed to be for, and like an absolute idiot he had of course somehow pressed one of the buttons while tinkering, and then a blinding light was suddenly engulfing him as he felt the all too familiar sensation of space shifting and warping around him.
Once the bright spots had cleared from his vision Bruce had looked around to find himself not in the Batcave anymore but in an alleyway, sitting on the cold ground between an overflowing garbage can and a couple of rusted bikes that had long since been relieved of their wheels.
Touching an unknown piece of technology and getting transported wasn’t how Bruce had planned on spending his evening, and though he knew this could end up being a very dire situation for him (hopefully this wouldn’t be another instance of getting stuck in time and being presumed dead – that experience had been quite enough once, he didn’t need a second go of it), his first thought was still how glad he was none of his kids had witnessed him making such a stupid rookie mistake.
Seriously, one of the first things he taught each and every one of his protégés was to be careful with unknown technology and now he had gone and done exactly the opposite himself. He won’t hear the end of it once they find out.
With a deep sigh Bruce finally gives into the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose for a brief moment as he squeezes his eyes shut, trying to squash down the annoyance he feels with himself.
Focus, he tells himself. The most important thing right now is to find out where he is and how he can get back home - everything else he can deal with later.
He’s not wearing the suit right now, but Bruce is still a detective even without his gear, so he begins to carefully inspect his surroundings as soon as he has centred himself and gotten up from the floor.
The alley is just what it appeared to be at first glance; a small pathway between two buildings, litter spread sporadically across the ground and graffiti adorning large portions of the wall. In the dark Bruce can’t make out a lot of the faded words and signs, but he sees enough to be able to tell that it’s mostly the scribblings of teenagers and not the gang and rogue tags he’s used to.
That might have given him reason to suspect he’s not in Gotham anymore but the distant sound of sirens and the unmistakable weight of pollution in the air tells Bruce differently – and that’s a relief if he’s being honest. He could have been transported to an alien planet for all he knows, so merely walking back home a couple of miles seems a relatively minor price to pay for his own carelessness.
Bruce is still cautious when he makes his way out of the alley though, overly aware of his missing suit and the lack of protection his faded jeans and sweater afford him - depending on which part of the city he’s in this might still become a rather interesting night - but the street he emerges on doesn’t seem to be in any way special or ominous.
Despite the late hour there are a few couples and small groups walking about, looking like they’re just about to head home from a night out or heading to the next party, all of them seeming surprisingly unconcerned with their surroundings for being in Gotham after dark.
So Bruce isn’t in one of the worse parts of the city then (and he can practically hear Jason’s snarky “Where have you been living old man. This whole city is a shitshow.” in his head, his lip twitching up a little in amusement at the mental image).
Maybe he was lucky and the equipment he touched really was just a teleportation device that transported him to some random alley in Gotham - that would make this whole trip embarrassing if the kids ever find out, sure, but all in all not a bad evening in Bruce’s books.
He’s just beginning to look around for a street sign or a familiar building to get his bearings when a string of police cars comes barrelling around the corner, sirens blaring and tires screeching as they accelerate well past the speed limit. The convoy passes him by and takes a turn at the next intersection and without consciously deciding to do so Bruce is already sprinting after it.
He might not be out as Batman tonight, but Gotham is still his to protect. Besides, his kids are patrolling the streets and if something serious is happening he needs to make sure they’re alright.
It isn’t until Bruce is slowing his run to a less conspicuous jog as he comes close to the haphazardly placed police blockade that a sense of familiarity strikes him and he finally begins to actively take in the details of his surroundings, registering where exactly in Gotham he is.
His steps falter as he looks at the theatre he just passed, the looming entrance and colourful posters an image he has seen countless times in his nightmares, and his breath freezes as his eyes catch on the billboard above the doorway.
“The Mark of Zorro” is emblazoned there in big, bold letters and Bruce’s heart skips a beat and then seems to stop for an endless moment as realisation crashes over him.
Taking in a shuddering breath Bruce tries to pull himself together, reminding himself to stay calm and focused, to take in the situation with as much professional detachment as he can and assess the facts.
Fact: He touched an unknown piece of technology and activated some kind of teleportation mechanism.
Fact: He was transported by said technology, but there appeared to be no other physical changes to his person or any kind of psychological effects.
Fact: He’s standing in front of a theatre that he knows has been desolate and unoccupied for the last thirty years in his time but appears to be open and in prime condition wherever he is now.
Conclusion: He travelled back in time, or something very much wants to make him think he did, to the moment that would define the rest of his life.
Although, that isn’t exactly true now, is it?
