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Bruce was crying.
It was Mother's Day, and Bruce was crying.
Leslie was so out of her depth.
She sighed. She didn't move from her place, just in front of the door of the kid's room. She knew she should enter and soothe him, and be there for him but-- But right now, she needed a little time, just one or two minutes, just to think about what she should say and how to help.
It had never been in Leslie's mind to raise a kid. Especially not the traumatized son of one of her closest friends who witnessed the murder of his parents. Half of the time, she didn't know what she was doing; and the other half, she just wanted to run away and never come back.
Leslie wouldn't do that, though. It wouldn't be fair, not for Alfred, even less for Bruce. It wasn't about Thomas and Martha's memories anymore; she surprised herself by loving Bruce as her own, and she really wanted to do better for him.
He was only ten. Ten was too young to be traumatized and struggling with life.
Leslie really didn't know what to do.
She knocked quietly at the frame, and the sniffles inside the room settled down. “Bruce? Can I come in?”
He didn't answer right away. Leslie knew he was probably wiping his tears away and composing himself.
“Yes,” he said finally, voice sad and low, raw from the tears.
She opened the door, and gave a smile at the kid. He didn't smile back; he looked right at her, eyes big and red, hands folded on his lap, and her heart ached.
“Can I sit?” she asked, gesturing to the bed beside Bruce. The kid nodded, and she sat. “I wanted to know if you want to do something special today.”
Bruce shook his head. “I don't know. I... I miss her.” He sniffled again, and Leslie opened her arms to him. He immediately crashed against her, hiding his head against her body.
“It's alright, honey. It's natural that you miss her, especially today.” Leslie started to rub circles on his back, trying to soothe him.
Bruce was crying again. Leslie felt like she was terrible at this – being some sort of mother-like figure. Raising a kid wasn't for her, probably. But she wasn't known to back down when facing a dire situation, even if the situation was snot and tears.
Bruce deserved better. She wondered if Alfred felt so awkward with dealing with that, too.
Maybe not. He already had Julia, after all, even if she was younger than Bruce.
“Does the pain ever go away?” asked Bruce quietly, so quietly that she almost didn't hear him.
Leslie took a breath. “It's... not likely. Grief is a complicated thing, Bruce. The pain never really fades away, but it becomes more easy to deal with. And after a while... It's easier to remember the good memories and only have nostalgia more than pain.”
“How long?” He was nearly whining now, like a kid his age should; despite how logical the reaction was, it was still worrying sometimes, how quiet and serious Bruce could be.
“It depends a lot from one person to another. But things will get better, I promise.”
Bruce hummed but didn't say anything else. Leslie didn't press either; if he needed to talk, he wouldn't hesitate, and it was important to leave him his boundaries.
They stayed there for a while. Bruce calmed down quickly, but he didn't move away from Leslie, even leaning more against her, and she let him do. She petted his hair, and kissed the top of his head, looking down at him.
He was a kid, just a little kid. And she was supposed to take care of him – she wasn't his primary guardian but she was still one of them, and he was her charge, and she promised Thomas she would look after Bruce if needed. Things were easier when she was just supposed to be one of the boy's father's friends, maybe an honorary aunt, than now when she had to raise him.
It was scary, having a whole human being depending on you. Leslie couldn't even begin to imagine how Alfred might feel about it – how much more pressuring it could be for him.
She wasn't cut out to be a mother. She wasn't cut out to take care of kids outside of tending for their injuries in her doctor office.
How was she supposed to do good when she had no idea what she was doing?
Leslie breathed out, and kept Bruce against her. It wasn't the time to ask herself all these questions; it would change nothing anyway. For now, she had to be present for him and what announced itself as a difficult day.
She would have time tomorrow for panicking and questioning everything.
“What do you think about going down for breakfast? After that, we could visit your mother.”
Bruce nodded against her chest. She kissed his hair.
“Let's go then.”
Bruce moved, eyes red; but he seemed... not better, but more relaxed, somehow. That was a good sign, but he would probably need a nap later on.
Breakfast after that was a quiet affair, as well as their visit to Martha's grave. Alfred didn't come with them, didn't even ask to join. Somehow, Leslie was glad for it. It felt good, to be trusted to take care of the kid properly. It made her feel a little more capable.
As Leslie predicted, Bruce slept a lot that day. She still stayed with him, and when she tucked him in bed when night came, she felt washed out but oddly good. Like she did something right.
(The next year, Leslie spent the day with Bruce again, and they went together to Martha's grave. And the year after that, and so go on.
Bruce was fifteen the first time he told her Happy Mother's Day as he was feeling asleep, and Leslie may have cried once she had been out of the room.
Leslie didn't plan to be a mother. She still became one, somehow, against all her predictions. More surprising, she hadn't done that bad of a job; Bruce turned out okay, after all.
Well, except for the whole bat-vigilante thing. But no one was perfect, right?)