الحق ينزف، محميًا بالحب الذي نود أن نموت لحمايته
truth bleeds, shielded by the love we would die to protect

           'BE GENTLE WITH HIM.'

Her words lingered, haunting Bruce as he walked down the sterile hospital corridor. They echoed in his mind like a command he couldn't fathom obeying. Gentle? How could he be gentle with him?

The man who had lied to him for years, keeping secrets about the two people he'd loved most in the world.

The people who defined everything he did—the crusade he'd waged, the life he'd sacrificed.

Everything he was, everything he'd become, was because of them. And now this? A lifetime of truths, undone by lies.

Bruce's fists tightened without thought, each step growing heavier, the soft squeak of his shoes echoing on the polished floor.

He didn't know what he felt—anger, betrayal, grief—it all churned inside him, like an unrelenting storm.

Maryam had tried to calm him, her voice soft and unwavering just moments ago. She always did that, finding a way to ground him when he felt the most unmoored. She'd urged him not to put his full faith in the Riddler's twisted games, nor in Falcone's venomous words.

But that video... that encounter...

It had to be true.

And it shattered something deep within him.

Bruce blamed himself. For being blind. For trusting. But more than that, he blamed the man who raised him—the one who was supposed to protect him, not shroud him in lies.

Alfred Pennyworth.

If someone asked Bruce to describe Alfred, he wouldn't know what to say. "It's Alfred," he'd reply, shrugging off the need for labels. Words never came easy to him, even less so when it came to the man who had been his constant since childhood.

Yet the truth of it was undeniable: Alfred had been more than just a shadow. More than just a butler.

A father figure.

The words stuck in Bruce's throat, like admitting it would betray his own father's memory.

But wasn't it Alfred who had driven him to school every day after the murders? Who taught him to fight when the grief consumed him? Who had taken him fishing as a teenager, reviving those rare moments of joy he used to share with Thomas Wayne? And wasn't it Alfred who had baked his mother's favorite cookies every Christmas, trying to keep something of her alive for him?

Those moments mattered.

They meant something.

But now, standing on the precipice of the truth, Bruce felt like they had been ripped away.

Alfred hadn't just been the keeper of those memories—he had also been the keeper of their secrets.

And that betrayal burned worse than the scars Bruce carried.

His guardian was the only one who truly knew—about the Bat, about the mission—until Maryam returned to his life.

He couldn't shake the weight of everything the man had done—and everything he hadn't.

But it was still Alfred—the man who had patched him up, again and again, after the streets of Gotham had nearly swallowed him whole. Alfred who had watched over him in silence, carrying the burden of knowing a truth that Bruce never did. Alfred, with his sharp wit and dry humor, who could have walked away but chose instead to shoulder the responsibility of a traumatized child.

Bruce had been a broken child, a difficult teenager, and an even harder man to care for. He knew that. He was impossible in every way. But Alfred had stayed. And that loyalty, that love, made the lies hurt all the more.

He sucked in a breath, steadying himself.

"Be gentle with him," Maryam had said.

But Bruce didn't know if he could.

His hands tightened into fists again, the cap pulled low over his face as he navigated the crowded hospital halls. The sterile, white walls pressed in on him, the faint hum of monitors and the distant crackle of paging systems barely audible, swallowed by the overwhelming rush of his own spiraling thoughts.

He moved with purpose, but inside, his chest felt like it was going to explode. His mind kept replaying the last time he was in this very place—the moment he had backed away from Maryam.

That night, he had been a coward.

He hadn't been strong enough for her, hadn't found the courage to speak the truth when she needed him most. And then the Riddler hurt her. The thought of it twisted something inside him, something he couldn't even fully understand. But now, she was safe—hidden away in another apartment. He had to deal with that freak, make sure he got what he deserved.

But at least they had talked—at least they had cleared the air.

It wasn't perfect, but for the first time in a long while, he felt like they were finally on the same page.

His fingers curled tighter around the fabric of his shirt as he fought the familiar ache in his chest. He could still feel the taste of her lips, soft and full, the warmth of her body against his, and the desperate longing that followed just hours ago.

Bruce couldn't shake it. He needed her—needed to feel her close again, to make it right. Fully.

The door to Alfred's room loomed ahead, the handle cold beneath his touch. Bruce hesitated for only a second before he threw it open, not caring who was inside. His eyes darted around the room, locking onto the nurse standing by Alfred's bed. She was in the middle of adjusting his IV, her concentration absolute as she worked.