Because the moment that made Bruce who he is, that shaped him and would put him on the path towards creating the man who he had become, has already passed.
The police are already here, which means it has been about half an hour since… since.
The realisation that his parents are dead and Bruce once again can’t do anything to help them hits him with surprising force and for a few seconds Bruce is torn between a new wave of grief and rage, his mind railing at the injustice of sending him back here only to have him be minutes too late to save them, but at the same time he also feels a begrudging gratefulness. He knows that changing the past has terrible consequences, and given the opportunity he isn’t sure he would have been strong enough to resist the temptation of doing so nonetheless.
As it is he finds himself in a time so impossibly like his own - Thomas and Martha Wayne dead, always dead – but also so unlike his because their bodies are lying only a dozen feet away, not yet cold and gone forever.
Indecision isn’t usually one of Bruce’s faults but right now he’s only standing there, leashed to the ground as if caught by one of Ivy’s roots, his inexplicable desire to see his parents just one more time warring with his rationality and the cold knowledge how bad of an idea that would be.
In the end it’s barely even a contest though – no force on earth could stop him from returning to that alley, not on this night or any other in his life.
On wooden legs Bruce walks up to the barricade, and he’s close enough now that he can peer into the shadows of the alleyway where he lost his parents but also gained a son, where his life changed both for the worse and the better.
There are police officers bustling about, gathering evidence and securing the scene, but Bruce barely spares them a glance.
No, his eyes find the small, shaking figure off to the side, the little boy who is practically drowning in a man’s overcoat and being held firmly against the chest of a police officer who is murmuring soothing nothings to him as the boy’s world shatters to pieces.
Jim Gordon looks impossibly young without any grey in his hair and the weight of the entire GCPD on his shoulders; the eight-year-old boy he is holding seems unbelievably tiny in his arms.
Bruce’s own memories of this night are spotty at best, some moments burned into his mind and heart in bright technicolour and minute detail, while others are just blank swashes of darkness filled with a terrible grief, but this, being held and feeling safe despite the terror clawing through his entire being, he remembers.
Jim Gordon’s kindness had shaped Bruce just as much as the bullets that took his parents from him, and for some reason Bruce can’t keep his eyes on his younger counterpart and the fledgling detective – it feels intrusive and wrong to witness this moment from the outside when he already carries it inside himself wherever he goes, and so he drops his eyes to the cracked pavement and steels himself internally to do what he initially intended to come here for.
Sucking in a steadying breath he finally looks directly into the alleyway, his eyes inevitably drawn to the prone figures on the ground.
The bodies are shrouded in darkness, the wet gleam of blood around them making Bruce nearly nauseous even though it is far from the grisliest scene he has ever encountered. They’re already covered, and Bruce doesn’t know if it’s disappointment or relief rearing its head at the realisation that he won’t even see his parents again under these circumstances.
What brings him up short though is the fact that instead of the two bodies he had expected to find, there are three lying in the alleyway.
The analytical side of his brain immediately points out that this means he hasn’t just time-travelled but that he’s in a different universe, which means a whole other set of rules governs this little trip.
That realisation though is immediately forgotten when Bruce’s gaze automatically scans the three covered bodies for any identifying marks, and next to the scattered pearls of his mother’s necklace and the watch on his father’s wrist just peeking out from beneath one of the tarps he recognizes a familiar pair of shoes on the third body.
Bruce’s breath catches and his chest suddenly feels as tight as if Killer Croc had punched him in the sternum, because he knows those shoes, had watched numerous iterations of them tread through the Manor, polished them to a shine when he’d been in trouble, asked countless times why for Pete’s sake their owner would never buy a different model.
“A good pair of shoes is more than an article of clothing,” he would always get as an answer, a life-lesson imparted with a stern voice though paired with fondness sparkling in eyes that had seen so much but were still only ever kind; Bruce can hear the voice right now even over the ringing sound steadily increasing in his head. “They signify character and carry a man through life, so once one finds a make that fits, they’d do well in keeping loyal to it, Master Bruce.”
Alfred.
It’s Alfred lying still and lifeless under that tarp in the dark alley, and as much as seeing his parents dead hurts, that is an old pain Bruce has long since learned to live with. Finding Alfred here though – heartbreak and despair on a scale that Bruce can barely even fathom overcome him at the realisation that his butler, his guardian, his…his Alfred is gone from this world.
It seems like heresy even just to think such a thing – Alfred is the constant in Bruce’s life, him not being there anymore seems like a violation of the most basic laws of nature.
