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jbats · 2 years

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For All Your Pennyworth

This has been on AO3 for a bit now, but I wanted to finally make a Batman tumblr and start posting my writing here. Enjoy! cw for grief, canon character death, delusions

It was hardly the first time Alfred had been woken up in the middle of the night. His position had always meant the family’s priorities were put above the more trivial things like his own sleep schedule, and that had held true long before Bruce had taken up his nighttime hobby.

More often than not it was one of the boys rapping at his door, quietly asking for help or dragging him down into the cave for an emergency that needed his steady hands and clear head. Bruce tried not to wake him unless it was absolutely necessary, the guilt in his eyes at disturbing his butler’s rest always made something warm flicker to life in Alfred’s chest. He’d always been like that, thoughtful and far too compassionate despite everything the world had thrown at him.

Things had been a bit different recently. Alfred was spending less and less time in his room, dragged down to the cave or the streets of Gotham to pick up the pieces of another mess more often than ever before. Not to mention the number of times Dick had called him to calm Bruce down, his current mental state leaving everyone restless.

Things calmed down, slowly but surely, but it was hardly back to normal. This was the first time in weeks he’d actually managed to get himself to sleep at a regular hour.

And now here he was, tossing the covers aside and scrambling out of bed as his phone rang, a relentless shriek in the silent night, his heartbeat already picking up as his mind began to race with endless possibilities. A phone call in the middle of the night never meant anything good.

A phone call in the middle of the night with the news of death was what had changed his life- both of their lives - forever.

His worry only grew when he fumbled for the device, turning the screen over and squinting against the harsh light to read the contact information. He didn’t waste any more time, answering the call and pressing it to his ear.

“Alfred!” Bruce was shouting before Alfred could even get a greeting in, and the butler’s stomach plummeted at the panic in his voice.

“I’m here, Master Bruce,” Alfred said, as steadily as he could manage. He was wide awake now, pushing himself to his feet and turning on the bedside lamp. “Are you alright? Are you hurt?”

“I can’t find him,” Bruce said, and Alfred could hear the roar of the Batmobile’s engine in the background. “I can’t… I–”

“Take a breath,” Alfred instructed when Bruce’s voice hitched in panic. He racked his brain, fighting to remember what Batman had planned on doing tonight. As far as he knew, it had just been a regular patrol. “Find who?”

For a terrifying moment Alfred didn’t receive an answer, left to listen to what sounded like the screeching of tires as Bruce raced through Gotham’s streets, pushing the car as fast as it could possibly go.

“I was checking on their locations,” Bruce said after a moment, his voice shaking. “I check- I check the locations when I- when I get…” He trailed off, but Alfred didn’t need him to explain. He’d known the boy since he was a baby, he knew the rituals and movements and thoughts Bruce obsessed over when the fits of anxiety grew to be too much.

“I understand,” Alfred said patiently. “Tell me what happened, Master Bruce.”

Another heartbeat of silence, but to Alfred it felt like an eternity, holding his breath until Batman’s voice came over the line again. Somehow, he sounded more distressed by the moment.

“Nightwing’s on patrol,” Bruce said, breathless. “Dick’s okay. He’s okay, he’s in Gotham he… you’re in your room, you were asleep. Tim’s in the cave, he’s still awake. He’s working on something but he’s okay. He’s… I keep checking but I can’t–”

“Master Bruce,” Alfred started, warily, suddenly struck with the sickening realization that he might know where this was going. “Perhaps you should–”

“I can’t find Jason.” Bruce’s words came out in a rush, laced with panic and dread, and Alfred’s heart sank. “I can’t… I can’t find him! His signal isn’t even showing up. There was no… there… I can’t even track his last location, Alfred! He’s just gone.”

Alfred sighed, slowly sitting himself back on the edge of his bed. “Master Bruce…”

“We have to start searching the city,” Bruce said, any ounce of control drowned out by rising panic. “He could be… God, Alfred what if he’s hurt?”

No matter how many times this had happened, Alfred never knew what to do. It seemed to be more severe this time, no hint of confusion or resignation laced in Batman’s fear. He was unwavering, absolutely certain in what he was saying. It broke Alfred’s heart.

“He isn’t,” Alfred said quietly. “Where are you right now?”

“You don’t know that!” Bruce snapped. He ignored the second part, which meant he likely didn’t have an answer. “Someone could have taken him! I can’t… I can't find him!”

