~ Some very VERY late Father’s Day drabbles from the perspectives of Alfred, Bruce, and Damian ~
Alfred Pennyworth wasn’t a father
He had no machinations of calling himself something he wasn’t.
There were a great many titles he would apply to himself. A former spy. A medic. An actor. The Wayne family’s loyal butler. Ally to the Batman. Bruce Wayne’s legal guardian. . .
But he had no right to call himself a father. Lord knows Bruce had told him as much during heated moments when he was still a boy. Loudly declaring that he was no longer a child and that Alfred was not his father when he was (yet again) sent to the headmaster office, reprimanded for leaving a mess, or a million other things he needed disciplining for.
And yet, he comforted Bruce very much like a father would. Leaving space for lonesome coping when needed. Offering to listen, no matter how many times he was denied. Staying at his bedside when the nightmares were too much or thoughts too heavy for sleep. Doing small, unnoticed things like stocking Bruce’s favorite snacks or replacing his favorite DVDs when they became scratched.
All in all, doing the best he could to help Bruce grow into the kind of man Thomas would have been proud of.
He didn’t always do the best at it. While abandoning Bruce had never been an option, it was an unexpected responsibility he was not prepared for. He didn’t always say the right thing. And for all his poise and cunning wit, he didn’t always make the best choice.
They clashed so many times for so many reasons over so many periods of Bruce’s life.
But he always stayed. Even in the darkest moments when he didn’t recognize the boy he once knew, he stayed. He loved. And he held on to hope.
A hope that was a lifeline for them both over the years.
A bond that kept Bruce together when he first donned the cowl and there was nobody else. A bond that persisted despite arguments, an ebbing and flowing darkness, and an impossible mission.
He couldn’t stop Bruce from becoming the bat, but he made damn sure he stayed a man. And as time went on, he didn’t have to do it alone.
Such a privilege to watch the family grow, to see Bruce grow. To have his own love grow.
Much like himself, Bruce was an imperfect father, an imperfect protector, and a flawed man. But he was a good man, a great man even.
Someone who made him proud. Someone he knew Thomas would be proud of.
Someone very much like a son he’d watched grow up.
Bruce remembered his father.
Thomas Wayne always seemed larger than life. Someone, a wide-eyed little Bruce, adored just as much as heroes like Zorro and Grey Ghost. He saved lives as a surgeon, made Gotham a better city for all with his philanthropy, and was a loving man to his son and wife. Always making time and showing he cared despite his many obligations.
Fond memories of playing doctor, his father being a good sport and letting him use his stethoscope and pen light. Visits to the Gotham zoo and aquarium. Sneaking trips to Big Belly Burger behind Alfred’s back.
He was someone who could truly do it all.
To a naive eight year old, it all seemed to come so easily. And he was excited to be just like his father one day. Encouragement from his parents built a healthy self-esteem and a belief that he too could help the world one day.
All those illusions shattered with the piercing scream of a woman in pearls and the pop pop of two bullets.
As a young man he was obsessively driven by a need to live up to his father’s legacy and to avenge his murder. No longer was he excited for his future. Rather controlled by a heavy obligation to save the rotting city that took away his whole world.
As a grown man, who helped raise several of his own children, Bruce developed an appreciation for how hard things actually were for his father. Balancing philanthropy in the public eye with a demanding ‘career’ was a monumental task. But that balancing act of identities was the hard part. Caring about and loving his children, wanting to be there for them after the tragedies they’d experienced, that part was easy.
It wasn’t lost on him that despite everything he still wasn’t half the man Thomas had been.
Bruce had made a lot of mistakes. People, loved ones, he’d failed to save. Self isolation, wrong choices, the people he’d pushed away, people he’d hurt, words said he could never take back-
Nothing he could ever do, no amount of himself he gave away, would ever be enough to make up for the man he was and the legacy his father left. But still he tried, and he’d spend his whole life trying to be a better man and a better father to his youngest, Damian. Needing to do better from the many fatherhood mistakes he’d made early on.
“I love you. I. . .still miss you. Happy Father’s Day.”
He kept it brief, a couple heartfelt words and a fresh bouquet left at Thomas Wayne’s grave. Bruce could stay there for hours if he let himself. But this day didn’t just belong to Thomas anymore for Bruce.