Her presence caught him off guard, and for a moment, he felt time slow.

The nurse had an air of familiarity about her, something in the way she moved, the way her features were shaped.

When she turned fully, it clicked.

He recognized her from the photos he'd come across—more accurately, the ones he'd gone out of his way to find—of Maryam's family.

She had the same striking presence as her too— elegant and beautiful in a way that felt effortless, her features delicate but strong, yet there was a difference. Her eyes, dark brown like rich coffee, didn't carry the same hazel-green tint that Maryam's did. Her hair, too, was different, the dark onyx strands framing her face in contrast to the caramel waves Maryam had.

She was beautiful, undeniably so, but it was the subtle things—the resemblance to Maryam—that made her striking. And for a brief, stupid moment, it made his heart ache.

He couldn't place her name, but her face was unmistakable.

Her gaze shot up the moment the door creaked open, her movements sharp and swift as she turned to face him. The soft purple of her scrubs blended with the sterile glow of the room, a stethoscope hanging loosely around her neck. And then he saw it—the small plaque above her right shoulder, her name etched upon it: Jamila.

She smiled at him, a warm, tired curve of her lips, her wrinkles deepening in the way they always did when she worked.

"Hello, sorry, I was just checking on him," she spoke, voice laced with a subtle accent, as she slipped her hands into the pockets of her scrubs. It was raspy, cracked, like honey poured too quickly—sweet, yet rough, a sound that pulled you in despite itself.

There was a fragile quality to it, as if it could shatter under the weight of everything she carried.

The scent of oud wrapped around him, familiar and soothing. It was a fragrance he knew well, one that Maryam carried with her, but this was without the jasmine twist that always lingered in the air around Maryam, that unique fragrance that had a way of calming the chaos inside him.

Jamila smelled like the past, like memory, and it hit him harder than he expected.

He didn't know what to say, so he nodded, his voice barely above a whisper. "S'alright."

The door clicked softly behind him, the room settling into a strange quiet.

Jamila turned back to Alfred, tending to the IVs, adjusting the lines with careful hands. Bruce's eyes, instinctively drawn to something on the bedside table, landed on a small box wrapped in simple brown paper, next to a vase of flowers.

He moved closer, heart beating just a little faster. He reached for the box, his fingers brushing it gently, and when he lifted the lid, he found a box of chocolates, a small note tucked above them. His fingers unfolded the paper, revealing the neat but elegant handwriting, small and deliberate.

' Wishing you a swift recovery !!
take care of yourself :)
– Dr. Ben Halimi '

A soft smile tugged at the corners of his lips, and for the first time since entering the building, something like warmth spread through him.

She had sent this for Alfred.

Maryam.

Despite the distance, despite the barriers he'd put up at that time, she had still reached out. She had shown kindness in a way that was so deeply her, a kindness that ran deeper than the pain he sometimes felt.

He set the box back on the table with a gentleness he hadn't realized he was capable of. Then, moving slowly, he took his place beside Alfred's bed, sinking into the lone chair in the corner of the room.

The quiet swirled around him—just the soft beeping of machines, the rustle of sheets—and in that silence, he felt a flood of emotions crashing over him, each one pressing down on him, consuming him with its intensity : the truth he was desperate to seek, the lies that had defined him, the guilt that clung to his bones.

Alfred lay there, so still, and yet so alive in Bruce's memory. The man who had raised him, shaped him, been his rock in a world that often felt too dark. And yet, there was so much left unsaid.

So many questions.

So many truths still hidden beneath layers of silence.

"He woke up hours ago. Asking for you," Jamila said softly, adjusting the covers over Alfred with a practiced touch.

Bruce felt a flicker of guilt twist in his gut. He should have been here sooner. Instead, he had let time slip away, caught up in the storm of his own thoughts and the mess his life had become. Anger bubbled beneath the guilt, swirling like a dangerous tide.

He looked at Alfred, who lay peacefully, the lines of worry that usually etched his face softened for the moment. But the bandages on his head and the breathing apparatus reminded Bruce that the calm was only temporary, that the storm was never far away. Alfred was still in pain, even if it wasn't always visible.

Jamila moved to the window, pulling open the curtains. The night lingered outside, the steady drizzle of rain against the glass a soft, distant percussion.

"I was caught up," Bruce muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. The words felt thin and unimportant in the wake of everything that had happened—the chaos, the confusion.

And the kiss.

The kiss.

