A/N: Well, here it is, the third and final installment of my very first YJ trilogy. It's been an adventure and I can't thank everyone enough for the wonderful reviews. I'm currently in the process of writing Grappling, which will be my next Dick/Wally fic, so keep an eye out for that one if you're into the pairing. In the meantime, hope you all like how I decided to wrap things up!

Cowl

"What do you think of this one kiddo?" Thomas Wayne turned to his young son, six-year-old Bruce being barely tall enough to peer curiously over the glass jewelry case.

"Daddy! I can't see which one you're looking at." Bruce tugged at the hem of his father's shirt impatiently, lower lip jutted out in a pout. Thomas chuckled at his son's antics, lifting the boy up when he stretched his arms up and started wiggling his tiny fingers.

"I'm talking about this one Brucey, do you think Mommy will like it?" Thomas settled the child on his hip, leaning forward to point out a simple yet elegant pearl necklace.

"I think Mommy will look pretty with it." Bruce replied, holding onto Thomas's shirt for support as he leaned as close to the case as he could without falling.

"Great. Let me buy this then we can go look at flowers, how's that sound?" Thomas set Bruce back on the floor, ruffling his dark hair before looking around for a store clerk.

"Flowers?" Bruce twisted up his facial features into one of child-like confusion. "What's so great about flowers?"

Later that night found Bruce shuffling awkwardly in the stiff suit his father had put him in, looking at his reflection apprehensively while tugging at the necktie that seemed to stifle his breathing. Hearing a chuckle coming from his doorway made the young Wayne heir turn around to pout up at the elderly man standing there.

"Alfred, it's not funny." Bruce moodily scuffed his dress shoe on the carpeting of his room as his family's butler entered the room.

"Of course not, Master Bruce. If I may though?" Alfred gestured to the tie that his young charge was still tugging at. "Your father always did tie them a bit too tight for others' comfort."

Bruce held perfectly still as Alfred gently undid the tie and the deftly tied it again, this time much looser than before but still snug. Job completed, the older man took a moment to straighten out Bruce's suit jacket before straightening up to look him over.

"Hm, I must say, you are quite a striking resemblance of your father. Give it a few more years and you shall have the young ladies at your beck and call." Alfred smiled at Bruce's grin before leading the younger out to the landing. "Your parents will be down shortly, make sure you behave tonight." Alfred straightened Bruce's bangs one last time before disappearing through the doorway that led to the garage.

Standing in the well lit entry hall of Wayne Manor, Bruce tried hard not to fidget with the outfit that Alfred had just fixed while he waited for his parents to appear from their bedroom on the second floor. Let it be known that the youngest Wayne was not the most patient child ever, there'd be time for that later on. Or at least that's what he told Alfred every time the older man called him out on it.

Hearing his mother's tinkling laughter coming from the second floor landing, Bruce looked up to see Martha Wayne dressed in a figure hugging red dress with her hair up in an elegant bun smiling down at him with Thomas behind her. Resting a large hand on his wife's lower back, Thomas guided the two down to stairs to stand before their son.

"What do you think Bruce?" Thomas asked as he gave his wife a twirl, letting the flowing hem of her dress fan out around her feet.

"Tom!" Martha laughed as she came out of the twirl to be hugged tightly to her husband's chest.

"I think she's the prettiest mom in the whole world." Bruce smiled at the obvious love that his parents shared. Someday he'd find a girl like his mom to marry, of that he was sure.

"You're such a sweetie, no doubt your father's doing." Martha leaned down to kiss Bruce's cheek, wiping the bit of lipstick leftover off before straightening. "Shall we be off gentlemen?" She took hold of her son's hand while looping her other arm through her husband's, guiding them out to the awaiting car.

It was a beautiful summer's night, perfect for an anniversary dinner.

The night had gone perfectly so far. Alfred had dropped the Waynes off at one of Gotham's fanciest restaurants, Bruce had behaved himself throughout the meal and ate everything on his plate, Thomas had presented the necklace and roses to Martha before the dessert came and she had loved both gifts, giving both Wayne men a kiss for them. Everything was going according to plan.

When the family left the restaurant however, Alfred called to let them know that he was stuck in a light traffic jam and would take a couple of minutes. Deciding to walk to a less crowded side of the block to wait, Thomas and Martha walked hand in hand a step ahead of Bruce, talking quietly to each other and enjoying the night. Bruce remained silent as he followed his parents. He had the creepy feeling tingling up his spine that only came when someone was staring intently at you.

