My first story in a very long time. This is not one story, or even one universe. It's not even necessarily a universe published by DC, or a game, or an animated series.

It belongs in the Justice League category as it will extend beyond Batman's character roster. I'm not likely to update regularly, so I'll apologise in advance! This story is really about shaking off the writing cobwebs and exploring a character set of endless possibilities to re-examine my writing skills.

Characters: Alfred Pennyworth

Genre: Family / Drama

Chapter One

Alfred

A Father's Privilege

I suppose people think I always see him as the scared little boy crying in that alleyway.

They're wrong, of course.

The truth of the matter is that the Wayne family dynasty ended that night. Even though young Master Bruce lived, the Wayne family died.

I often look to Master Kent for comparison. Is he truly Clark Kent, reporter and honest mid-Western farmer's child? Or is he God taken the form of man, raining fire from the skies?

Spend 20 seconds in his company and you'll know. The easy, genuine smile. The earnestness that radiates from the man. His interest in the lives of others. His love for his fiancée, Miss Lane.

Clark Kent is a man first, Superman second.

Master Bruce?

He doesn't exist. He died alongside his parents. Whatever remains wears his face from time to time so that the nocturnal creature inhabiting him may operate in the sunlight.

That truly is the great secret I hold on to. The one that I will take with me to my grave.

I loathe the Batman.

I am proud, of course. Boyhood trauma gave birth to a worldwide saviour.

There have been moments where I convinced myself that I was wrong, that Master Bruce truly lived on.

Master Dick's arrival at the Manor for instance. I lectured Master Wayne harshly. "The boy doesn't need vengeance." I told him. "He needs a friend."

Perhaps he took my words to heart.

For a moment.

Soon the young Master Dick had a seat in the Batmobile. Beating up street trash every night alongside his new friend.

I knew the truth, however. Robin was no friend to the Batman. Just a foot-soldier, a pawn to use in the never-ending war on the streets of Gotham.

Perhaps even the Batman convinced himself that he cared for the boy.

The illusion shattered one night. Frankly I don't remember how or why, but Master Dick could suddenly take no more. He saw the truth of the Batman.

Relentless? Obsessive.

Fearless? Heartless.

Strategist? Manipulator.

I feel a great swell of pride as I recall Master Dick storming out of the Manor, seldom to return.

A week later, the phone rang. An hour after, I was stood in the kitchen of a small apartment in Bludhaven watching Master Dick pour us cups of coffee.

He talked excitedly. How Miss Barbara was to move in with him. His new job.

He thanked me for how I had looked after him. Told me I was family, and welcome in his home any time.

It took every ounce of strength I had to not allow the tears to fall. Somehow where I failed with Master Bruce, I triumphed with Master Dick.

Perhaps hubris was the cause of my next dismal failure.

Jason.

The name sends my heart plummeting.

I allowed the Batman to kill the poor boy.

You may tell me that it was the doing of that vile clown, but one would not exist without the other.

I may be comforted by the fact that it is Master Bruce's face under the cowl, and that I am allowed to see it from time to time. But Jason? He is truly gone forever.

Perhaps it proceeds in cycles.

Master Tim's smile brightened this cave for many years. He took the best qualities of the Batman and gave them his own spin.

I have seldom seen Master Bruce smile it seems, but Master Tim's time as the boy wonder enriched our lives.

He too saw the truth of the Batman. But where Master Dick took offence, and where I had long ago given up, Master Tim just tried harder.

Alas, he was defeated by man's oldest enemy. Time itself.

It was time for Master Tim to move on. To replicate the successes of Master Dick. His own home, his own life. Romance, friendships, family.

The Cave and the Manor fell silent once more.

I had hoped for Miss Cassandra to truly bring out Master Bruce's latent paternal instincts. After all, a father's relationship to a daughter is far different to that of a son.

Alas, it was not to be. He has been no more a father to the poor girl than he was to Master Dick.

Then came Master Damian. The worst traits of the Batman wrapped in an al Ghul.

I managed to turn him though. We both did. It seemingly took a bloodline to turn Master Wayne into a father.

All too soon, tragedy struck.

I hadn't realised that Master Bruce's despair could increase in its severity.

How wrong I was.

I have been standing behind him for some time now. He is hunched over a workbench, fiddling with some contraption or other.

"Something wrong Alfred?" The Batman asks, not looking up from his task.

"No Sir." I respond. "I have prepared a meal for yourself and Miss Cassandra."

"I'm busy." He replies instantly. "Send it down here would you?"

I don't see him as the scared little boy crying in that alleyway. I never have.

I always see the bundle Thomas and Martha brought home with them from the hospital. The colicky infant who kept the three of us up all night. The little boy at bathtime eating the bubbles. That gorgeous smile. The ceaseless laughter and giggling fits. Learning to read sat on Thomas' lap. The first day of school. The skinned knees. The chicken pox. The boundless curiosity.

The bright future.

Bruce Wayne didn't die aged eight.

I let him die.

My hand pushes the contraption he is holding gently onto the workbench.

He turns to me, confusion in his eyes.

"Alfred?" He asks.

"Take off your mask, Batman."

His eyes widen. He can count on one hand the number of times I have used that name. To his credit, he complies.

For the first time in days I see his face.

"Your parents adored you." I tell him in no uncertain terms. "I would give anything, truly, anything, for them to be here today."

His face is inscrutable as I talk. I am undeterred.

"You were not robbed of your parents. They were robbed of a lifetime spent with you. All their riches, their status. It was meaningless to them. There was only you."

"As they were robbed, I was gifted." I continue. "And to my great shame, I have squandered that gift."

"I have let you pursue this far beyond the point of madness. When you were eight years old, Gotham needed a protector. You have satisfied that requirement admirably. When you were eight years old, you also needed a father. May Thomas and Martha forgive me, for I have been a poor father to you."

"Alfred, I - " He begins, shocked.

I hold up a hand to stop him.

"Allow me a father's privilege." I ask him. "Do as I say, and not as I do."

He opens his mouth to speak, but thinks better of it. Calmly, he awaits my instruction.

"Attend to your daughter."

His gaze shifts towards the floor. After a momentary pause, his gauntlets and cape are removed, and he is halfway towards the stairs.

Once he is gone, I turn to the bench, and pick up the cowl, examining it in my hands.

"Gotham can wait." I think to myself with a smile.