“I never asked for a son,” Alfred says bitingly.
“I’m not your son,” he counters back. “And you’re not my father.”
It’s their familiar song and dance of the past few years of his teenagehood, the same argument and the same biting words and the same quiet anger.
Word Count: 2,069
Rating: G
Characters/Relationships: Alfred Pennyworth & Bruce Wayne
Tags: Young Bruce Wayne, Hurt Bruce Wayne, Injured Bruce Wayne, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Bruce Wayne Has PTSD, Panic Attacks, Bruce Wayne Has Panic Attacks, angry violent teenage orphan and his flawed butler <3, Not Beta Read, alfred is imperfect and has his faults BUT thats what makes their dynamic interesting actually!!!!
A/N: Fill for @badthingshappenbingo square: Busted Lip.
AO3
Bruce firmly avoids Alfred’s eyes trying to meet his own in the rearview mirror, clenched jaw turned to the window beside him in defiance. There is a not-insignificantly-sized tear at the hem of what was once his usually pristine uniform, the one Alfred always ensured with almost obsessive care is kept creaseless and neat at all times, and he fiddles with it a little, ignoring the prickling pain of his blotchy, bloody knuckles.
His surely bruising face aches terribly—that last hit had knocked his head back, his breath out of him. Bruce can still feel the impact of it like a phantom sensation, the way it had rattled his teeth, displaced his jaw. He hasn’t looked in the mirror quite yet, but his bottom lip splitted at some point during the fight, he is sure, and if the way it feels as though it is hanging uselessly to the right is any indication, swollen and heavy and flooding his otherwise dry mouth in blood, it must look pretty bad.
Alfred will likely try to stitch that one up once they arrive at the Manor, will probably check him over for other notable injuries—which would be no more than a couple bruises, scrapes, and cuts, none quite as deep or require stitches, definitely not the kind his uniform would need—and he will be doing it in silence. But the thing about Alfred is that his silence is never quiet. If anything, his berating is much more preferable than his silence, because in his silence you can hear his disappointment, and Bruce is enough of a disappointment as he is. That he knows as much, at least. The Wayne boy, throwing fists at fellow classmates? Preposterous. Ludicrous. Utterly unseemly behaviour. Downright shameful.
But what Alfred doesn’t know is that those boys deserved it. He didn’t see the things they had said and done to Sydney, doesn’t know the kind of burning, righteous anger it ignited in him, the driving need to see justice to those deserving of it—and she did. She wouldn’t have stood up to them otherwise, their teachers or classmates wouldn’t have stood up for her otherwise—it was him or no one else. Alfred doesn’t know that there was no other choice. And the things they said to him—orphan boy, they sneered, like Bruce had any choice in the matter.
And more than that, Alfred doesn’t understand. There is a fire in his veins, a fight inside asking—begging to break out. When he swung his fist, when he was struck back, the fire turned into something else. His entire body sang with it, like his pain receptors were instead replaced with pleasure. It is an indescribable, perhaps sickening sense of satisfaction that needs constant fulfillment, and the sting of his broken knuckles are worth it.
Alfred drives the car to a stop by the side of a road leading up to the Manor before they even reach its gates—there are trees and shrubbery poking their green fingers on the window, sitting at the base of the hill the Manor perches on. Bruce keeps his eyes on the window, anywhere but Alfred’s eyes. The indistinct reflection of the face on its surface glares frowningly at him.
“I am tired, Master Bruce,” Alfred admits quietly after a brief lull. Despite himself, the admission makes something twinge in Bruce’s chest—he shows none of it. “Tired of the phone calls, the fighting, all of this needless, senseless violence.”
“It wasn’t senseless,” he mutters, “And it was needed.”
“Pray tell, Master Bruce, when is it that violence is ever necessary?”
He tips his chin up, wraps his arms together. “When serving justice.”
“That is not justice. What you sought was vengeance, Master Bruce, which is another order of thing entirely. And you sought it through violence.”
“Well, Mitch deserved it.”
“Violence does not solve problems,” Alfred snaps back, each word enunciated sharply. “When will you stop thinking with your fists and—”
“This again,” Bruce mutters with a roll of his eyes.
“You are the last remaining son of Thomas and Martha Wayne,” Alfred says, and he didn’t raise his voice but he might as well have. “Do you think they would have approved—”
“Who cares what they think!” Bruce throws his hands up exasperatedly. “Whether they approve, whether they don’t! They aren’t around anymore, Alfred! Haven’t been for years!” The realisation of what he’s just said hits him almost immediately, and then the shame of it, but Bruce clenches his jaw and carries on anyway. “They only left me with you,” he finishes bitterly, stifling the unwanted guilt.
Alfred sits in silence for a moment, perhaps letting the words sink in for them both, and he was not lying about Alfred’s quiet being anything but.