It happened so fast that even years later Bruce wouldn't be able to recall exactly what happened. All he could remember was a loud bang, his mother's scream, and then silence. The next part of Bruce's memory always replayed in slow motion as he caught sight of glinting eyes in the shadows before looking down to see his parents' lifeless bodies.

His father's body was twisted oddly upon itself, red seeping from the wounds in his chest. His mother's deadened eyes were staring at the sky above her, pearl necklace snapped with the little white gems scattered around her, perfect white splattered with crimson beside blood-soaked roses.

Martha Wayne's body, so lifeless and so red, too much red, would be the one image that seared itself into Bruce's mind from that night.

"Master Bruce, how was school?" Alfred met Bruce at the manor door, as always, and took the backpack from the mostly silent teen.

"Fine." Bruce bit out, not necessarily unkindly, as he headed up the stairs, absently shedding his school uniform on the way.

"Dinner will be ready in an hour." Alfred called up just as Bruce's bedroom door firmly shut. Sighing to himself, the ever-faithful Wayne butler moved to put Bruce's backpack in the study where he'd skulk off to after dinner to do his homework.

It had been eleven years since the death of Bruce's parents, and Alfred had done everything he could from the moment he rounded the corner to see the youngest Wayne kneeling beside his parents, unmindful of the blood seeping into his pants. But Bruce had become so withdrawn from that night that Alfred was beginning to think that nothing would ever get through to him again.

Alfred had considered therapy, but after three different psychiatrists met with Bruce and declared him unreachable the older man gave up on that idea. The problem with Bruce was that he refused to open up to anyone, and so kept all of his feelings bottled up and simmering. It really distressed Alfred to see his young charge in such turmoil while there was nothing he could do about it.

In the meantime, all he could do was be there, picking up whatever destruction the teen left in his wake.

Upstairs in his darkened room, Bruce sat slumped on the edge of his bed. He'd sit there for an hour, trudge downstairs to eat and finish up homework, and then trudge back up to his room to brood some more, just like he did every day. Maybe today he would read a book tonight to try and distract himself. Then again, maybe not.

Bruce wasn't depressed. He knew he wasn't depressed. He was just so...overwhelmingly angry. Not to mention guilt ridden, which only seemed to fuel his anger. Ever since that night, the shock of seeing his parents shot right before him never really wore off. The amount that did wear off left an empty chasm within him that he could only seem to fill with more anger and guilt. Bruce didn't know how to handle all the anger inside him, and after eleven years of building and festering within him he knew it was only a matter of time before it exploded forth.

Slowly lifting his head from the dark thoughts in his head, Bruce found himself looking into the full-length mirror set by his dresser. Staring blankly back at him was a well built, good looking seventeen-year-old who was a near splitting image of his father. Bruce felt the urge to shatter that teen looking back at him into tiny jagged pieces.

Sliding off his bed to kneel before the mirror, Bruce never once let himself blink or look away from his own haunted eyes. This was the first time he really allowed himself to take a good look at what he'd become, and he hated it. He hated what all the bottled up emotions were doing to him. He needed to find an outlet, and fast, before the anger simply ate him alive.

"Master Bruce? Dinner is ready." Alfred's voice called from the first floor, snapping Bruce's eyes away from the mirror. Glancing to the clock on his nightstand, Bruce was surprised to see he'd been staring at his reflection for the better part of an hour.

Deciding that further angsting could wait until he had a full stomach, Bruce pulled himself to his feet before looking back at his reflection. Seeing a lost boy looking beseechingly back at him, Bruce felt a corner of his mouth twitch upwards just the slightest bit. He wasn't broken yet, not quite.

The desk lamp sitting next to a stack of papers gave off the only light in the vast study as Bruce poured over some legal documents concerning one of Wayne Enterprise's collaborations with another large corporation.

Majoring in business at Gotham University had been a given after he'd graduated high school at the top of his class, as he'd been expected to take over the family business since he was born. Taking a couple of years off after university to travel the world had been the best decision Bruce had made, despite Alfred's initial objection to the idea of his charge gallivanting around the world learning different martial arts techniques. However, after promising his guardian that he wouldn't fall off the face of a mountain and would keep in as much contact as he could, Bruce had been off.

Once Bruce had returned to Gotham from his final destination of Tibet, Alfred had instantly seen the monumental change in the young man. Bruce seemed so much calmer and in control of himself, his aura no longer screaming of barely concealed edginess. It was obvious that Bruce had returned as a man with a cleared head and unbreakable determination. Upon his return, Bruce readily took over the company from its temporary president and made it take off, expanding it and gaining business partners left and right.