Jamila hummed thoughtfully as she turned back to face him, her eyes lingering on him for a moment too long. Bruce quickly looked away, his chest tightening with a mixture of discomfort and something he couldn't quite place.

"So... do you know my niece?" she asked casually, though there was a certain edge to her words.

Bruce nearly choked on his breath.

He hadn't expected that. He stared at her, caught off guard, trying to make sense of the question. Her eyes were searching, waiting for him to respond, and she was not going to let him off the hook so easily.

Seeing his confusion, Jamila crossed her arms over her chest. The gesture was too familiar, a stance he had seen often, especially in Maryam—protective, subtle, but impossible to ignore. "The chocolates, the flowers, the note with Maryam's signature."

"Oh," Bruce stammered, his gaze snapping to the vase and the box once more, his mind racing. "Uh, she's..." His thoughts scattered. What could he say? She was more than just a friend, more than just a fleeting moment in his life. But what did that mean? What would he say if he was honest with himself?

Come on, what is she to you? The voice in his head taunted, its tone sharp and insistent. You think about her every day—what would you say when you see her again? Hell, you were just kissing her an hour ago. Her lips, plump and inviting, soft as velvet, had tasted of something intoxicating. You'd lost yourself in them, biting gently at her neck, feeling the warmth of her skin, tracing the beauty marks that adorned her like secrets. Your breath had mingled with hers as you pressed your lips against the sensitive column of her throat, inhaling her scent—a heady mix of something warm and deeply familiar.

You'd pushed her against the railing, your hands moving lower, grazing the curve of her waist, feeling the soft fullness of her hips beneath your palms. Her body had responded instinctively, pulling you closer, the friction between you a quiet ache that stirred something deep inside. The way her body fit against yours, the heat between you both—it had been more than just a moment.

She was something.

No, someone.

She was important.

She was close in a way no one else had ever been.

Bruce had never spoken the words he'd whispered to her before—not to anyone.

It was a first.

And he could feel the weight of them pressing into his chest, impossible to ignore, a tension that hummed between them, charged with something both dangerous and irresistible.

He clenched his jaw.

They hadn't discussed what they were—what they could be. She hadn't said the words either. And the last thing he wanted was to say something that she might not feel or agree with.

So, he settled for the safest answer, the one that felt least like a lie.

"A friend," he said, the words leaving his mouth like a shield.

He immediately regretted it.

She studied him for a moment, eyes sharp, that unmistakable Halimi stare—yes, the very same one Maryam had, the one her sisters shared, and now her aunt, too. It was a gaze that felt like it saw everything and nothing all at once, unsettling yet oddly comforting.

Jamila hummed again, expression unreadable, but she didn't push. Bruce was grateful for that. Then, her lips curled into the faintest of smiles. "Seemed like it at the funeral," she said simply, tone soft but knowing.

Bruce folded his hands in his lap, gaze locked on the floor and hair falling across his forehead, shielding his eyes from her.

He didn't answer her, instead reaching up to remove his cap and placing it gently on the table beside the flowers.

Suddenly, he felt a hand on his shoulder. He flinched, almost involuntarily, and looked up at the weathered hand resting there, then up at the woman who placed it.

It felt so natural to her, the gesture, as if she'd done it a thousand times. And then she spoke, voice gentle but heavy with meaning. "Thank you. For protecting her that day."

Bruce swallowed hard.

His chest tightened.

The words escaped him before he could stop them, raw and unfiltered. "I'd do it again in a heartbeat if I had to."

Jamila's eyes softened, as though she saw something deeper than he wanted to reveal. A knowing smirk tugged at the corner of her lips, the kind that made him feel exposed. She removed her hand from his shoulder and turned, moving towards the door with a quiet grace.

He hadn't even heard her approach earlier.

As her fingers grasped the handle, she spoke over her shoulder, the accent still thick in her words. "You're a good boy."

The door creaked open, and the noise from the hallway—phones buzzing, voices murmuring—seeped in.

She turned her head one last time, a look of quiet assurance in her gaze. "And don't worry, he'll be fine, God willing. Page me if you need anything."

Bruce barely moved in his chair, voice hushed with gratitude. "Thank you, Ma'am."

She shot him a warm wink, smile softening. "Mila is fine."

With that, she slipped out, the door clicking shut behind her, and the room settled back into its silent rhythm, the steady beep of the machines and the soft patter of rain were the only sounds filling the room. The scent of medication also lingered, mingling with the faint trace of oud and flowers.

Bruce closed his eyes, the weight of everything pressing down on him.

For a moment, everything was blank.

