Alfred Pennyworth stands in the doorway of Wayne Manor’s grand ballroom, a silent observer to the aftermath of a celebration that never was. The room is still adorned with streamers and balloons, a half-finished HAPPY BIRTHDAY banner drooping over the fireplace. A cake, painstakingly decorated to match the young hero’s tastes, sits untouched on the table, its candles unlit. But the guests - friends, teammates, the very people who were supposed to fill this room with laughter - are conspicuously absent.

Bruce’s decision had been abrupt, delivered in that infuriatingly calm tone that brooked no argument. Alfred had seen the look in his eyes: that familiar, icy calculation; the paranoia that always lurked beneath the surface. Something had spooked him. Something always spooked him. Unfortunately, even Alfred could not always pull the man from the paranoia spirals that so easily engulfed him. And now, the consequences were left in the fragile hands of the child sitting alone on the couch, staring blankly at the decorations with a smile that didn’t reach their eyes.

Alfred’s chest tightens. He knows that expression - the practiced neutrality, the insistence that ‘it’s fine’ when the world has just been upended. That refusal to fully acknowledge disappointment, as if one should not be allowed to feel the way they do. He’s seen it on Bruce’s face too many times to count. It is no easier to see on Bruce’s wards than it was on him.

With a quiet sigh, he steps forward, hands clasped behind his back. “Might I suggest a cup of tea?” he offers, voice gentle but firm. Steadying, he hopes. “And, if you’d prefer, we could salvage what’s left of the cake. I daresay it would be a shame to let it go to waste.” He doesn’t press further. Doesn’t pretend he can fix this. But he can be here, steady as the grandfather clock in the hall - because sometimes, that’s all one can do; to be present, and to care.