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There's a room in the manor's servant wing, far from the heart of the house, where the walls are scorched black. The door handle is damaged from the outside, and the solid oak table is still streaked with soot. There's black ash spreading around the fireplace, like a hand bleeding shadows tried clawing its way out.
It was Bruce's punishment room, from before. As a child, Bruce could sometimes be loud and unruly. He was an earnest boy; he wasn't trying to make trouble, but he did, sometimes. Either his nightmares had him screaming the house awake, or he couldn't maintain eye contact at public events, or he refused to eat certain foods, or he couldn't keep his hands still while talking, or... well. You get the idea.
It wasn't really a big deal, but nothing Thomas tried to get Bruce to just act normal worked.
Outwardly, there was nothing suspicious about the room, at least not back then. Even internally, it was only odd in how bare and cold it was. Besides one table by the fireplace, there was no furniture; this far from the central heating, entering the room left a chill in your fingers that stayed all day.
When Bruce acted out, he was grounded to this windowless fridge of a room. Thomas had been pleased with himself for the idea; he refused to lay a hand on Bruce, but the boy still needed to learn. For any other child, this punishment may not have been as effective. But the end of his first hour in the room always saw Bruce screaming to be let out, swearing there was something in there with him, and begging for a candle, a blanket, anything. Martha would fret about Bruce hurting in there, and Thomas would hold her close by the shoulders and promise he would never, ever, abuse his son.
The first few months following their death, Bruce was an empty thing. He couldn't speak, eat, couldn't look people in the eyes. How could he? He killed them, he killed his parents.
The shock of that night evaporated, leaving behind self-hatred and disgust. Bruce didn't understand how people could still stand to look at him. How could they crouch down to his height and offer their condolences? Could they not see how grotesque he was? A monster in human skin? Were they so fooled by his baby-fat cheeks, the childish whine of a voice not yet dropped through puberty? Why weren't they punishing him? Where was the justice?
...okay. Fine. If they weren't going to get justice for his parents, then he would.
Bruce picked a quiet night to act. It wasn't exactly hard; every servant left the manor, and only Alfred remained. Alfred didn't make a habit of checking in on Bruce like his parents used to. He didn't even really enforce a curfew. Bruce could probably ask Alfred for coke and the loyal butler would cut the line for him.
He snuck past Alfred's room into his punishment room. He hated this, the room, what he needed to do, but he hated himself most of all and just wanted things to be right. It could be okay if he just made things right.
Bruce lugged kindling from one of the better-maintained rooms to his almost-death bed and locked the door. He never had the luxury of a warm fire while he was in there, but Bruce had watched Alfred feed fires while he drew dinosaurs and cars enough times to know what to do.
He stacked the logs over the heat grate and made a moat out of the kindling. With some effort, Bruce dragged the safety fence away from the fireplace. It wasn't that tall, but still half his height. The cold metal bit into his hands and left black lines, not that it would matter soon enough. Sweating, Bruce set logs in a path from the fireplace to where he would sit and wait.
Over the last few weeks, Bruce snatched and bought several lighters. Now, he cracked them open and spread the fluid around, over the firewood path and in a circle around him.
Bruce scrunched his nose at the scent. Yuck.
Nervous, Bruce rocked back and forth and flicked his fingers to the rhythm of a lullaby his mother would sing him. His mother, that's right. She was why he was doing all this. He needed to make it right. Wiping away a sudden wetness on his face with his left hand, Bruce sparked a lighter in his right. Swallowed. Tossed it into the fireplace and sat to watch.
Bruce truly did not know how long he sat there, watching. He only knew that, as the room grew warmer, he could imagine his mother's warm body cuddled around him. He could hear his father reading aloud a medical text, liking to include Bruce in his work even if Bruce couldn't understand it yet.
Distantly, he noted fire licking up the walls around the fireplace. Oh. At least there was no one in the rooms next door to feel the heat. Bruce brought his knees up to his chest and rested his chin on them, arms locked around his folded legs. He was sweating under his pajamas. It reminded him of the sweat he'd work up running in the backyard, giggling as he tried to catch his father in a game of tag.
Whenever he won, Thomas would hoist a triumphant Bruce into the air and carry him on his hip. Would Thomas do the same when Bruce caught up this time, too?