Alfred hesitated, squeezing the phone so tight he thought it might shatter in his hands. There were countless options for how to proceed, and none of them ever seemed to do any good.

“You’re not going to find him,” Alfred said, like it didn’t break his own heart to say. “Why don’t you come home, Master Bruce? It’s late, and you’re not in any condition to stay out right now.”

“What?” Bruce breathed, like Alfred had just slapped him. “We have to find him! We can’t just… I’m not going to leave my son , Alfred what’s wrong with you?”

“Nobody’s leaving him,” Alfred said, calm in the face of Bruce’s outrage. His chest felt tight, and it took everything in him not to break down at the foot of his bed like a child. “I promise, you didn’t leave him. He’s resting, remember?”

“I…” Bruce hesitated, and for a moment Alfred thought he’d brought some of the clarity back to Batman’s head. “I can’t find his signal. Why can’t I find him?”

“Master Bruce–”

“I can’t find his signal,” Bruce repeated, the panic returning with a vengeance. “Why can’t I–”

“You’re not going to find a signal,” Alfred said, the truth weighing down on his throat. “He’s gone, Master Bruce. Please just… please come home.”

“I know he’s gone,” Bruce snapped, delirious panic never faltering. “I just told you someone took him! His signal–”

“Bruce, Jason is dead.” The silence hung heavy between them, and Alfred squeezed his eyes shut before continuing. It never got any easier, saying this out loud. “We buried him three weeks ago. Remember?”

There wasn’t a reply, just the endless rumbling of the car engine miles away, and Alfred took a shaky breath. “Can you stop the car please, Master Bruce?”

Bruce said nothing, the line eerily quiet, but as Alfred strained to listen he heard the engine slowly die down before stopping completely, Bruce probably pulling off to the side of the road.

Alfred waited, hands shaking as he held the phone to his ear, holding his breath as he waited for a verbal response he knew deep down wasn't coming. Bruce was silent, not quite in his right mind, floating somewhere between the past, the present, and some perfect future that could never exist.

“He was killed,” Alfred said slowly. “By the Joker, do you remember? It happened weeks ago. You did everything you possibly could, we all know that. It’s the twenty-seventh of October, Bruce. It’s a Tuesday. I need you to come back to me, Master Bruce. Please.”

He was met with nothing but heavy, suffocating silence. Alfred’s worry spiked, and he quickly checked to make sure the call hadn’t been disconnected.

“Master Bruce?” he called softly, feeling almost weightless. “Bruce? Are you with me?”

Alfred got nothing in return, and it wasn’t until he jumped at the sudden beeping from the other line that he realized Bruce had hung up without warning.

It wasn’t hard to track him down, all things considered. Really, Alfred should have known where he’d end up.

His panic hit full force when Bruce hadn’t picked up when Alfred called him back, Batman’s current headspace meaning he needed to be at home, somewhere safe and familiar until he calmed down and came back to reality. Not wandering the streets by himself, confused and scared.

He’d thrown on the nearest pair of clothes, practically tripping over himself to make it to the Cave, ignoring a bleary eyed Tim’s worried glances and quiet questions, politely brushing off any offers of assistance.

The Batmobile had been discarded in an alley somewhere, and Alfred realized Bruce must have walked on foot when he finally found Batman’s signal. Thank god he hadn’t disabled the tracker built into his suit.

Not that Alfred had really needed the tracker. He found Bruce exactly where he thought he would.

Gotham Cemetery could be something taken straight out of a horror movie when the sun went down, statues casting gnarly shadows in every corner, the air dark and foreboding. Alfred had always preferred to visit it during the day, the sunlight making death feel just a bit less final.

Bruce had never shared those feelings, preferring to visit (on the rare occasion that he did) under the cover of shadows. Like he needed to hide his grief, mourn when no one was looking.

Alfred knew the way to Jason’s grave by heart, and it wasn’t long before he found himself standing at the bottom of the small grassy hill that had become unfortunately familiar these past weeks, a simple tombstone with the name of the boy he’d helped raise into a hero staring back at him.

There was a figure sitting in front of the grave, wrapped up in a long black cape, a mess of dark hair just visible in the moonlight. Bruce had his knees pulled up to his chest, the cowl discarded at his side, unmoving as he stared straight ahead.

Alfred sighed quietly, ignoring the way his bones protested and lowered himself to sit beside Bruce, reaching forward to place a gentle hand on his shoulder. “It’s alright to mourn. We all miss him, it’s going to take time.”

