Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Seven hours, 11 minutes, 57 seconds to target

“You could slow it down just a little, old man.”

Alfred raised an eyebrow at his running partner, doing nothing of the sort. “Winded, my boy?”

Bzzt. His watch buzzed on the underside of his wrist. Alfred glanced at the property line to his left, visually confirming the integrity of the fence there.

“Hardly,” Bruce said. He tugged at the collar of his sweat-soaked jumper, making a face at the damp fabric. “It just makes me nervous when you decide to bust out the seven minute miles.”

Despite his complaints, Bruce kept perfect pace with Alfred, with a slightly altered cadence to account for their height difference.

“I see,” Alfred said, as they began to crest the hill overlooking the lake. “Such things should be reserved for younger men. Why an old man like myself would--”

“If that were true,” Bruce huffed, “You’d be down a lot more than an ungodly mile time.”

Bzzt. Alfred set eyes briefly on the solar-powered sensor embedded under the fence post, then turned back to his companion. He raised both eyebrows this time.

“Was that a reference to my hair?”

“You and I both know men half your age have a quarter of what you do,” Bruce replied. He was smiling a little, and his good mood was nearly as infectious as the morning sun to their east.

Just to tease him, Alfred ran a hand back through his own hair, fingers sliding through the wiry, grey strands. Bruce rolled his eyes, exhaling through his nose, and -- like it was an afterthought -- gingerly probed at his own hairline.

“You’ll keep it,” Alfred said, utterly convinced of the truth. “If you take care of yourself. Good food, exercise, the --”

“Ah yes,” Bruce said, dropping his hand. He was rolling his eyes again, Alfred could just tell. “It has nothing to do with genetics, or family history of--”

“You would know,” Alfred bantered back, amused. “Doctor Wayne.”

They reached the top of the hill before Bruce could assemble his typical response to Alfred’s invocation of his former title. It was a mutually agreed upon stopping point: Five miles, around the perimeter of the lake and the old fields. Seven and a half around the entire property, if Bruce was in need of greater exertion. Or simply in a mood.

“Ah,” Alfred said, as he always began their cool-down. He held up his smart watch. “Eight-point-oh-four-nine. We overshot the beginning.”

“Round down for your own sanity,” Bruce said, halfway through attempting to escape from his jumper.

“As you wish. Eight-point-oh-four-six kilometers.”

“Miles,” Bruce corrected from inside of his jumper.

“Five miles,” Alfred agreed. His expression was, without doubt, disgustingly fond. With Bruce’s attention currently occupied, it was a boon he allowed himself. “Just over seven minutes for the pace. You are as predictable as always, my boy.”

Bruce finally unearthed himself from his jumper, tying the offending garment over one shoulder with another huff. His hair was sticking up on one side of his head, feathered by static electricity.

“You’re the one who insists on training for war,” Bruce said. He turned to face the Wayne estate in the distance, surveying his small kingdom from an even smaller hill. “I don’t mind a leisurely run in the morning. Or the afternoon. Really, anytime after six AM is fine with me.”

Alfred felt a smile tug at his lips. “You don’t run at all if you get up after six.”

“Well,” Bruce said, because neither of them needed to hear a denial to know that it was true.

Bzzt. Alfred glanced at the small camera he’d hidden in the tree overlooking this exact spot, making eye contact with his future self.

Bruce, entirely oblivious to his task, had closed his eyes in the ensuing silence, leaning into the morning sun. He was entirely too pale for someone who derived such obvious warmth from daylight. Who needed the sun, if only to avoid sinking into his own shadows.

Darling boy, Alfred thought in the privacy of his own mind. This Bruce was years -- decades -- in the making, and still somehow stole the breath from his lungs on occasion. He had molded the boy, but the man was beyond him, entirely, in moments like these.

Eventually, Bruce blinked, dispelling the moment. Sharp blue eyes narrowed in on Alfred’s face.

“Why don’t we take the long way back?” Alfred suggested, nodding toward the fields in the distance. “We can discuss your party preparations.”

And check the far gate, Alfred added in a thought. The trail camera pointed at the river. The motion sensors by the --

“Preparations,” Bruce scoffed, shaking his head. “It’s a grill-out, Alfred. All you need is a pack of hotdogs, some buns, and a salad. All things I’m capable of scrounging up on my own, for the record.”

“Quite,” Alfred said, glancing down at his watch as they began to walk. The screen flickered, adjusting for the unexpected route change.

“I suppose we might need a cake,” Bruce said, lips pressed together. “Only because Cass asked for one. Not because I still need someone to sing to me at thirty-five.”

I’d sing to you when you were sixty, Alfred thought. I’d sing to you when you reached one hundred, if I could find the strength to climb out of my own grave. Darling boy.

“Certainly,” Alfred said instead, dismissing the protest entirely. “I have an order at Boulangerie Provençale scheduled for today. I’ll need to pick it up this afternoon.”

Bruce looked, if anything, slightly crestfallen at the news. “You didn’t want to just make it yourself?”

“A cheesecake to serve forty? No, I don’t trust myself with that kind of responsibility.” Alfred sighed. “The water bath alone…”

“Cheesecake?” Bruce asked, visibly perking up.

“Dark chocolate and raspberry,” Alfred said, delighting in the flicker of interest in Bruce’s eyes. “A flavor I am certain Cass would approve of.”

“Just Cass, yeah,” Bruce said. The genuine flash of his teeth was almost as beautiful as the sunrise. “The cake is more than enough, by the way. You don’t have to get me anything else this year. I was telling Dick, I have enough stuff -- all I want is a little family time, you know?”