Gravity reversing its direction, time standing still, the Earth changing its trajectory through space – these would all sound more probable, more believable to Bruce than the sentence ‘Alfred Pennyworth is dead’, and yet…
And yet the evidence is right here in front of his eyes and no matter where or when Bruce Wayne is, at the heart of it all he will always be a detective whose observations lead him through life.
Fact: Alfred Pennyworth has been killed, taken far too early from this world.
Bruce has to remind himself that this isn’t his reality at this point, or he knows he would inevitably spiral into the darkness that is always lurking in the back of his mind. It is a tragedy of unimaginable proportions, but it isn’t his Alfred who died.
His Alfred is back home in the Cave, monitoring the kids and reminding them to look before they leap, keeping them safe and healthy, just like he had always done and hopefully would for a long time yet to come.
It is that thought that finally allows Bruce to pull in a new breath, his lungs already screaming for oxygen after seemingly endless seconds without, and slowly the ringing in his ears begins to subside.
His Alfred is fine - he needs to remember that. His Alfred is alive and healthy and probably going to be pissed and ready to give him a twenty minute lecture once he finds out Bruce went on this little adventure even though his ribs aren’t quite healed yet – just the way it should be.
With that fact firmly held in mind it is easier to look at the three bodies, to compartmentalize and distance himself from the anguish and heartbreak, and now when he gazes into the alley all he sees is a tragedy once again instead of his entire world breaking apart.
The circumstances might be slightly different, but it seems that Park Row is simply destined to become Crime Alley by means of blood and pain, no matter in which universe.
The questions of how this happened, why Alfred had been out with the family, what changes must have occurred in the timeline to make three adults lose their lives in this reality instead of two drift across Bruce’s mind and are immediately dismissed as unimportant.
Whatever the reasons, he can’t change the past here anymore than he could in his own universe, so in the end it doesn’t really matter what exactly happened.
The only thing that matters is the little boy who’s entire life has been torn asunder tonight.
Bruce looks over at the shivering form of his younger self still held in the steady arms of Detective Gordon then, the boy’s eyes wide and empty with shock where they stare at nothing, and suddenly Bruce doesn’t see a boy in a blood spattered suit anymore.
For just a moment there is a boy in a brightly coloured leotard with that same haunted expression in front of him, and even though it doesn’t last for more than a split second, Bruce suddenly knows he can’t leave this alley without helping at least in some way, just like he couldn’t leave Dick behind without trying to make things better; just like he couldn’t leave any of his children behind when they had no one else to take care of them.
And this younger Bruce is completely and utterly alone; no trusty and steadfast butler already rushing into the city to come pick him up and make this evening just the barest bit better – there is no one, Bruce knows, at least no one who can make it to Gotham tonight.
If he remembers correctly it had taken his uncle Philip nearly a week to get back to the city so it would only be logical for Bruce to step in tonight.
He’s been in this situation before after all (both as the helpless child and the one looking after them) so he at least knows what he’s doing. It would certainly be a better solution than letting CPS take his younger self in – Bruce has dealt with the system enough by now to see the dangers in letting the heir of a multi-million dollar inheritance be thrown into that maw of greed and selfishness.
No, best if he keeps little Bruce safe for tonight and then arranges for someone he trusts to look after him. Maybe he could contact Lucious or-
“Sir,” a voice cuts Bruce’s thoughts off and with a start he realizes that he must have been blankly staring at little Bruce long enough to gain Detective Gordon’s attention.
“This is an active crime scene, may I ask what you’re doing here?” Gordon asks, his voice polite and low in deference to the traumatized child still clinging to him, but Bruce can read the suspicion clear as day in the man’s demeanour – he goes on to become the best police Commissioner this city has ever seen for a reason after all, so it isn’t surprising that he’s the first one to pick up on Bruce’s strange behaviour.
“I’m here to-” Bruce begins but stops before he can finish his sentence.
This is his last chance to walk away. Tell Gordon he was just passing by and then disappear into the night without interfering. That’s what he should do, what every past interaction with other universes has taught him over and over again – don’t interfere, don’t change things, just let fate take its course...
But what is Batman if not a testament to Bruce’s inability to walk away when he sees someone in need of help? Bruce has made a life out of stepping in where others can’t, where others won’t, and this time it is no different.
It might not be the smartest thing to do, but deep down Bruce knows it is the right thing, and that is always more important in the end.
Taking a deep breath and letting the grief he truly feels in this alley deliberately seep into his expression Bruce begins anew, voice shaky and fragile as he asks, “I’m sorry detective, I was just…they were family and…is Bruce okay?”
