Haunted

**Disclaimer: Unfortunately, I do not own the Dark Knight Trilogy, nor anything else Batman-related. This is Christopher Nolan's world.

**A/N: Just some young Bruce/Alfred fluff Please read and review!

BRUCE'S POV

Operatic voices, ornate ceilings, the feeling of his parents sitting on either side of him…bats, darkness encroaching on the stage…Suddenly he was shrinking into his seat, whispering that he wanted to leave…then they were in the alley, a filthy shadow in a trenchcoat slinking towards them…No!

He had to wake up, had to get out this time. He had dreamt this countless times in the past few years…he had been only eight when they had been murdered; he would be twelve in just a few months…he knew how the scene played out, always the same horrid ending…but not this time. No, this time he was going to change it, as if altering the outcome in his mind would alter the reality…Yes, this time he would stop Chill, he would prevent his parents from being touched…he was ready this time. He swallowed, face pointed determinedly forward as he braced himself for what was to come. He straightened his back and moved close at his parents' side. However, his eyes remained timidly trained on the ground and when he finally mustered up the courage to raise them; then, for an instant, his eyes locked with the beady ones approaching, and all at once, the brave face he had donned was dissolving, and once again, he cowered into the side of his father's coat, eyes glued too-wide as his father passed over his wallet, tears welling in his eyes.

It would all be the same, it was always the same. No! He couldn't stand here, stock-still and terrified, to watch again as his parents were gunned down in front of him.

So he ran.

He bolted down the alley blindly, tears blurring the wet ground before him…two gunshots rang out into the night…ripping his world apart for perhaps the hundredth time…He turned one last time, a voice within him vaguely hoping that perhaps the shots had missed, that when he turned around, it would be into his parents' arms…

Instead, a sea of pearls chased him, their smooth surfaces stained red…

Bruce jerked awake and scanned the darkness around him frantically. After a moment of fumbling to find the switch, he turned on a small lamp, his whole frame quivering all the while. So he was a coward after all. He couldn't have saved them, no matter how hard he'd tried. Because he was weak…and because they weren't coming back. In the semi-darkness, Bruce stared down at his shaking hands, wiping angrily at the tears that coursed down his cheeks.

He was alone. All alone. In the past five years, he had grown distant. Not aggressive, not troublesome, just distant—his teachers always told Alfred how quiet and polite he was, but also remarked on how solemn he seemed. Even Rachel had found a group of girls to hang out with, and she hardly ever found time to stop by anymore, and the other kids at school all thought he was mental. There was no one, and being home was just as bad-the house was like one of those mausoleums in scary movies….He missed them. He thought that it should be big things, like walking past his parents' bedroom that should upset him…Instead, he missed his mother's hugs, her musical voice, and his father's patience, the way he always explained things to Bruce and calmed him…

Bruce buried his face in his knees, shoulders trembling. How could he have let them die?! The sight of his mother's reddened pearls, strewn across the cement flashed through his mind. He hated himself, wished he could throw himself into oblivion…instead he grabbed hold of his pillow and whipped it at the wall, wishing that it were something breakable that would shatter into a thousand pieces. Suddenly, he was crying harder than he had ever cried in his life, silently sobbing into his knees, his body wracking with grief. He didn't think it was possible to feel this lost, this broken, this ruined…

He couldn't do this. The thought of being alone right now sickened him. But he was alone, and he hadn't reached this point in years. He wanted to crawl under the bed and never come out, to close his eyes and disappear forever…but the longer he sat, the more these thoughts scared him, the more he longed for something, although he didn't know what. Through his tears, his glance flickered up to the clock on his dresser. 3A.M. Surely he couldn't wake Alfred up at this hour.

Then again, who else did he have, really?