“I never asked for a son,” Alfred says bitingly.
“I’m not your son,” he counters back. “And you’re not my father.”
They are speaking quietly—quietly enough that Bruce can pick up the small creaking sound of Alfred’s thin, strong fingers tightening on the steering wheel—with only an undercurrent of something dangerous lurking beneath; the right trigger and the slow fuse will burn up and blow. It’s their familiar song and dance of the past few years of his teenagehood, the same argument and the same biting words and the same quiet anger.
“I would’ve taken any of their places, that night, if I could. I would’ve gladly exchanged my life for theirs. Perhaps then I wouldn’t have to put up with all of this nonsense. Perhaps then your actual parents would be able to put you back in line when you act out, like this.”
It’s an honestly justified reproof. But it still stings, as much as the split in his lip and his torn knuckles. Maybe even more. The swirling anger is still bubbling up inside, skittering across his skin. He runs his tongue over his busted lip, balls his fists tight and feels the shot of pain up his arms—it’s preferable, at least, to Alfred’s eyes, his words, his silence.
For a brief moment he entertains the idea; what could have been, if it had been Alfred that night instead of mother or father. If it had been Alfred’s body he held in his arms as his aching knees dug into the concrete, Alfred’s breath and heartbeat he desperately tried to find the faintest hint of, Alfred’s blood staining his clothes red. He imagines Alfred’s lifeless eyes, the slump of his lifeless body, and further imagines living the rest of his lifeless days in the Manor without him, what it would have been like to grow up without him, without his steady arms and steady presence, his reprimanding and his obsessive care for the details and his damned silence. A wave of intense feeling washes over him from his head to his toes, and he sits there for a moment trying to master it.
He imagines a bullet buried between Alfred’s eyes like it had in mother, blood pooling under them, and what it would be like to lose him forever.
“Master Bruce?” Alfred’s voice, laden with reluctant worry, does little to pull him out of the visions his brain conjures in sudden vividness. The feeling has turned into something else, and he tries to fight it to no avail.
Bruce doesn’t quite register what happens next. His vision blackens around the edges, at first, and somehow that doesn’t register to him until too late. The floor lurches to the side and he struggles to hold his ground. A rhythmic trembling has begun in his hands, arms, spreading all throughout his body. And his breathing—it is not quite right, it’s like there are bands wrapped around his chest in a vise-like grip, locking up his airway and blocking any air daring to enter. It only gets steadily worse from there.
There are sounds—the car door, Alfred’s voice, but they are moving far away from him, running away from him, and—no, they are being drowned out, muffled under the sudden ringing in his ears, and he cannot get it to stop, cannot get himself to breathe, no matter how many times he thumps a fist into his chest he cannot feel it, cannot feel himself, cannot hear anything but the ringing and his thunderous heartbeat and the squeeze of his lungs. He does not know what’s happening. What is happening to him? He must be dying, he must be—
“Master Bruce!” Alfred’s voice cuts through the fog. His vision swims with blood red as he tries desperately to find the source of Alfred’s voice, to make out the head hovering over top of his. “Master Bruce, you must breathe, follow me. Come on, my dear boy, you must breathe.” Alfred has Bruce’s hand pressed to his chest, and Bruce can feel the rise and fall of it as Alfred inhales and exhales exaggeratedly. “Follow me, Master Bruce, slowly. In—and out, and in—and out. That’s it.”
Bruce tries to follow, he really does, but just as he thinks he’s done it, the visions rise up again and suddenly he is back in that alley, struggling for breath, for sense, for feeling other than the suffocating squeeze.
“I—” he tries to speak, choking, throat spasming. “Alfred,” he manages. “Please.” He doesn’t know what he’s asking for. Doesn’t know why he’s begging.
“It’s alright, Master Bruce, try again, it’s alright,” Alfred says, keeping a steady stream of words.
At some point an inhale chokes him, sends him into a coughing fit that leaves him that much more breathless. He realises after that he’s folded himself over, hands clutching tightly—painfully—on Alfred’s fabric-clad biceps.
“Don’t—leave—me,” he chokes out, “Please—don’t—please—” A hoarse, broken sob tears out of him. Alfred is making hushing, soothing noises.
“Never, my dear boy, never, I would never leave you—breathe, darling, come on, you can do it, come on.”
He shakes his head, trying to say I can’t, I can’t out of uncooperative lips, and through tear-blurred eyes sees blood and spit and tears drip down from his chin onto their laps. He can’t even feel the pain, only the lack of air, the feeling of drowning. When is this going to stop? Will he die before then? His heart, his lungs—there is something wrong with them, he must be having some sort of heart attack, he is going to die, Alfred will need to call an ambulance, call a doctor, call his father who would know what to do, but no, he isn’t here, not anymore—can’t someone stop this, anyone, will anyone be able to stop this?