It isn’t hard to tell that Gordon doesn’t fully believe Bruce straight away, which clearly speaks to the detective’s excellent instincts.
A family member just accidentally happening to stumble upon a crime scene is not impossible, but still rather unlikely, which is why Bruce doesn’t begrudge his old (future?) friend the way he musters Bruce intensely, taking in every detail about him in case he might turn out to be a suspect later on no doubt.
“And your name, Sir?” Gordon asks, his tone sympathetic, though he pointedly does not react to Bruce’s question.
“Wayne,” Bruce replies truthfully, trusting it will get him the furthest in this situation.
At the name little Bruce turns his head, movements still slow as if in a haze, and before Bruce even has a chance to go on and explain himself the kid’s entire expression switches from horribly empty to a mix between hopeful and disbelieving as he chokes out, “Dad?”
There’s a moment of silence as Bruce is too shocked to react, and his lack of a response is all the little boy needs to wind himself out of the detective’s hold and launch himself at Bruce.
As small arms wrap desperately around his middle (had he really been this tiny? Even Damian is so much bigger than little Bruce already) it hits Bruce for the first time in years how much he looks like his father – he had heard it enough times growing up, especially once puberty had been through with him and he had settled into his adult features, but it hasn’t happened for a good long while, honestly.
Maybe that’s because his frame is so much bulkier than that of his father had ever been, maybe it’s because so much time has passed since his parents’ deaths and Thomas Waynes’ features had just naturally blurred in the minds of people who had once known him, but Bruce had honestly not even thought about the resemblance in years, and now…now he has a traumatized, sobbing eight-year-old clinging to him, who thinks he is his (their) dead father just because Bruce hadn’t bothered to think for just one moment.
No matter how surprised he is however, the second little Bruce is clinging to him Bruce’s instincts from years of taking care of distressed children - his own as well as all of Gotham’s - kick in and he protectively wraps one arm around trembling shoulders in a motion that would have hidden the boy from view if Bruce were wearing his cape.
As it is he settles for pulling his younger counterpart close, hoisting him up so he can hold him securely with one arm while his other hand runs in soothing circles over the boy’s back.
“No Bruce, I’m not-“
He doesn’t hear him though. The boy just clings to Bruce’s neck, tears soaking into his shirt where he has pressed his face, calling him “Dad” over and over again. Bruce knows he won’t get through to him in this state, so he settles for simply holding his younger counterpart close, hoping to give him whatever comfort he can.
When Bruce looks back up at Detective Gordon he can tell that the young man is studying his features, no doubt comparing them to those of Thomas Wayne.
“Family resemblance,” Bruce says, his voice wavering the slightest bit when he nods in the direction of his father’s tarp covered body. “He was my…brother.”
If Gordon notices the slight hesitation in Bruce’s words he doesn’t comment on it, simply nods and gives Bruce his condolences.
“Detective, what happened?” Bruce asks, knowing he needs to seem like a regular family member if he doesn’t want anyone to grow suspicious of him. “I just saw them in the theatre earlier and now-“
“It is too early to say,” Gordon says just like Bruce knew he would, “but we suspect it was a robbery.”
Bruce nods, letting his unease show openly in his frazzled movements, the way his eyes stray towards what is visible of the blood-splatter and away again.
In his arms little Bruce isn’t sobbing anymore, but Bruce can tell from the way he’s gone nearly limp that it is mostly due to exhaustion and not because he’s calmed down.
“I should take him home,” Bruce says, hoisting the boy up higher to have a better grip on him now that he isn’t clinging with such a death-grip any longer.
It is easy to read the conflict behind Gordon’s eyes after knowing the man for decades despite the neutral expression he keeps up, and Bruce absolutely understands – he’s basically a stranger who just walked into a murder scene and is demanding to take a traumatized child home with him, so he has to show some proof that he really is who he claims to be fast or he’ll probably end up in jail.
“Mr. Wayne, it would be best-“
“Damian,” Bruce says, freeing one arm carefully from his hold on Bruce and reaching for his pocket. “Damian Wayne.”
“My wallet is in my coat,” he adds in apology as he pulls out a business card and hands it over.
It bears the official Wayne Enterprises logo and proclaims Damian Wayne the CEO of the company – Damian had a whole stack of them made and proudly showed them off to the whole family a few days ago. His intention had been no doubt to get under Tim’s skin with them, but he’d only received a mild smile from his brother along with a comment about Tim being flattered that he wanted to follow in his footsteps – at the time Bruce had been merely amused about the whole thing, but now he is immensely grateful for his son’s overly elaborate attempt to annoy his brother.