Futilely trying to wipe away whatever signs of his tears remained, he threw back the covers and stood, creeping as noiselessly as he could down the dark corridor. About four doors down, he stopped and sighed. Alfred's door was slightly open, and Bruce could see the man lying on his side facing the door, fast asleep. Bruce gulped. He hated waking Alfred…he was too old to need him for things like this…He chided himself internally, wishing that he wasn't such a coward, but the thought just made the tears return.

He approached the bed slowly, loath to disturb his only friend, whose chest was rising and falling so peacefully. But he knew that he would never be able to fall back asleep on his own, so taking one last breath, Bruce stepped forward, shaking the older man's shoulder lightly.

"Alfred," he sniffled, tears running freely again, "Alfred."

He watched as Alfred's eyes fluttered open, blearily scanning over Bruce. In an instant, the tired eyes flashed concern. "Young Master Bruce, what has you awake at this hour? Is everything all right?"

Bruce scrubbed his eyes ashamedly on his sleeves, and cleared his throat. He wasn't a baby…he was old enough to be mature about this…He raised his gaze, to meet the kindly eyes of his old friend, opening his mouth to speak; instead, a tiny sob escaped, and he sank to the floor, burying his face in his sleeve.

Alfred, of course, had soon shot to his feet and had placed a light hand on Bruce's back, crouching alongside him. Bruce only sobbed harder, scooting away from Alfred's touch. He hadn't let anyone come near him since the day of his parents' funeral, when Alfred had held him and tried so determinedly to assuage his guilt. Mrs. Dawes had tried to hug him once, but the motherly look in her eyes had torn him apart, and he had excused himself to the restroom. Even Alfred had settled for giving the young master his space, although he still offered his company without fail.

But even through his tears, Bruce could sense that today was different, and he knew that Alfred could feel it too. The tension that had been building in Bruce for the past several years had made him a tightly-wound spring—now, in an instant, he was falling apart. He curled himself into a ball again, wondering distantly what had even made him seek out Alfred in the first place.

Because he was a coward, that's why. His parents' lifeless eyes burned the insides of his eyelids, and he rocked himself slightly, trying to shake the image. But it didn't let up—next came watching their caskets be lowered into the ground—he began to shake, his whole frame quivering as if the room were deathly cold.

That's when he became dimly aware that Alfred was trying to get his attention, and that the older man's hand had returned to rubbing circles across his small back. He tried once more to pull away, but this time, strong arms carefully untangled his curled frame and scooped him up, setting him lightly on the edge of the bed.

He kept his eyes scrunched tightly shut, once again trying to cover his face away. But the wrinkled hands had caught his wrists, so he couldn't hide his face, nor try to dart back to his room. In a sudden surge of anger, he wrenched him arms away, but the grip on them was too strong. Bruce's blood boiled; he could feel his frustration, both at Alfred and at the world, pulsing hot through his veins. What right did Alfred have to keep him here? He wasn't his father. He choked back another sob. No, he wasn't his father. His father was gone—his fine-tailored overcoat had been hanging untouched on the coat rack for years now. The haunting images came flooding back, and he tried to push them out once more. He kept his eyes shut for a moment longer, trying to gain enough control to open them.

He tried to focus on his other senses. He could feel Alfred's thumbs brushing the backs of his hands in an attempt to calm him. He could hear the soft worry that echoed in Alfred's voice as he spoke.

"Shhh, no, I'm here, Bruce. I've got you."

Bruce's heart tugged. Why did everything have to be so confusing! He wanted to love Alfred, he did love Alfred…but Alfred treated him like his parents always had, and it hurt. It hurt so much to even think of them, because to think of them meant to remember that night…

He forced his eyes open suddenly, and Alfred quickly guided his gaze to his own, a finger lightly supporting the boy's chin. They stared at each other for a long moment, before Bruce could stand the patience in the man's eyes no longer. He could feel a wall crumbling down inside of him, the wall that had created a distance between the two ever since…

Alfred must have seen it too, for he wrapped his arms around the small frame, a hand moving up to rest against the back of the boy's head. This time, Bruce didn't hesitate to bury his head into his caretaker's shoulder, sobs returning full force. "It was horrible, Alfred."

