Work Text:
TW: Implied child abuse/ child abuse, messy Alfred
It was a good day, Bruce had decided.
All of his children were here in the living room, messing around with one another or even just yelling for Bruce to end arguments.
It was a rare moment indeed. Precious, even.
Tim was curled in a blanket next to him, using his shoulder as a pillow to sleep. Both Duke and Dick were held down by Cass as Stephenie applied messy makeup to their faces—it was messy on purpose, Bruce could tell because Steph was usually meticulous with her own makeup when needed—and ignored his sons’ pleas for help with a quiet chuckle.
Damian and Jason were arguing about something in Arabic that he didn’t necessarily pay attention to, though he picked up the occasional word by casually zoning into their conversation every-now-and-then— idiot , dishonor , socks ?—which made him raise an eyebrow but nothing more.
The fire crackled. The lights were dimmed to a cozy gold. Somewhere, Alfred was humming in the kitchen, probably preparing tea none of them asked for but all of them would drink anyway.
Bruce let himself breathe. Just for a minute.
There were no patrols tonight. No meetings. No emergency League transmissions interrupting. Just…this. Just them.
Duke let out a surprised squawk as Steph added glitter to his eyelids, and Dick gave up pretending to struggle and started critiquing the color choices the two girls were choosing. Jason gestured wildly as Damian stood on the couch to make a point, earning a warning glare from Bruce that Damian pretended to be unaware of.
He sighed instead and shook his head.
Cass looked over at Bruce for just a second, as if checking in. He gave her a nod. She smiled.
Tim shifted against him, murmured something unintelligible in his sleep.
Bruce didn’t move. He didn’t want the moment to end.
And then, his eyes snapped towards two shouts and a thump. Then a crash and shatter. Everyone paused and looked over to the noise. Damian was on the floor with cables tangled around his feet, and a shattered picture frame next to him. It had fallen from a shelf Damian had bumped into while trying to free himself. The photo was a picture of young Bruce, Martha Wayne, and Thomas Wayne.
He felt the air escape his lungs as his body tensed, Tim had woken up- startled by the noise and looked at the scene shocked.
Everyone froze, looking between the two of them.
He could hear the quick and defensive apology Damian sputtered out, but everything was zoned out to a memory.
A memory that he himself had forgotten and hoped to replace.
Crying.
“Thomas, dear…He didn’t mean to break the photo.”
“That doesn’t matter! Look at it, even the photo is wrinkled!”
“Dear-”
The sneer his father wore suffocated him, or it might’ve been the hyperventilation.
“Come here- stop looking at me stupid like you don’t know what you did!”
He walked over to his father, he could remember the potent smell of wine attacking his nose.
-SMACK-
He heard a soft gasp .
“This house isn’t your personal playground, Bruce! Stop whining, or I’ll give you something to be upset about.”
His father raised his hand once more as a warning then left the room. He remembers his mother cradling him and gently kissing the bruised cheek, whispering apologies as he gripped her dress.
Bruce blinked.
Not from the light or the sound or the movement—but from the memory. Sharp. Immediate. Uninvited.
His hand clenched before he even realized it. The broken frame was still at Damian’s feet, the photo lying face-up. Young Bruce, between his parents. The last family photo ever taken.
Damian had gone stiff. His mouth was moving, an apology spilling out quickly, almost nervously. “I didn’t see it—Father, I didn’t mean—”
But Bruce wasn’t hearing him. Not yet.
He was hearing him .
That voice. That bite. That look. The way the cold glass floor of the study had felt against his palms when he’d fallen. The sting. His mother’s soft, shaking hands trying to soothe what couldn’t be soothed.
His heart pounded.
Get out of the memory, he told himself. Breathe. They're not here. You're not that boy.
But it was hard, because the boy still lived in a corner of him that never fully grew up.
He forced in a breath, and the moment shattered—not like the photo, but softer. He blinked again, this time with purpose, and looked at his children.
They were all staring.
Even Alfred had stepped out of the kitchen, half a tray of tea in his hands, his brows drawn together.
“Dad?” Tim asked carefully. “You okay?”