While all the hard word meant lots of late nights and long hours in the office, Bruce had never felt better. He finally had a purpose and direction to his daytime life. As for his nighttime life...

Shifting the finished documents to the side, Bruce pulled a fairly thick folder towards him and flipped it open. Inside were numerous sheets of paper with sketches and figures for different weapons inspired by all that Bruce had come in contact with during his years of travel.

While throwing himself into work kept him busy during the day, Bruce's still prevalent need for justice would make itself known during the nighttime hours. Therefore, Bruce had come up with the idea of becoming Gotham's guardian of the night. He had the skills, he had the training, now he just needed the equipment, not to mention the suit...

"Do I even want to know?" Alfred was suddenly in the room with him, turning on the overhead lights before bringing the tea tray he was carrying over to Bruce's desk.

"Don't act like you haven't had an inkling of what I've been planning ever since I got home." Bruce gave the old butler a wry grin, gratefully accepting the mug of tea and plate of cookies.

"Hm, I suppose hoping that I was wrong for once was too much to ask for." Alfred peered over his charge's shoulder. "Do you have access to all of these weapons?" Alfred asked with a raised eyebrow.

"Not yet, but I know someone in Japan who would be happy to design some new artillery." Bruce replied unconcernedly, turning back to his planning sheets while trying to figure out his suit.

"Just be careful you don't get yourself-" Thunk! "-hurt. What was that?"

Bruce rose from his chair to open the window the thunk had resounded from, looking out onto the window ledge to see a dazed bat flapping dazedly around. Carefully picking up the small creature, Bruce turned back into the room to get a better look. The furry mammal was truly a marvel of nature, being the only flying mammal with the ability to hunt like a pro in pitch-black darkness.

"Poor thing, probably got lost coming out of the cave." Alfred noted, referring to the cave carved into the mountain Wayne Manor was built on. Bruce hummed in absent agreement, thumb gently stroking the soft fur on the bat's belly as his mind raced with the possibilities.

"Master Bruce?" Alfred did not like the look on Bruce's face.

"Alfred, I believe I have found my new identity."

Alfred had been serving the Wayne family for years, and so had been there from the very first day of Bruce's existence in the world; from the day Martha announced she was expecting, to the day Bruce decided he was ready to enter the world, and all the way until present day twenty-nine years later.

In that span of time, Alfred had seen Bruce through his playgrounds days of scraped knees and pulling pigtails, the death of his parents, the more than normal angst of the teenaged years, and finally the years of Wayne Enterprise and Batman.

Alfred should really get a medal for all the scrapes and bruises he'd healed Bruce of over the decades.

While becoming Batman had definitely relieved Bruce of most of his childhood anger, Alfred could see that there was still something that kept Bruce aloof from the outside world, even from the numerous girls he frequently dated. Although Alfred still wished he knew how to help the other man, he now knew that simply being there to patch him up would have to suffice.

The night Batman returned to the manor with a sleeping child in his arms was the night that Bruce, in Alfred's mind, finally started to heal.

Richard Grayson, a small damaged boy just like Bruce, seemed to fit effortlessly into both Bruce's and Alfred's lives. So full of hope and optimism despite the trauma of seeing his parents plummet to their deaths, Richard brought life back to the stale manor and its jaded inhabitants.

Weekends were spent in the park playing catch, flying kites, or just sitting around licking ice-cream cones. Evenings were spent at the dining room table with homework spread out before Bruce and Dick as they puzzled over math problems and English essays. At night, when demons would plague susceptible minds, Alfred would see the faint glow of light seeping in under his bedroom door while Bruce's deep voice came from the room down the hall, comforting Dick back to sleep.

Bruce, to everyone's surprise, mellowed even more than he had after his years abroad. He smiled easily, talked nicer, and dropped everything when school called to report that Dick was sick or had been bullied again. Alfred simply stood by and watched as Bruce got attached to the young boy, thankful every day for the turn of events that brought the two broken souls together.

The day Bruce tentatively brought up adoption, Dick had promptly thrown himself at the man he already considered his second father and hugged him with everything he had. And once Dick became Robin, standing alongside Batman just as he stood beside Bruce, Alfred knew for sure that the kid was a part of the family.

Dick had accomplished what numerous adults before him had attempted and failed to achieve. Funny how all it took was a young ten-year-old boy insinuating himself into Bruce's life and heart to bring out the man that Alfred had always known was beneath the cowl.