Bruce hoped so. He hoped this was enough for his dad to forgive him.
With the flames feeding off his lighter-fluid circle, sweat and the beginnings of first-degree burns marking his skin, he wondered if Doctor Thompkins would be relieved. She hated looking at him, he could tell.
Maybe he'd be able to think a little better if it weren't so loud outside the room. There was a thumping disrupting his peace, and maybe a voice? His brain was lagging too much to understand what he was hearing. It didn't even click when the door slammed open, a horrified Alfred covering his mouth with a handkerchief and eyes roaming the room before locking in on Bruce.
"Master Bruce!" came his jagged cry. Bruce could barely see him through the fire separating them, the flames of his lighter fluid circle having broken containment and exploring the room inch by inch.
"It's okay, Alfie," Bruce mumbled, too quiet to be heard but wanting to try anyway. "I'm making it right. You can go."
Maybe Alfred had misheard and thought Bruce had said it's not okay, because Bruce really couldn't understand why Alfred's face turned determined as he lunged through the fire. Too soon, they were out of the room, Alfred still cradling Bruce close. Bruce, for his part, stared at the door between him and his mother's warmth for a slow beat. His head snapped to Alfred, an accusatory rage pulling him from his daze.
"Why would you do that?? I need to go back in there, you need to let me go! Alfred, why—!" He sobbed, leaning forward onto Alfred's shoulder as he was held for the first time since his parents' death. "I need to make things right, you need to let me go! It's not fair, it's not fair, Alfred, why them? It's not, I need, you can't do this to me!" Bruce shrieked. It hurt like nothing else. The hallway and even Alfred himself were so damn cold compared to the warm shelter of the room. He couldn't understand why Alfred hated him so much, to betray him like this. Why couldn't Alfred just let him have this, let his parents have justice?
Why was he always so, so alone?
Alfred refused to let go of Bruce that night, even when firefighters insisted they separate to check Bruce over for burns. An experienced army doctor, Alfred asserted that he would be the only one looking over Bruce, give the boy some privacy for God's sake!
He cleaned and wrapped an unconscious Bruce's burns, thankfully light enough not to scar. With no small amount of guilt, Alfred set the sleeping boy in his own bed. It was improper for a butler, but Alfred couldn't bear thinking about this boy waking up to his cold and empty room, alone. Settling into a nearby chair, Alfred, reluctant but dutiful, made a phone call.
Bruce woke the next morning feeling completely unrefreshed and confused. The acrid stench of smoke brought forth painful memories of his failed suicide attempt, but the bandaging around his legs and arms reminded him of the comfort he found in Alfred's embrace last night. The feeling of safety as Alfred refused to let him go even to the EMTs. Maybe… it could be better, now. Maybe Alfred wouldn't be so far from Bruce all the time. He could never have parents again, but maybe Bruce could have this. An Alfred, by his side. Someone.
The sound of nearing steps startled Bruce from his thoughts. The man himself, Alfred, was there with a glass of water and an awkward air.
He spoke as Bruce looked down at the water, both their eyes averted from the other.
"I called Dr. Thompkins last night," Alfred started, with some difficulty. "We have decided… we may not have the resources to take care of you as you need."
Bruce's head snapped up at that. What?
"What?"
"There is a facility nearby, and we both think it best that you receive medical care around-the-clock."
He— they— were, what? Sending him to-
"You're sending me to Arkham??" Bruce couldn't keep the terror out of his voice. And to think, he thought he and Alfred had maybe come to an understanding—!
Sighing heavily like this could possibly hurt him more than it would hurt Bruce, Alfred gingerly sat on the bed, as if reluctant to be even this close to Bruce.
"Master Bruce, as your legal guardian, Dr. Thompkins simply does not have the time to care for you. And I, myself, do not have the proper… knowledge, or training."
Bruce stared at him in shocked silence.
"The decision is final," Alfred added quietly. "We shall leave in an hour." With that, Alfred stood up, still avoiding Bruce's betrayed expression, and walked out.
Bruce, for all his efforts, made it a solid 30 seconds before putting his face in his hands and sobbing.
On the other side of the door, Alfred pressed his back into the wall and slid down, muffling himself as he did the same.