Bruce’s gaze flicked to him. Then to Damian, who was still frozen, still tangled in the cables, still looking like he expected…something.
“Yes. No one’s in trouble,” Bruce said, voice even. A pause. Then, softer, “Damian, it’s alright.”
He grabbed the legs of the trapped boy and pulled the cables off of his ankles. He wrapped the cables and placed it beside the couch, making a mental reminder to ask Alfred to put it in the attic.
“Are you okay?”
Damian nodded silently, shoulders still squared to his neck, as if he was waiting for something.
That should have been the end of it.
But Bruce Wayne never just said things like that. Not when he was holding that photo. Not with that look on his face.
Dick frowned, glancing at the shattered glass. “You, uh... sure?” he asked, almost playfully. “You usually treat that frame like it’s a relic, saved for generations.”
“Isn’t it kinda…important? It’s a picture of baby you and your mom and dad.” Duke added.
“It is. But it’s fine.” Bruce replied, staring at the photo.
Jason raised an eyebrow. “So… why do you look like you just got punched in the gut?”
Bruce didn’t answer right away.
Instead, he crouched down beside the shattered frame, brushing aside some of the glass with his sleeve. He picked up the photo gently, like it might fall apart just from being held too long.
“It used to sit in my father's study,” he said, almost absently. “He had a habit of keeping things exactly where he wanted them. One time, I knocked it over while playing.”
Everyone was quiet now. Even the fireplace seemed quieter.
“I must’ve been… six? Maybe seven.” His thumb ran along the edge of the photo. “It cracked then, too.”
Steph smiled softly. “Like father like son I guess.”
Bruce nodded and grunted.
“...So what did Grandfather do when you broke the photo?” Damian asked, his voice quieter and smaller than usual.
“I was punished, my father prized his belongings.”
“Oh- so you were put in a time-out corner or somethin’?” Jason smirked and rolled his eyes.
“Not exactly.”
There were times his father put him in a room, pitch black, and he’d cry- wanting to be let out, shouting that the dark was scary and that he’d do batter. But he was positive that Jason wasn’t referring to those times.
Jason’s smirk faltered slightly at his silence.
Then Alfred sighed with a slight tightness in his jaw.
“I’ll fetch another frame from storage,” he said, tone clipped but calm. “Though it’s a shame. That one has lasted quite a long while.”
“Alfred…” Dick began slowly, watching him. “You alright?”
Alfred didn’t look at him. “Perfectly fine, Master Dick.”
“No offense, Alfie” Jason said, narrowing his eyes, “but you look like someone just spilled wine on your family crest.”
Alfred paused. “It’s simply that your grandfather…would not have abided by such clumsiness.”
Duke blinked. “Wait, you mean Thomas Wayne?”
“Yes, of course. He had certain expectations. This room wouldn’t have looked like this under his watch. Not this noise, not this disorder. Certainly not shattered memories left lying on the floor.”
Tim tilted his head, glancing at Bruce. “Wait—was he that uptight?”
“He was precise,” Alfred replied, folding his hands behind his back. “Disciplined. He believed young Master Bruce should learn early what it meant to carry the Wayne legacy. And if that required correction now and again, then so be it.”
“Correction?” Steph repeated, eyebrows raised. “Like grounding?”
“Hardly,” Alfred said, almost scoffing. “Dr. Wayne had no use for soft reprimands. He believed in firm consequence. Immediate response. And young Master Bruce… was spirited. Stubborn, even. He needed discipline.”
The room fell into a silence that wasn’t just still—it was tense .
Cass’s eyes narrowed. “Discipline… like what?”
“Nothing unheard of,” Alfred said briskly. “A raised voice. A firm hand. The occasional isolation when rules were broken.”
“Alfred.” Bruce said with a warning tone “Leave it.”
Dick leaned forward and shook his head, “Wait- B, I need to hear this,” He looked at Alfred “What happened? Grandpa did what?”
Jason leaned forward slightly. “Wait. Are you saying he hit Bruce?”
Tim looked at Bruce, alarm dawning on his face. “What… what do you mean ‘isolation’?”