Alfred pulled him closer—of course he didn't need to ask to what Bruce was referring. Bruce's shoulders shook as he wrapped his arms around Alfred's neck. "I c-could've saved them…"

Alfred's brow furrowed, "No, sir, no, no, no, don't you remember what I told you? There's nothing you could have done."

Bruce blinked rapidly, unconvinced. "I c-could've taken the bullet for them, Chill c-could've shot me instead…" he trailed off as he struggled to catch his breath, which seemed to be coming more and more in gasps.

"What?" Alfred looked alarmingly as if someone had struck him. He adjusted the boy on his lap so that Bruce was face-to-face with him again. "Surely you don't believe that! That man was a murdered—there is nothing an eight-year old could have done to get in the way of what he had planned." He watched Bruce expectantly, and Bruce realized that he wasn't going to get away without providing an explanation.

"It's just…in my dream…I was going to try and ch-change things, but I saw Chill and I got…" He resumed his hideout in the crook of Alfred's shoulder, wishing desperately that he could wish away his shame.

As he had known he would, Alfred finished his sentence for him. "Scared?"

Bruce nodded. "I'm just a c-coward," he hesitated, before whispering, "I should've died." His breaths were getting even more out of control than before.

But Alfred didn't back down; he held Bruce's narrow face sternly between his hands, "Shh, deep breaths now." He waited a moment, as Bruce's breaths calmed to match his own. "Do you really believe that, Bruce?" Bruce's gaze shifted uncomfortably to the floor. "No, look at me, please. Some things, Master Bruce, are much bigger than you or myself—these things, it seems, are outside of our control. And when these things happen—why, it's bloody natural to be scared—because it isn't something that you can change. But what we can change, what we are in control of, is how we react—of course, we're going to be sad, and angry, and frightened sometimes—but at the same time, we can find ways to make moving forward the smallest bit easier. Take myself, for example. I have worked for the Wayne family for three generations now—this family has become my own. So, naturally, losing your parents has been unbelievably painful—but, to help me feel better, I think of how they entrusted me to take care of the wonderful little boy that was most precious to them…"

He trailed off, before adding, "So, you can only imagine the state I would be in if I were to have lost that little boy as well."

Bruce blinked—he understood, and suddenly, he could see Alfred's point—maybe he wasn't the only one alone—Alfred was alone too! As he looked back up at his mentor, he was shocked to see the man's own eyes welling with tears. Bruce gulped. "A-Alfred, I'm sorry…You're my only family, too, and I wouldn't know how to live without you here."

Alfred smiled gently, and tousled away some of the brown locks that hung in disarray over the boy's forehead. "And that, dear boy, is why precisely why I intend to stay…Besides, how else would your bed get made?" He then grabbed a clean handkerchief from the nightstand, and wiped away the boy's tears.

Bruce blushed, the corners of his mouth twitching guiltily. Alfred smiled wider, "Ahh, it's good to have you back, Master Wayne. Now, we really must be getting you back to bed."

Bruce paled, panic clear in his voice, "Alfred…he's always in my dreams."

Alfred nodded knowingly, and Bruce knew what was coming next. Thus, he wasn't surprised when Alfred rolled the covers of his own bed back, gesturing for Bruce to lay down. Once he had crawled under the coverlet, Alfred tucked the blackest snugly up around him shoulders, tousling his hair once more. Then, Alfred pulled the overstuffed armchair from the corner of the room and slid it gently along the bedside. He sat himself down carefully, as if his tired muscles had grown stiff. Gazing at Bruce, he cleared his throat softly.

"I think you might be able to get back to sleep a bit better now, don't you?"

But his only response was the soft rise and fall of the boy's chest—Bruce, looking as peaceful as ever, was already fast asleep.

**A/N: Should I continue? Please let me know!:)