“Alright, Mr. Wayne,” Gordon says after studying the card for a couple of seconds before putting it into his own pocket – Bruce doesn’t think for a second that the detective trusts him completely now, but the card coupled with little Bruce recognizing him must have at least convinced him that he’s related to the boy. “As the next of kin you are of course entitled to take Bruce home.”
Bruce isn’t surprised that Gordon offers to drive them himself, keeping an eye on the two of them in the backseat the whole way to the Manor. When they reach the gates and Bruce tells him the code without hesitation Bruce can tell that he passed another test as Gordon’s shoulders visibly lose an edge of tension.
At the front door Gordon holds out a keyring - Alfred’s keyring – and Bruce tells him which one fits, feeling stupidly thankful that he has little Bruce in his arms as an excuse not to have to reach out and take the ring himself; it had been Alfred’s for as long as Bruce can remember, carefully guarded and only ever trusted to family members, and seeing it in someone else’s hands makes Bruce’s stomach drop with how wrong everything in this universe is.
“I should get him cleaned up,” Bruce says once they’re standing in the front hall, his voice sounding unnaturally loud as it breaks the stillness of the empty house – without the Waynes or Alfred or the kids the halls feel stiflingly hollow and dark, more like a tomb than a home, and Bruce unconsciously tightens his hold on his younger counterpart. To let him grow up here all alone…
“Yes, of course,” Gordon agrees, eyes flicking down to the blood still splattered on little Bruce’s face before sweeping over the rest of the boy once again as if to make sure he hadn’t missed any wounds before.
There aren’t any of course; physically Bruce Wayne left that alley just as healthy as he entered it, his parents giving their lives to make sure he wasn’t harmed being the only constant across every universe it seems. Mentally though…that is quite another story Bruce knows.
“He will need to give a formal statement about what happened but that can wait for now,” Gordon explains, his voice filled with the kind of regret Bruce knows all too well from years of having to prompt victims into talking about their worst experiences.
“Here is my number,” Gordon goes on, holding up his own business card and putting it down on a table together with the keyring. “You can contact me at any time for any reason, Mr. Wayne.”
“Thank you,” Bruce says, watching as the young detective gives him a firm nod before turning to take his leave.
Bruce knows he should say more – this might be the last time he sees this version of Jim Gordon, the young man with so much spirit and a sense for justice even Bruce has to admire, but little Bruce is faster than him.
“Detective!”
The determination and force in the boy’s voice evidently surprise Gordon as he turns back around, and Bruce too is thrown by the sudden change in the child in his arms. Moments before he had still been staring listlessly into space, his mind understandably far away, but now his eyes are piercing and sharp as they seem to bore into Jim.
“Yes, Bruce? Do you need something?”
“You will find him, right? The man who…the man who did this. You will find him.”
It is a demand more than it is a question, and Bruce feels something cold ripple down his spine – he can hear the first spark of obsession in those words, can practically see the seed for an idea start to take root in little Bruce’s mind, and with a sudden clarity that he’s only used to from life-or-death situations he knows what he has to do.
There’s only one way to keep this Bruce from losing out on the remainder of his childhood, from growing up in an empty house with only distant relatives to care for him.
Bruce himself had had Alfred to curb the worst of his impulses, to keep him from drowning in the darkness and losing himself to his mission, but this Bruce…this Bruce won’t. Not unless Bruce does something drastic.
“I promise I will bring him to justice,” Gordon vows in his unshakable, confident manner, receiving a small nod of acceptance from young Bruce before finally taking his leave.
For a minute Bruce just stands in the front hall with his younger counterpart in his arms, both of them unmoving as they listen to the gravel crunch under Gordon’s boots, a car door slamming, the engine starting. When there is nothing to be heard from outside anymore the silence settles back around them, and it takes Bruce a second to shake off the disconcerting eeriness of a Manor that is so unusually empty.
In his time he cherishes a moment of peace and quiet in these halls; here it is just a reminder of what has been lost tonight.
“Let’s get you cleaned up,” Bruce offers, pale blue eyes meeting his for the first time.
He waits for a reaction – refusal, questions, a demand to be put down; all he gets is a silent stare.
Those eyes don’t leave him as he carries little Bruce up the stairs and through the kid’s room into his bathroom, as he gently sets the boy down on the edge of the bathtub, as he wets a washcloth and crouches down in front of him.
“I know what happened today was awful,” Bruce says as he gently begins to wipe the blood from Bruce’s cheek, those wide eyes never leaving him. He must have realized that Bruce isn’t Thomas by now, but still, he remains silent and unmoving under Bruce’s hands. “I know what you saw was terrible; I wish it had never happened, that you didn’t have to live through something like that.”