They must sit there for a long time as Bruce tries to wrest away the visions, regain his breath. It takes what feels like centuries until he feels himself returning to his body, bit by bit, finger by finger and limb by limb until he feels partly whole again, until he feels partly present again, until he feels his breaths again. Still jittery, but at least he can take a full breath in. Alfred is still holding him—or, well, Bruce is clutching at him and Alfred is holding him up. Suddenly all of the anger from just moments prior has completely fizzled out, and in its wake is a bone-deep exhaustion. All he feels is pain, though his head is strangely light, spinning idly.
Pain, and deep, excruciating shame. It isn’t even a kind of humiliation he can describe—it is more than humiliation; whatever the right word for it is. The kind of humiliation that scorches the flesh from his bones, and even the bones are soaked in shame.
“Alfred,” Bruce croaks, ashamed of his tears, his words, himself. “Alfred, I’m—”
“Shh,” Alfred hushes him, “None of that, Master Bruce. Come on, then. Let’s head home,” he says. Firm hands rub up and down his arms.
Bruce closes his eyes, savouring the sensation. “All right,” he says, feeling cold as Alfred then withdraws, spinning slowly back onto the surface of the earth, still trying to regain his bearings. He shakily wipes the blood still oozing from his bottom lip. The sharp taste of iron, the sharpness of the pain—they ground him all the way up the drive to the Manor. They spend it in silence, and for once he is grateful for that.
@pepperonyscience and @whump-story-prompts y’all order some Zander x Brass knuckles?
Another part of the 20′s AU, the first part is here but this isn’t exactly chronological or anything
***
Zander watched the two of them argue from his place on the floor, kneeling obediently like he’d been told to. By now his knees were near permanently bruised, but he preferred that pain to the ache in his back and neck from being used as a footstool. Cain was relaxed, leaned back in his seat as he drank from a crystal glass, almost pretending to ignore Vanessa, who had leaned over the back of his seat to harass him about paying his tab. Zander never understood why he just didn’t, he certainly had the money to spare.
“I mean it, Cain, I better see some money by the end of the night or you won’t be setting foot back here until it’s paid in full.” She hissed, murder in her eyes as she glared at him.
“I heard you the first hundred times, I promise.” He said, sounding irritated with her hounding him.
“If you heard me the first hundred times then you should’ve paid up the first time!” Cain sighed, exasperated now. He leaned forward and set his glass down on the table, turning to face her better.
“What if I offered you something better than money?”
“Better than money? Like what?” She frowned, still not satisfied but definitely intrigued. Zander had a bad feeling about this. He knew there was really only one thing Vanessa liked more than money.
“How about I let your staff have a go at Zander for a little while? I’m sure the men could use the stress relief, and we get a show. It’s a win win, right?” He smiled, cold blue eyes glancing over to Zander, seeming to enjoy the way his eyes widened, quickly burying all the anger and fear he felt inside to avoid lashing out. He quickly looked to Vanessa, who was thinking it over, red lips already twisted into a smile as she imagined it. He should’ve known there was no way out of this.
“You always know the right things to say to me, don’t you?” She hummed. “Deal. I’ll let it slide, for now anyway.”
“Good enough for me.” Cain turned to face Zander now, he narrowed his eyes in a hateful scowl at the man. “You don’t mind, do you mutt?”
“No sir.” The response came through gritted teeth, the words angry but drilled into him.
“There’s a good boy.” He grinned, reaching a hand out to ruffle through his hair. Zander had no choice but to let him do it, even if the action only further humiliated him. He had no choice but to accept it, and wait while a sickening sense of dread sank into him, wait for the place to clear out and the two demons could get their show. The only thing he hated more than being a dog was being used as entertainment.
Time passed somehow agonizingly slow and unfortunately quick at the same time. Vanessa waited until the last patron left, only them and her staff now. She said she wanted this to be a “private affair”. She got the attention of her men with a sharp whistle, dragging Zander to his feet by the short chain attached to his collar, pulling him away from Cain and towards the center of the bar, forcing him to his knees in front of her men. They didn’t exactly like him at the best of times, Cain hadn’t really trained him to be kind and friendly. A few too many deep growls, occasionally snapping at an unwanted touch, that was about all it took to get on their bad side.
“Alright boys, he’s free to use until Mr. Whitaker says otherwise, understand?” She said, receiving several “yes ma’am”s in response. “Try not to break anything too important, and remember that “stop” means stop. Well, from me or Cain anyway.” She laughed, already making her way back to where Cain sat, leaving him at the mercy of these people.
They wasted no time in getting started on him, two of the taller men roughly grabbed him by the arms, dragging him up but holding him securely in place, despite his best efforts he couldn’t escape their grip. Cain hadn’t given an order telling him not to struggle, and he certainly couldn’t just take this, but he was already in a vulnerable position, it would take some sort of miracle to escape this in one piece.