Then he stared at Alfred, lying there so still, so fragile, as if the world around him had faded away. How had it all come to this? Why had he been kept in the dark for so long? His chest felt heavy, like a thousand pounds had settled there, and he couldn't breathe through it.

Then, he heard a quiet stir, a soft sound from Alfred, and slowly, those familiar green eyes fluttered open. They locked onto Bruce, and for a second, it was as if nothing had changed.

But it had.

Everything had changed.

Bruce couldn't help the sadness that washed over him. His voice was barely a whisper, but it carried the pain that had been building up for years.

"...You lied to me. My whole life."

The words felt jagged, like they'd been stuck in his throat for so long, he wasn't sure if he could ever say them without breaking. He wasn't even sure if he should. But he couldn't hold it in anymore. The anger, the confusion, the betrayal—it was all too much.

He had to say it, even if it hurt both of them.

A long silence hung in the air between them, thick with unspoken words, before Bruce spoke again, his voice cracking under the weight of his confession.

"I... I spoke to Carmine Falcone..."

Alfred's eyes widened, a flicker of something between shock and disbelief. He blinked, as though he couldn't quite process what he'd just heard. His voice came out hoarse, struggling, as if the air itself was too heavy for him to breathe.

"...What'd he... say...?"

Bruce's jaw tightened, the memories of that conversation flooding back. His hands gripped the edge of the chair, his knuckles white. His voice was quieter this time, full of sorrow.

"...He told me what he did... for my father... and about Salvatore Maroni."

The words hung in the air like a death sentence. Alfred blinked again, his face twisted with a mix of disbelief and confusion.

He didn't understand.

He couldn't understand.

Bruce could see it in his eyes. The pain, the shock, as if the ground beneath them had just been ripped away.

"...He told you... Salvatore Maroni...?"

Bruce nodded slowly, a heaviness settling in his chest. "...Had my father killed."

The silence that followed was suffocating. Alfred's eyes, filled with pain and confusion, locked onto Bruce. The world seemed to stand still. Bruce could feel the weight of those words, the truth crashing down on him, shattering the illusions he'd held onto for so long.

"Alfred, why didn't you tell me all this?" Bruce's voice cracked, raw with emotion. "I spent all these years fighting for him... believing he was a good man—"

Before he could finish, Alfred cut him off, his voice firm, despite the hoarseness. "—He was a good man."

Bruce shook his head, heart aching with the conflict raging inside him. He couldn't make sense of it.

Not yet.

But Alfred, gaze unyielding, grew even more intense.

"Listen to me," Alfred said, the emotion thick in his voice. "Your father... was a good man. He... made a mistake."

Bruce's eyes widened, chest tightening. "A mistake? He had a man killed..." He breathed in sharply, as if the air itself was too much to bear. "Why? To protect the family image? His political aspirations?"

Alfred's face tightened, pain flashing across it. He didn't want to say it, but he had to. He needed Bruce to understand.

"It wasn't to protect the family image," Alfred said, his voice trembling with emotion. "And he didn't have anyone killed..."

Bruce froze, the words sinking into his bones like a cold, bitter truth. He looked at Alfred, seeing the pain in his eyes, but also something deeper—something that still believed in the man he had raised Bruce to be.

Alfred continued, his voice softer now, but still full of conviction. "He was protecting your mother. He didn't care about his image, the campaign, or any of that. He cared about her. And you. These... secrets about your mother's family... they haunted her. She battled them every single day. We all have our scars, Bruce. And your father knew that if everything came out, it would destroy her. It would break her. He loved her so much, Bruce. And in a moment of weakness, he turned to Falcone. But he never thought Falcone would kill that man. Your father should've known what Falcone was capable of. But he didn't. And that was his mistake."

Bruce's heart felt like it was being ripped open.

Everything he thought he thought he knew—everything he had believed about his father, about the man he had spent his life trying to emulate—was slipping away.

His fists clenched in his lap, but the pain in Alfred's voice kept him still.

"But when Falcone told him what he'd done," Alfred whispered, his voice thick with grief, "your father was shattered. He told Falcone he was going to the police. He was going to confess everything. And that night... your father and your mother were killed."

The truth settled over Bruce like a heavy, suffocating blanket.

His mind reeled.

His father, the man he had admired, had been caught in a trap in a moment of weakness because the woman he loved was being threatened by something she condt control.

And now it was too late to undo it.

Too late to fix the past.

The truth, now exposed, felt like a jagged shard lodged inside him, turning and twisting with each passing second.