Bruce’s face is clean now so he moves on to his hands, carefully taking them in his as he rubs away the sticky red.
“I know right now it feels like you’re completely on your own,” Bruce goes on, keeping his voice calm even though he can feel echoes of that old despair deep in his chest. “But I promise you Bruce, you are not alone in this. And you never will be.”
Little Bruce doesn’t start to cry and seek out a hug like Dick would have done at that age; he doesn’t get defensive like Jason would have or deny needing anyone like Damian or get flustered at the attention like Tim.
He just keeps on staring. And it isn’t the type of stare he is used to from Cassandra in her first days, silent, but still saying so much. No, this kid just looks…empty. As if he used up all the energy he had left to ask the detective that all important question earlier, and now he has just shut down.
It isn’t an unexpected reaction, especially given that Bruce is virtually a stranger to this highly traumatized child, so he doesn’t dwell on it long. His first priority is getting Bruce cleaned up and comfortable – dealing with his trauma and explaining who exactly he is to him will take time anyway, and Bruce hardly thinks now is the right moment for it.
“Alright,” Bruce says carefully after he’s finished cleaning off the most obvious bloodstains and thrown the soiled washcloth away – there are still smears of red all over the kid's suit, his knees practically soaked through, but at least his exposed skin is clean. “I’m going to get you some pyjamas so you can change your clothes. If you want to take a shower you can do that. Do you think you can manage on your own?”
It takes a while but eventually Bruce gets a small nod, the kid’s eyes never leaving him as he gets up to get the change of clothes.
“I will be waiting right outside,” Bruce assures, laying his hand on little Bruce’s shoulder for the briefest moment before he heads out of the bathroom.
The door is shut behind him, the lock turning a couple of seconds later. It does take quite a while until the shower is turned on – long enough in fact that Bruce is already considering whether he should knock to make sure the kid is okay – but once it does he settles back down to wait, his gaze idly taking in this Bruce Wayne’s childhood bedroom.
It might be a different universe from his own, but as far as Bruce can tell, the room is identical to his at that age – he remembers those dark blue sheets with little dinosaurs that are on the bed, the Grey Ghost action figures laying on the floor, the books strewn around everywhere.
Bruce reaches for the one on the nightstand and before his hand even turns it over to read the cover he knows not only which book it will be but also on which page he will find the bookmark.
Peter Pan, page 76.
Bruce still remembers how his father had read to him every night, how he’d give each character its own voice and was always happy to indulge Bruce’s never-ending questions about these fictional worlds; what is the difference between magic and science, how does pixie dust work, why does the clock inside the crocodile still tick.
Bruce had never finished the book– couldn’t bear to hear the rest of the story in voice other than his father’s.
He’s not even sure what happened to his copy of the book. Maybe Alfred tucked it away somewhere in the Manor; maybe Jason got a hold of it and added it to his collection; maybe it was just lost over time.
But sitting here now, back in his childhood bedroom with the book in his hands, the memories of his father reading come flooding back and Bruce finds himself pressing his eyes shut as a grief so old and yet so fresh rolls over him.
He’d only missed them by half an hour. If he’d been sent back to just an hour before he could have seen them one more time; could have heard his father’s voice again, could have seen his mother’s smile, could have-
“The past is the past,” Bruce tells himself, but his words feel hollow when he is sitting in his own past – a different version of it, but still close enough.
And yes, he couldn’t see his parents again, but being here still gives him a chance to be closer to them than he has been in years, doesn’t it?
The shower is still going in the bathroom and Bruce is sure it will take the kid a while before he’ll be ready to come out – he has a little time and he won’t be far in case the kid should need him.
It might not be the smartest thing to do, but Bruce still finds himself standing up and going out into the hallway, hesitating only the slightest bit before he opens the door to the master bedroom.
The first thing he registers is the smell – his mother’s perfume, his father’s cologne, and under it all there is something he can’t describe but immediately knows as them.
For long seconds Bruce just stands there pulling in breath after breath as memories he’d half-forgotten flood his mind – his father tickling him on a sunny afternoon, his mother holding him in her lap as she plays the piano, the three of them playing catch in the garden.
Mundane things, really. Moments that come and go without being special or important, not until the people they were shared with are gone and such moments are nothing but distant memories.
Bruce nearly turns back then, the memories too much and not enough at once, but he forces himself to reach out and flick on the light switch – this is his only chance, he cannot miss it just because he is a little overwhelmed.