Tiptoeing into the kitchen, the sun still below the horizon, Bruce prepared breakfast for Alfred. The British man was always the first to rise, so surprising him with tea and a decent breakfast required precise adherence to a schedule.
Though Alfred would never be Bruce’s father, he was very much a father figure to him. The older man had his imperfections and complexities that combined with Bruce’s hardheadedness strained their relationship at the best of times. But there was an abundance of love there. A traumatized child and an unprepared butler were not always the best combination, but they meant so much to each other. They’d saved each other in so many ways over the years.
Bruce’s timing was impeccable. By the time Alfred strolled into the kitchen, ready to prepare breakfast for the household as usual, the tea was the perfect temperature for sipping and the freshly baked biscuits the perfect texture for eating.
“It’s your turn to be taken care of old sport.”
Alfred took a seat as Bruce prepared him a plate, both of them chuckling.
Damian hadn’t always known his father.
Sure, he’d heard all about ‘The world’s greatest detective’ and ‘The Batman’ growing up. Stories whispered by assassins who had encountered him. Grandiose tales of the leagues most respected enemy around the dinner table. But that wasn’t the same as truly knowing the man.
Grandfather spoke highly of him. Said he was someone who’d made himself more than a man. Built himself into someone who’d held his own in many battles against the demons head. All while making it abundantly clear Damian’s place and duty was in the League. That regardless of their connection, the bat had made himself an enemy too many times.
So while the burden of being the demon’s grandson weighed heavily. Always at the back of his mind during rigorous training and violent acts that became second nature . . . It wasn’t the only legacy he had to live up to.
Mother spoke highly of him, making sure he knew of the highly capable other half of his conception. At least, that’s how she phrased it in Grandfather’s presence. Keeping it distant, calculated.
But on those rare nights where she snuck into his room. Showing affection and tucking him into bed, away from prying eyes, she spoke of love. Rubbing his back and telling him a bedtime story, a glimpse of the normal loving mother she could be if things were different.
In those moments she told him a story of mutual connection, one that grew over the course of many years and meetings. A passionate love with her beloved that could never be. Their worlds, their ideologies, they were too different to last. They’d failed to make it work too many times. But for all the grief their relationship brought to the league, and his mother’s relationship with grandfather- she made it clear that Damian was a gift borne out reciprocal love.
Though he was made to feel more like a burden when he first arrived at Wayne manor, even though both mother and father agreed it was for the best. It was rocky for a long time.
Admittedly, he shared a some of the blame for that. In retrospect, attacking other family members, sneaking out to kill criminals, and generally being rude were probably not great choices. But it was the only way he’d known how to be. Even now, haunted by his past and working to be a better person, he had to fight those urges. Ten years of being raised as a perfect killing machine was not something he could shake off.
Father was initially hostile, impatient, and easy to anger, and Damian responded in turn. But slowly, things changed. There was no immediate shift, no death or shared tragedy magically fixed their relationship. But hostility faded and in its place was compassion, a willingness to extend a hand and allow room for growth, learning, and redemption.
Mutual respect developed between father and son, while Damian grew into his own kind of hero not defined by either side of his lineage. He also found joy in the idiosyncrasies of civilian life. His art displayed on the kitchen fridge, family trips to the zoo, movie nights in the manor’s theater.
So while the first few father’s days Damian experienced in Gotham were a bit awkward, he wanted this year to be special.
He stayed up the whole night before perfecting the gift he was working on. Opting to skip breakfast and eat a protein bar while finalizing the final details.
When he finally emerged from his room, Damian found his father on the patio sipping a hot coffee and doing the Wordle.
“Good morning father, I have a gift for you in honor of this day. I made it myself.”
“Thank you Damian, that’s really swee-“
Bruce was at a loss for words. The loving details meticulously painted into the family portrait were beautiful. At the center of it were him and Damian, smiling and at peace. The time and effort put into it was evident.
Wiping the pinpricks of tears at the corners of his eyes, Bruce embraced Damian.
“Thank you son, it’s amazing. I love you so much.”
Without hesitation, Damian hugged back, “I love you too.”
