A Letter, written in Batman's early days. Never delivered.

Dear Master Bruce,

I not sure know if you remember, but I'll never forget, the night a few weeks after your father and mother passed on. I was in the library, looking for a bedtime story for you. I thought maybe you'd like to take a look at Peter Pan again. I thought that maybe it could reassure you that the bad guy doesn't always win, that sometimes time brings the victory. You know you'd taken it hard. You blamed yourself. You refused food for three days straight. That's how I knew you were strong.

I found the copy, still on the desk where your father had left it, and then I head you knocking on the door and I turned around to see you slipping through the crack, your blanket gathered around you. You had it pulled together with one hand and I could just see your face peeking through. You'd been crying again. But you weren't about to ask me to tuck you in. You just stood there, waiting. So I took you by the hand and we walked right back up to your room and I sat you on the bed and started reading. "All children, except one, grow up. They soon know that they will grow up." All the way through, 'til almost the end. "Wendy was grown up. You need not be sorry for her. She was one of the kind that likes to grow up." You stopped me then. I could see the tears starting and I put the book away. I don't think I read to you again after, and that is to my shame.

I mention this because it reminded me of your first letter to me, not a proper letter since you didn't mail it, but a letter still. You were sixteen and you came down the stairs, a sheet over your head, just like before. You looked bloody silly, but I didn't laugh. I couldn't laugh with your face the way it was. You gave me a note, turned, and went up the stairwell. You stopped to look out the window a while. I saw you wanted to cry. But you went upstairs. I heard things breaking. I looked at your note.

Alfred, I'm bad. I don't want to be bad, but I'm bad, like everyone in Gotham, everyone in the world. And I want to stop. I want to take a knife and drive it deep inside myself, not even to kill me. I want to find that part of me that was ever afraid and twist the blade and cut the cords and pull it out of me. Is this growing up? What am I going to grow into? I don't want advice. I just want you to know, because I'm scared. – Bruce.

The French have a phrase called L'esprit d'escalier, for all the clever things you think to say, but don't, the things you should have said in the room, but only come to you on the staircase. And the staircase was damn long, but I've reached the bottom, and you're there, and it's a cave. I didn't know what to tell you then, and so I did what you asked. But now I know. You never did give up your blanket, and you never did grow up, and that's what frightens me. You missed something along the way, something we all tried to give you. You're letting the Batman cover up that child. And that machine, the automaton that the rest of the world calls Bruce Wayne in the Lamborghini isn't him.

I hope that one day; he'll leave Neverland, find a home, love, and grow up, and become the human being he deserves, the sort your father was. You're not far from it.

Love,

Alfred