Bruce glanced at him, eyes wide and unfocused against the smudged black makeup. “I couldn’t find him.”

“Well you found him now,” Alfred said softly, tightening his hold just a bit. He wished, more than anything, that he’d done a better job shielding this boy from the horrors of the world. His job had been to protect Bruce, a promise he’d never been able to see through. “I’m sure he’s happy you’re stopping by.”

Bruce scoffed, the sound lacking any heat or malice, Batman curling in on himself like a lost child. “I was just…I- I was so scared. I didn’t know where he was. I couldn’t even think.”

“I know.”

Bruce turned away, eyes glued to Jason’s name etched into stone. “Have I done this before?”

‘How many times have I forgotten my son died?’ Went unspoken, but the knowledge that Bruce had to wonder such a thing was enough to break Alfred’s heart all over again.

“A handful of times,” he admitted. “Not quite this intense, and you’ve always been at home. We were able to calm you down and get you to bed fairly quickly.”

Bruce took in a shuddering breath and Alfred quickly moved to cover the young man’s gloved hand with his own. “God, I just… when you told me he was dead, everything just- just stopped. I couldn’t… I felt it all over again. It was fresh all over again. Every time I remember, every time I think about him it hurts and I can’t… I can’t keep doing this, Alfred. I can’t handle going through this again.”

It was vaguely reminiscent of an older conversation, one he’d had with a much younger Bruce, watching helplessly while a little boy he loved like a son grappled with the weight of a pain nobody should ever have to live through.

“It won’t feel this way forever,” he said. “You and I both know that it’ll–”

“That it’ll what?” Bruce demanded. “It’ll go away? Stop hurting? It never stops hurting, Alfred! It never stops. I’ve been hurting since I was fucking eight!”

“I know.” Alfred wouldn’t cry. This wasn’t his night to mourn. “But it gets easier. It got easier before, and it will get easier again. You won’t feel helpless forever, Bruce. And you have people to fall back on, far more people than you had last time.”

Bruce hesitated, as still as the ancient statues in the cemetery around them. He nodded slowly after a minute like he’d needed time to process the words, to decide if he was going to believe them or not. “I know.��

“It’s going to be alright,” Alfred said, far too optimistic given the situation. But that was what he was paid for, wasn’t it? “There will always be nights like this, but I’ll be right here.”

Bruce held himself tighter, never looking away from the gravestone. It took Alfred a moment to notice his shoulders were shaking, hands trembling in his gloves, the vulnerability such a foreign look when he was still cloaked in the Batman suit.

“I couldn’t save him.”

Alfred had heard those words a million times before, just as scared and broken as they were now, and he had no doubt he’d hear them a million more. He knew there was nothing he could possibly say to absolve the guilt Bruce insisted on carrying with him, but he’d try every single time.

“You did everything you could,” he said. “You did good, Master Bruce. You didn’t leave him, you did everything you possibly could have. You were good to that boy, Bruce. You were a good father.”

Alfred knew better than to draw attention to the choked sob that escaped Bruce’s lips, just squeezed his hand tighter as he let the boy ride out the wave of sorrow and grief, staying vigil at his side while Gotham’s protector cried silently at his son’s grave.

He didn’t move until Bruce’s cries had stopped, the young man finally falling silent and still, relaxing slightly into Alfred’s side. “Come along. It’s late, and I’m hardly dressed for this kind of weather.”

Bruce frowned, only now seeming to take in that Alfred was just wearing his night clothes, a thin jacket and a pair of boots. He blinked, visibly fighting to keep his head clear, shifting on the damp grass.

“I�� the Batmobile–”

“I already sent its location to Master Dick,” Alfred said. “He promised to get it home in one piece. I’ve got the car waiting at the gates.”

Bruce nodded, reaching for the cowl he’d left laying at his side. His gaze rested on Alfred for a moment, eyes still brimming with a sadness Alfred knew would never really go away. Not for a long time, anyway. Losing a son was a special kind of pain.

“Thank you,” Bruce said, helping Alfred to his feet. “For everything.”

“Of course, Master Bruce.” He took his boy’s hand again, squeezing tight. He’d mourn Jason until the day he died, he knew that, but right now he could send his silent thanks to whatever gods may be listening. Bruce hadn’t been taken away from him. All these years, all his pain, and underneath it all he was still the boy Alfred had swept into his arms and held tight in that blood soaked alleyway years ago.

“You know you can always call me.”

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