Alfred blinked, glancing around as if surprised by their reactions. “Surely you knew.”
“Knew what ?” Duke asked slowly, carefully.
Alfred turned to Bruce, genuinely puzzled now. “You never told them?”
Bruce was silent.
Alfred’s gaze swept back to the family, then he sighed—like someone finally realizing the depth of a misunderstanding.
“There were… incidents. Times when Dr. Wayne’s temper ran thin. If Master Bruce knocked something over, or questioned him too much—he’d be locked in his bedroom. Lights off. Sometimes for hours. Once or twice, the cellar.”
Cass’s fingers twitched.
Alfred continued. “And if he truly misbehaved—Thomas would strike him. Not in anger. It was calculated. Controlled. But, yes. A slap. A cane. Once, I recall, a belt. But never more than what was required. He believed pain taught clarity.”
The family stared.
No one spoke.
Not even the fire cracked.
“…You’re serious,” Jason finally said, voice hollow. “You’re serious .”
“I do not condone cruelty,” Alfred said, a touch defensive now. “But neither do I confuse discipline with abuse. Thomas Wayne was preparing his son for a life of pressure few could imagine.”
“By locking him in the dark?” Tim asked, his voice rising.
“By ensuring he learned respect,” Alfred replied.
Cass shook her head. “That’s not respect. That’s fear .”
Alfred straightened, unmoved. “They are not always so different, Cassandra.”
Duke rubbed the back of his neck. “Dude. What the hell.”
Bruce frowned, “Don’t tell them that, it’s a fine line- but they are different.”
Alfred tilted his head slightly. “With all due respect, Master Bruce, fear kept you alive long before your training did.”
Bruce didn’t respond, because he knew- in some way- Alfred was right. He was the way he was to spite his fear, but fear was still the reason.
Then—
“Holy shit, ” Jason muttered. “You actually—like actually —got hit by him? Locked in rooms? For what, dropping a photo?”
“Or talking back,” Alfred said, as if it was obvious.
Tim was sitting upright now, blanket forgotten. “And you knew ?” he asked Alfred, eyes wide.
“I served this family faithfully,” Alfred replied, standing tall. “I obeyed the head of the household.”
“You mean you let it happen,” Dick said, the hurt bleeding into his voice. “You watched it happen.”
“I protected him the only way I could,” Alfred snapped. “By staying. By being there. I softened the edges when I was allowed.”
Cass stood slowly. “That’s not protection.”
Alfred looked at her. “And what would you have had me do, Miss Cassandra? Take a young boy and run? Call the authorities? And let the world tear apart the Wayne legacy? He would have lost everything. ”
“Maybe he should’ve,” Steph said, arms folded tight across her chest. “Maybe it would’ve been better than this. ”
Bruce closed his eyes.
“Enough,” he said quietly, but it echoed.
Everyone turned to him.
He opened his eyes again—he looked tired, older than before. But grounded.
“I never told you because it didn’t matter anymore. I’m not that boy. I haven’t been him for a long time.” Bruce dusted off the photo against his pants gently.
“And I didn’t tell you because you deserve to know only the good memories of your grandparents. What’s mine isn’t yours to carry.”
Sensing the tension in the room the butler sighed once more before walking away to grab a new frame.
Damian was still sitting, staring at the floor.
Bruce turned to him. “You didn’t do anything wrong, Damian. This isn’t about the photo.”
“I broke something that mattered,” Damian muttered. “I should’ve been more careful.”
Bruce shook his head. “You didn’t break it. It was already cracked.”
Everyone stilled at that.
Bruce continued, softer now. “I kept that photo out because I wanted to remember the good. My mother’s smile. Her hand on my shoulder. I told myself I was honoring her.”
“And your dad?” Duke asked gently.
Bruce looked down at the image again. “I was trying to forgive him. Or maybe understand him. But some things…” He hesitated. “Some things aren’t meant to be understood.”
Bruce helped Damian up and kissed his head “It’s okay. It was an accident.”
Bruce walked away, ignoring the stares of his family to follow where Alfred had walked off to.