Seeing the bedroom isn’t as much of a revelation as the smell was, even though Bruce recognizes nearly everything in the room from his own memory. With slow steps he crosses the room, taking in the reading glasses on his mother’s nightstand, his father’s dressing gown slung over a chair, both their slippers kicked half under the bed – stuff really, regular things that were left without a second thought on whether their owners would come back to pick them up ever again.
There are pictures dotted around the room; a wedding photo of Thomas and Martha on the wall, Bruce as a pudgy baby on one of the nightstands, the three of them bundled up in colourful ski suits during a winter vacation on the dresser. Happy memories his parents surrounded themselves with and Bruce has to smile because he has added so many more to the collection.
Not at first. Not for many years after they’d been gone really, but the moment Dick had come into his life he had begun to understand again why one might want to keep memories around.
This bedroom might look different in his own time, but Bruce, like his parents, has the walls decorated with pictures of his kids.
“I think you would like how the Manor looks now,” Bruce says out loud as he stands in front of a photo showing himself standing between his parents with Alfred right next to Thomas – he’d practically dragged the butler into the picture against all protests about propriety, and in the end Alfred had even allowed the arm slung over his shoulder with nothing more than an exasperated eyebrow raise.
“I’ve got kids now if you can believe it,” he goes on as he moves around the room, letting the tie left on the dresser run through his fingers and closing the open lipstick on the vanity to keep it from drying out. “They’re a horde of little monsters and they enjoy nothing more than to get on my nerves.”
The sheets are silk, soft and cool, and Bruce lets himself sink down into the mattress, closing his eyes as his hands brush over the duvet – like this he can nearly pretend that he isn’t alone in the room.
“I love them more than I could ever say. I wish you could have met them; could have seen them grow up and dote on them like grandparents are supposed to. I wish-”
A faint clunk causes Bruce to stop, his eyes opening to stare up at the ceiling – the shower was just shut off. His time here is over.
He gets up, pulling in a steadying breath before he walks to the door. There he turns back around, finger already hovering over the light switch as he takes in his parents' bedroom one last time.
“I promise I will look after him. He won’t grow up alone. He’ll have siblings and Alfred who will love him and he’ll grow up to be so much better than me,” Bruce says into the emptiness.
There isn’t an answer of course, the only sounds of life coming from the bedroom a few feet down the hall.
Still, there is one more thing Bruce has to say. One thing he had never had the chance to say before.
“Goodbye.”
The room is plunged into darkness and Bruce shuts the door behind him as he makes his way down the hall.
By the time little Bruce comes out of the bathroom, eyes tinged red and steps unusually hesitant, Bruce is sitting in the desk chair, his demeanour calm and collected again. No matter what he might have felt in that other room, here he has to put all of that away so he can look after the traumatized kid standing in front of him– a kid who had apparently expected him to be gone if the slight surprise in his expression is anything to go by.
“Are you ready for bed? Do you need anything else, food, a glass of water...?”
Bruce’s questions are met with silence again, though the kid does shake his head no and shuffles over to his bed after a few moments.
Once he is under the covers Bruce hesitates what to do next, not sure if little Bruce would be comfortable with him coming closer – then he hears a sniffle and the decision is made for him as his feet carry him across the room where he sits down gingerly next to the huddled lump under the covers, reaching out tentatively to stroke the dark head of hair that is all he can see of the boy.
“I’m here,” Bruce says and the first real sob breaks out of the kid, “I’m here.”
He doesn’t say that things will be okay; that isn’t something Bruce can believe right now. All he can offer is the simple truth that Bruce isn’t alone in this, hoping it is enough to help make the grief a little bit more bearable.
Bruce doesn’t know how long he keeps up the quiet stream of reassurances, how long he keeps on stroking his younger counterpart’s hair, but eventually the sobs subside, leaving once more a silence behind that is only broken by the even, rasping breaths of little Bruce.
Hopefully he’s fallen asleep Bruce thinks, but as he tries to stand up tired, watery eyes blink up at him and a hand shoots out from underneath the covers, clutching tightly onto his sleeve.
“Please, don’t leave.”
“Okay,” Bruce simply answers, settling himself against the headboard this time. “I will stay for as long as you want me to.”
Slowly little Bruce lays back down again, hand still clutching onto his sleeve and eyes never leaving Bruce until they finally fall closed as exhaustion drags him into sleep.
It’s not surprising that he’s afraid of being abandoned, though Bruce also thinks his similarity to Thomas plays a large role in why little Bruce wants him to stay close.
