A/N: Okay so hey guys! I'm so sorry about the wait on this one. It's been a LONG couple of weeks, but I ended up getting to meet BOTH David Mazouz and Sean Pertwee yesterday, so it gave me a little bit of juice to write this small chapter. Hopefully I can get back to a regular update schedule for this and my other story Agony soon! Feel free to review, favorite, follow, or PM us!

Story note: This was prompted by a reader submission from LyricalMedley. I've been think of doing a chapter just like this, but when they suggested it I decided it would be a fun one to write. Thank you!

~G

Alfred was determined to never let the boy see him upset. Bruce was dealing with enough as it was; the last thing he needed was for his only rock in this world to not be steadfast. So, the butler did not think one bit about wiping the corner of his eye when Bruce walked in the kitchen, or holding the bottle of whiskey behind his back when Bruce had wandered into his room on one of his sleepless nights. He hadn't bothered knocking because he knew Alfred was awake - neither of them slept anymore.

The truth was, Thomas and Martha meant so much to Alfred Pennyworth. The two had taken him in during a hard time in the butler's life. When he was honorably discharged from the Queen's service and his father had passed away, the Waynes extended both arms forward to welcome him into their home, their family. He helped them raise their son, who had also become his boy, and took guardianship over him if something ever happened. They were his family; they were all he had left.

Needless to say, the passing of the pair was not easy for Alfred, but he would never let Bruce know how badly he was wounded by the loss. Alfred was all Bruce had left in this world, and he had to be adamant. Breaking was not an option, until the day Bruce slipped into the kitchen unnoticed, that is.

.

.

.

The ex-special forces turned butler was doing just as he always did every night at precisely eight o'three. He was washing the dishes.

Alfred sighed. It had been a taxing day - the Waynes' funeral bills had just come in and Bruce had caught him sifting through them before he could get it back to his office. Well, Thomas Wayne's old office; it's where he handled all the financial business. It was either that or the kitchen table, and Bruce did not need to see just how much the butler spent on bourbon. It had been a long three weeks.

The soapy water splashed Alfred's face and caught his attention away from his thoughts. He wiped his hand across his face to clear his eyes slowly sunk his elbows onto the counter, holding his head in his hands.

How was he to do this? Raise a child all alone. He figured couldn't do it, but there was no bloody way in hell he'd let some child protective services goon get their hands on Bruce Wayne. He missed the Waynes. He missed them greatly.

The butler's shoulders sagged and soon began to shake, taken by silent sobs he hid behind his prim and proper attitude.

God he needed a drink.

But his sobs continued, drowned out by the sound of the tellybox in the main room and the running of the faucet. He never cried, he hadn't actually cried in years - not since his father passed.

It was a messy bout, one that raged and tore into the deepest part of Alfred Pennyworth. The sobs wracked his whole body, all the pent up rage and sadness he had hid for three weeks blowing up in one giant fit that was caged in silence. He bit his fist and stamped his foot and for a moment was taken back to first grade where he would throw tantrums like this until his father would come along and say "now Alfred, this is no way a gentlemen acts," but unlike those this fit was far from voluntary. He was so caught up in his turmoil that he did not notice the boy that slipped in the door and was now watching in the background.

Bruce observed silently from afar, but when the butler's convulsions caused him to nearly cut his hand open on a knife in the sink he decided to make his presence known.

"Alfred, are you okay?" Bruce said taking a step forward. Alfred flinched, and turned around not knowing the boy had been standing there.

"Why, I'm fine Master Bruce," he sniffed, wiping at his nose, "can I help you with anything?"

Bruce stared at him intensely. It was not unusual that the word intense came up when describing Bruce Wayne, but the butler knew he was in a hopeless battle.

"Alright.." Alfred sighed, "how long have you been standing there?"

"Long enough," Bruce said quietly. "Are you alright, Alfred?"

"Oh yes, nothing to worry about Master B. Just some personal things going on, I'll be okay," the butler smiled very convincingly, he had thought.

"Alright," Bruce kept his gaze on Alfred and walked up next to him, grabbing a hand towel and beginning to dry the dishes Alfred had set aside in the clean pile.

"No, you don't have to Master Bruce, it's not a-"

"I want to," Bruce broke from his usual hardened expression and offered a small smile, hoping for something - anything - in return from the butler other than a hollow message of "I'm okay, thank you for asking," or "don't worry about me, Master Bruce." He had finally understood the gravity Alfred's grief.

Though unknown to the butler, Bruce did know about all the bottles of bourbon he had been buying. Bruce did know about every single time Alfred vigorously wiped away a tear or two for the sake of saving a face. The boy really did care about the butler; he was all he had left, so he made an offer of what he felt like was a mediator. It gave Alfred a hand with the cleaning and it gave Bruce an opportunity to study the butler more closely.

Alfred nodded and turned back to his duties. He did find it a nice gesture, though he would never let Bruce do that if there were guests.

The duo stood and washed and dried the dishes for thirty minutes in a comfortable silence, not bothering to add words where they were unnecessary. Alfred appreciated the company, and Bruce appreciated the opportunity to delve into the butler's deeper, thoughtful side - even though by now Bruce had already determined Alfred Pennyworth was a deeper individual than Mt. Everest was high.

As they finished up and Alfred hit the kitchen light switch, leaving it in favor of the study now that the dishes were done, Bruce paused and looked up at the butler.

"You don't have to hide it. They were your family too, you know," the boy said blatantly and turned his back to go to his map board where he had begun to pin all of the clues that led to the murderer of his parents.

Alfred stood for a moment and blinked away a few stray tears, not believing that his ruse had been seen past so easily. Now that Bruce was preoccupied he could go back to his room for a drink, but instead of leaving sat down and glanced at the files on the table ahead of him. He stared at the files, and then up at the boy, and then back at the files, and so on. This child, he thought, is going to be the death of me.

He smiled regardless and picked up a file, glancing through it. This time it was Bruce's turn to stare as Alfred, eyes crinkled in concentration, picked up a photo and tacked it into the map board at a certain location Bruce wasn't quite sure of.

Bruce gaped. "You don't have to do this! You can go back to your room or business or whatever and-"

"I want to, Bruce," the butler smiled at him as he picked up another file.

Bruce smiled back at him and picked up a file and begun reading his newest one. They had made a silent contract with their eyes, worth more than a thousand words ever would be. They were in this together now; they would take care of each other. The littlest Wayne did not fail to notice, either, that for the first time since he was four, his butler called him by his name.

That night, both the butler and the boy fell asleep on the couch, with nothing but peace in their hearts.