And there he sat, his mind swirling, the world outside fading into an unrecognizable blur, as he stared into the abyss of a past he had never known. The truth was a cruel thing, an unforgiving thing, and in that moment, it felt impossible to ever make peace with it.

His heart was still, the quiet heavy as the reality of what he had just learned seeped into every corner of his being. But then, something broke through the fog of disbelief—Maryam.

He thought of her.

Unsurprisingly.

Would he have done the same thing? Would he have gone to the same desperate lengths to protect her, to shield her from the world's darkness, just as his father had tried to protect his mother?

The question hung in the air, too raw to avoid, too painful to ignore. And yet, the answer came to him as naturally as breathing, as if it had always been there, buried beneath the weight of his fear.

Of course, he would.

The answer was so simple, it almost hurt to acknowledge it.

The promise he had made to her—he would keep it, no matter the cost. He would face every shadow, every nightmare, if it meant keeping her safe.

If it meant preserving one of the only thing that mattered in his world.

She was my promise.

One of my reasons.

He could feel the burn of protectiveness in his chest, a fierceness that, for the first time, made him understand his father—at least, in part.

The truth stung.

It shattered his image of the man who had raised him, the man he had longed to be. But somewhere in that brutal honesty, something else began to take root: understanding.

His father, flawed and broken, had done what he thought was necessary.

What he had believed was the only way to save the woman he loved.

His mother.

Martha.

Mummy.

He could feel the sharpness of it now.

The raw, unbearable reality of what his father had done—what he had sacrificed, all for the sake of love.

And Bruce, as flawed as he was, could understand that impulse more clearly than ever before. His father had loved Martha so deeply, so desperately, that he had been willing to go to the darkest place imaginable to protect her—just as Bruce would for Maryam.

The thought was a revelation.

A truth that settled heavily in his bones.

Like father, like son.

But no — like mother, like son, a voice in the back of his mind whispered back, sharp and bitter.

Because Thomas would've sacrificed everything—and he did—for Martha, just as Martha would have for him.

It cut through the fog of his thoughts, but he didn't flinch.

It was true.

He saw it now, even if he hated the way it tasted on his tongue.

It made sense—too much sense.

Bruce had always been haunted by his own demons, the ones his mother had left behind, the ones that had shaped his life in ways he couldn't undo. His own obsession with control, with keeping the people he loved safe, it was all a reflection of his parents.

It was a crimson love in a way, the kind that made them question everything, bending their morals just to protect those they cherished most.

That was his parents — and he had it deep within him.

A twisted inheritance he had to carry for years.

He still couldn't stop it; the need to protect. Gotham. His city.

And her too. Maryam.

To shield her.

To make sure she was untouched by the chaos that always threatened to consume them both.

Maybe it wasn't so different, after all.

Maybe the darkness in him was the same darkness his father had carried, and the same love that had driven him to make his terrible choices was the love that pushed Bruce to do the same.

He leaned back, his hand gripping the edge of the chair tightly, as if it could anchor him to something, anything, that made sense.

But there was no easy answer, no simple resolution.

The truth was too complicated for that.

He would protect her.

He would keep that promise.

Even if it meant facing his own brokenness, even if it meant going to the darkest places of himself, he would do it.

Because she was worth it.

His voice came back as a whisper, struggling to speak."It was... Falcone...?"

Alfred's eyes softened, a sadness in them that Bruce had never quite seen before.

He wanted to give Bruce the answers he'd been searching for his entire life, the answer that could end the torment.

But he couldn't, and the sorrow in his gaze reflected that helplessness.

"I wish I knew for sure..." Alfred's voice trembled, and he faltered for a moment, unable to continue. His face was drawn with regret. "Yes... maybe. Or maybe it was some random thug on the street, scared, desperate, who pulled the trigger too fast..."

He closed his eyes, shoulders heavy with years of guilt. "If you don't think I've spent every day searching for that answer..."

Alfred's words hung in the air like a confession, a wound that had never truly healed. "It was my job to protect them," he whispered, the pain of that responsibility weighing him down.

"Do you understand? I know you always blamed yourself, but you were just a boy, Bruce. I could see the fear in your eyes. But I didn't know how to help. I could teach you to fight... but I wasn't prepared to be your father. You needed someone who could guide you, someone who could help you understand. But all I had was me..." His voice broke, and he couldn't hide the rawness in his expression. "I'm sorry..."