Bruce hadn’t planned on leaving the kid in any case, though he had wanted to get up and maybe pack some things for him before they go back to his own universe. As it stands now though he stays on the bed, instead reaching for a notepad and pen that are close enough for him to grab, so he can at least do something else as long as he is still in this universe.
He knows that he shouldn’t interfere but given that he has already decided to take little Bruce with him…it seems only fair that he leaves something behind.
He addresses the letter to Jim Gordon. He doesn’t explain who exactly he is, but he gives enough details that the detective will take him seriously. He tells him that Bruce Wayne is safe and thanks him for all he has done for them tonight. He tells him who murdered Martha and Thomas and Alfred and lastly he lists four names of children not yet born and tells Gordon to look out for them now that Bruce can’t.
His fingers itch with the need to write more, but in the end he doesn’t. He has interfered in this timeline enough as it is – and who knows, maybe whatever changes are already present in this universe that make it slightly different from Bruce’s own will be enough to make the future a little brighter.
The multiverse is vast with possibilities and all Bruce can do at this point is hope.
Bruce doesn’t know how much later it is that a strange feeling pulls him out of the doze he’d unwillingly fallen into. It starts in his middle and spreads out through his whole body, a tingling that he instinctively connects with speedsters and lightning flashes.
It’s his sign that he’s being pulled back into his own universe and Bruce reaches out to pull little Bruce into his arms so he can take him there with him, though he hesitates before he actually does so.
This is his last chance to keep from changing this timeline irrevocably; from doing something he knows can have far-reaching consequences, the ultimate effects of which no one can even begin to predict.
Then his gaze falls on the sleeping child and he imagines what kind of life he would have without Alfred; he doesn’t hesitate any longer.
Space warps once again around Bruce and when it stops he finds himself back in that back room of the Cave, only this time he’s holding a sleeping eight-year-old in his arms.
“Master Bruce, what in heaven’s name have you done now?”
In this universe barely any time must have passed because Alfred is still alone in the Cave when Bruce makes his way there, though Bruce has to admit he is somewhat grateful for that. The past few hours have been more draining than he might like to admit and he doesn’t have the energy right now to face the inquisition that are his kids.
With Alfred he still has to explain, though as the older man comes closer Bruce can tell the moment when he recognizes the boy in his arms. He freezes, Alfred freezes, and then he looks up at Bruce with something akin to disbelief and sadness in his eyes.
“How-”
“Some tech we had lying around. I don’t really know; it was an accident.”
Bruce can tell that Alfred wants to say more, much much more on the matter, but the butler holds his tongue, just pinches his brow and sighs heavily.
“The empty room next to Master Damian’s has fresh sheets and was just cleaned,” is all Bruce gets in the end and with a nod of thanks he makes his way towards the elevator.
Getting little Bruce into bed and under the covers without him waking up is only possible due to a combination of skills acquired from raising five oftentimes sleep-deprived kids and once he is settled Bruce pulls an armchair next to the bed and sits down, one hand back to stroking gently through the kid’s hair.
Alfred doesn’t seem surprised to find him there when he comes by a short while later, not saying anything at first as he crosses the room and then just remains standing next to Bruce, simply looking at the sleeping child for a long time.
“I know you probably only wanted to help,” Alfred begins eventually, and even though the words are quiet and calm, Bruce can’t help but feel like he is being scolded for doing something heinously wrong, “but have you even considered what ramifications this will have?”
“Yes.”
“…and?”
“I found them to be acceptable.”
Bruce knows he said the wrong thing when he sees Alfred’s lips thin out of the corner of his eyes, feels as the butler turns ever so slightly away from him.
“Alfred-”
“And what of the child, Master Bruce? Taking him away from everything he has ever known like this - did you even think about what would be best for him?”
“Of course,” Bruce says, now turning around so he can look at Alfred fully, and only when he sees the pain in Alfred’s eyes does he begin to understand what this conversation is really about; it certainly isn’t the stability of timelines or how ethical this kind of adoption is.
“Alfred, his wellbeing is all I thought of. In his universe…you died, Alfie. You died together with mom and dad. I would never have taken him if he’d still had you.”
The change in Alfred’s posture is subtle, but Bruce has known the man his entire life and can read the relief and affection in the drop of his shoulders and the lines of his face as easily as if they were written there in words.
“I should head back down and monitor the comms,” Alfred says after a brief pause, squeezing Bruce’s shoulder with one hand before he makes his way towards the door.
Just as Bruce turns back to watch over his sleeping charge though Alfred pauses, halfway out of the room already.
“You did good, my boy. I’m proud of you. And they would be too.”