The first hit landed hard in the center of his stomach, he would’ve collapsed and doubled over were it not for the men holding him up. He clenched his jaw shut, refusing to make too much noise and make this all the more satisfying for them. If they wanted him to scream or cry then they’d have to work for it, damn it. At least, that’s how he typically thought it should go. The next hit only got a pained grunt out of him as he squeezed his eyes shut, still trying to jerk away from the men holding him.
“The boys a guard dog, don’t you think it’s going to take a bit more than a punch to get a reaction outta him?” One of the men said. He was right but Zander wished he’d kept his mouth shut. He opened his eyes to see the glint of metal in one of the men’s hands, his stomach dropping when he realized what it was. All he could do was turn his face away and hope that nothing got broken, a brass knuckled fist slammed into his stomach and he feared he might vomit from the pain, crying out as he stopped struggling for only a moment, the sharp pain spreading through his abdomen.
“Fuck, let go!” He yelled, but they just laughed at his efforts.
“Miss Van Doren said that we can go until Whitaker says otherwise, you’re better off saving your breath.” One of the men told him. A low growl escaped him as he decided to try a different method, slamming his foot down onto the foot of one of the men holding him, grinding his heel until that arm was finally freed, enough for him to jerk away from the other and try to escape, only to be grabbed by the collar and roughly yanked back.
A well placed hit to the jaw put him on the floor in a second, he swore that he blacked out for a moment and before he could think to try and protect his head or his face he was grabbed by the hair, forcefully pulled up. It was all he could do to get on his knees and try and lessen the pain, reaching up to try and pry the fingers from his hair. The man holding him simply grabbed his wrist though, roughly twisting one arm behind him.
“Do something about his pretty face, will ya?” The man holding him snickered.
“Gladly.” A flash of a grin, the shine of metal, and suddenly pain exploded across his face, nose surely broken from the impact. He howled in pain, weakly trying to pull away but getting nowhere. Blood was already pouring down his face but there was nothing he could do about it, subdued to the point where he had no choice but to take the men’s attacks. His hair was finally released, the next punch slammed against his cheekbone and knocked his head to the side, he feared that might have resulted in another broken bone.
While he was vulnerable on the floor like this one of the other men, stepped back, delivering a swift kick to his ribs that had him doubled over in pain, a strained yelp forced from his throat.
“Fuck, he even sounds like a kicked dog.” One of the men laughed, grabbing his face to force him to look up. He saw his chance and took it, lurching forward and catching the man’s hand between his teeth, biting down as hard as he could. It was a small act of defiance, one he knew he’d come to regret, but he found it satisfying anyway. Satisfying, until he was kicked hard in the side, forcing him to let go.
“Don’t fucking bite!” The man snarled, balling up his fist. He punched him hard in the mouth before Zander could dodge the hit, his lip split open on impact, the taste of blood filling his mouth. He considered himself lucky it was just the split lip and he hadn’t lost any teeth.
“Get him on his feet again.” The man with the brass knuckles ordered, he felt nauseous as he was grabbed and pulled up. He was lucky he was being held up, his legs too weak to support himself on his own. He wasted no time in hitting him in the stomach again, once, twice, three times and Zander was dry heaving, the little bit he’d eaten that day threatening to show up again.
“Hold on a minute!” Vanessa said loudly, finally intervening. Zander was taking shuddering, deep breaths, praying she was calling them off, only for her to say, “I don’t want him vomiting on my floor, avoid the stomach, please?” She said politely.
“Yes ma’am.” The man said with a nod, before his attention was focused on Zander again, the guard dog letting out an almost pathetic whine. He should’ve known better than to hope for mercy from that witch.
***
“Think we should stop them?” Vanessa asked, leaned lazily against Cain as they watched the show, the poor man curled up on the floor at this point, feet kicking and stomping down on him as he tried to cover his head, tried to avoid any more injuries to his face.
“Probably, I don’t really want the mutt to die.” He sighed, getting to his feet. “That’s enough men, back off.” He told them as he approached the group, her staff quickly breaking away from the man on the floor. They knew better than to disobey when Cain gave an order. He grabbed the chain attached to his collar and dragged him into a sitting position, though he had to do most of the work to hold him up since Zander seemed too weak to even do that much. At this point Vanessa came to get a look at the damage herself, a smile on her face.
“They really did a number on you, huh?” She laughed, and Zander groaned in response. His face was a bloody mess at this point, sure to be bruised and swollen the next day. While she spoke with her staff, Cain crouched down to get a better look at Zander, grabbing his chin and turning his face to examine him.
“Brass knuckles, now there’s a good idea…” He murmured, before a grin spread across his face. “What do you say mutt, think I should pick up some of those?”
The only response Zander could give was a pained moan.