Bruce was silent for a long time, his chest tightening as he absorbed the grief in Alfred's words. The man who raised him was far from perfect, yet in his imperfections, he found a truth he'd never seen before. "No, Alfred," he murmured, voice full with emotion. "Don't be sorry..."

Alfred's gaze met his, and for a moment, it felt as if the weight of the years between them had finally been lifted, the walls Bruce had so carefully built around his heart beginning to crumble.

But there was still so much left unsaid.

Bruce's voice was quieter now, barely more than a whisper. "God, I... never thought I'd feel fear like that again." He paused, mind trying to process everything. "I thought I'd mastered all that. I mean, I'm not afraid to die." His gaze was steady, unflinching, meeting Alfred's with a raw honesty that left them both exposed.

The butler nodded, understanding, but Bruce's eyes shifted away as the gravity of what he was about to say hit him.

"I realize now," Bruce continued, tone filled with a quiet desperation, "there's something I never got past." He swallowed hard. "The fear of... ever going through any of that again." His words hung in the air, heavy with the weight of his vulnerability. "Of losing people I care about."

Alfred's heart clenched at the confession, and he smiled softly, his own eyes misting over. "Well... I'm afraid you won't be rid of me just yet." The words were meant to lighten the mood, but there was an underlying sincerity in them, a promise of unwavering support.

Bruce's lips quirked into a sad, knowing smile. But there was no real joy in it.

He looked away, lost in his thoughts. "I went into their room last night," he said, voice distant. "It all... seemed so much smaller."

The silence that followed was thick, laden with the weight of their shared grief.

Alfred watched Bruce, gaze softening as he caught a fleeting glimpse of the boy Bruce had once been—the boy who had suffered, battled with his demons, who had carried the world on his shoulders for far too long.

He reached out a hand, his old fingers trembling slightly.

Bruce hesitated, and for a moment, it seemed like he might withdraw. But then he took Alfred's hand, gripping it tightly, squeezing it.

The moment was tender, like a silent and final understanding passing between them.

After a while, Alfred glanced down at the bedside table, gaze catching on the box and the flowers. "Is it from Dory? The poor woman..." he asked, tone light, but a little concerned.

But Bruce's lips curved into a small, amused smile. "Maryam," he whispered softly, and the name hung in the air like a quiet promise.

"Maryam? You mean—" Alfred echoed, voice filled with surprise. "She knows?"

Bruce nodded. "Yeah. She figured it out on her own."

Alfred's eyes sparkled with a knowing glint, chapped lips quirking into a playful smile.

He clicked his tongue against his teeth. "Two sides of the same coin," he murmured, and Bruce couldn't help but laugh quietly, though it was more of a chuckle than anything.

The teasing tone was something he hadn't realized he needed until now.

Bruce dropped his hand from Alfred's, but Alfred didn't seem to mind. Instead, he continued, voice light and affectionate, as it always was whenever he spoke of Dr. Halimi.

"What a fine and lovely woman. You should take notes on her manners, Master Wayne." He raised an eyebrow, a teasing glint in his eyes. "When do I get to meet her?"

Bruce opened his mouth to respond, but before he could, his gaze shifted, expression hardening.

Outside the window, where the rain lashed against the glass in relentless sheets, something caught his eye—something unmistakable.

The Bat-Signal blazed in the sky, a jagged sliver of light cutting through the darkened expanse, like a burning brand in the night.

It was a call to action, a beacon for the restless and the lost.

Alfred turned, his face shifting from warmth to the stern expression that had become all too familiar. He saw it too, the unmistakable mark of urgency that only Gotham's dark protector could summon.

They both understood the gravity of it.

With a final, silent glance at Alfred, Bruce stood up, his resolve hardening once again.

There was work to be done.

A/N : Our poor Alfie just can't catch a break, huh?

Also, Aunt Mila and Alfred are the real captains of Walimi—oop

(Should we go with Walimi or Brayam for their ship name? I can't decide...)

Maryam and Alfred <3333 (they're too precious, seriously.)

This scene's super important for the story, especially with Thomas, Martha, and Bruce. I wanted to add some depth, and play around with the parallels between Thomas/Martha and Bruce/Maryam. Martha's mental health is a really interesting angle, and I hope they explore that more !!!

Fun fact: That line where Bruce tells Alfred he went to his parents' room was actually in the scripts! Not sure why it got cut, but I decided to include it ;))

Anyway, I hope this chapter wasn't too hard to follow, and if I missed any mistakes—well, I'm too lazy to re-read right now 🫠