I know, Alfred thought, something sharp pulsing in his chest. “The cake it is. As requested.”

“Great,” Bruce said, relieved. “A cake, some hotdogs, and the kids.”

Bzzt. Bzzt.

Alfred reached down, marking the missing sensor with a double-tap on the dial. He’d have to double back later to see why it wasn’t scanning. Before the party, but after his errand. There wasn’t flexible time today, aside from that three-hour window.

“That really is all you want?” Alfred asked. “A cake?”

“Yeah,” Bruce said. His smile turned boyish, reminiscent -- for just a moment -- of Thomas. “What’s wrong with that?”

Alfred stared at him, beyond words entirely. The next sensor buzzed as they walked past it, vibrating against the thin skin of his inner wrist.

“Nothing,” Alfred said after a moment, clearing his throat. “Nothing at all, my boy.”

Thirty Years, Two Months, 27 Days Ago

It started simply. Simply, not easy. There was nothing easy about a number of kills so excessive, it had been redacted in every location save for Alfred’s head. He had been dropped into a list of countries that had, and would never have, any evidence of foreign involvement. He had jumped out of planes and helicopters, had jumped right back, on occasion, and fought his way through blockades and hostile territories with nothing more than a gun and a radio.

Fighting through a sudden retirement had been more of a challenge.

He had ended up, of all places, in Gotham, with the promise of more action than his previous security jobs post-service. New York had been tiresome and dirty, living up to its reputation, and the Metropolites willing to hire private security lived boring, unremarkable lives. He’d lasted three weeks in the latter, receiving balled-up coats from women who took him for a servant at first glance and -- worse, somehow -- judging looks for his holstered firearm.

Through an agency that worked closely with a friend of a friend of a friend, Alfred Pennyworth found himself on the front steps of Wayne Manor one chilly morning. This friend had promised trouble, the kind that needed warding off. The involved kind.

Martha Wayne answered her own door. She lit up, like a small sun, as she set eyes on Alfred, raking over him from head to toe in one graceful swoop.

“Mr. Pennyworth,” she said, reaching out to shake his hand. Alfred shook back, surprised at her grip strength. “Please, come in. I’m so excited you’re actually here.”

“Thank you,” Alfred said, stepping up to the threshold. Martha put a hand to her chest.

“Oh, I just knew with that last name you’d be British. What a treat. We needed some culture around here.”

Alfred was bustled into Martha Wayne’s sun-lit parlor, adorned at all four corners in vases of bright, colorful flowers. Martha slipped away with his coat, making a pleased noise when she saw the suit he was wearing underneath.

“Coffee?” Martha asked when she returned. “Or, tea? You’re probably more fond of the latter, aren’t you?”

Alfred opened his mouth, unsure of what to say. “I…favor both, actually.”

“Both it is,” Martha said, holding up a finger. “One moment.”

Ten minutes later, Alfred began his interview with a steaming cup of coffee in front of him and a perfectly-brewed teacup of English Breakfast held delicately between his hands.

“It might seem like a bit of an unorthodox role,” Martha began, holding onto her own mug of coffee. “You wouldn’t be in charge of an extensive staff, for one. We keep a skeleton crew around here in order to make it a bit more homey, Thomas always says.”

“I see,” Alfred said, not following at all. He hadn’t expected a full security team, by any means. “What else is unorthodox, in your words?”

“We don’t travel much, and we don’t host as much as we should.” Martha’s eyes shifted to the window, growing hazy. “Thomas likes to do his own laundry. I maintain the roses in the garden, and a few of the raised beds near the greenhouses. And, of course, there’s Bruce.”

“Bruce?” Alfred asked.

“My youngest,” Martha said, turning back to him. She smiled, bringing her coffee a little closer to her chest. “My only, actually. I’m a bit of a hoverer, but now that he’s six…Well. I’ve been meaning to go back to work. And keeping track of everything is a nightmare on a good day.”

“Forgive me,” Alfred said, smiling politely to soften the correction. “I may have misunderstood the position description.”

“Oh. Oh,” Martha said, shaking her head. “You wouldn’t be a nanny. We’ve hired six of those already and Bruce has made his opinion very clear on the matter. No, you’d be a bit of a…modern butler, is how I’d put it.”

“A modern butler,” Alfred repeated. Not a security job, as he’d been promised. Suddenly, the weight of his pistol felt out of place on his hip.

“Exactly,” Martha said. She glanced from left to right, then leaned in, voice lowering. “The agency said you also had some…experience. With security and threats. Prior service, they said. In addition to your other training, of course.”

Alfred sat back against the plush couch. “I do.”

“That is…relieving to hear.” Martha’s smile stretched, strained at the edges. “Thomas and I are adults. We know how to handle uncomfortable or awkward moments. But Bruce--”

“The threats are to your child?” Alfred asked. Without intending to, he’d sat up at attention, primed for action.

“I -- yes.” Martha’s voice cracked, a hairline fracture through her otherwise polished composure. “There’s quite a bit of -- well, I’d call it politics. Untoward comments from Thomas’ side of the family. Discussions of his role as heir, as if he isn’t all of six years old. My God, he’s a child. I shouldn’t have to worry about some Wayne Enterprises competitor or tabloid reporter showing up to his school. And yet.”

And yet. Alfred’s jaw tensed. “I am very sorry to hear that.”

“This is all probably a bit much for you,” Martha said, with a graceful wince as she switched subjects. “You were probably expecting a quiet, uncomplicated position.”

“Simple,” Alfred added without thinking. Martha nodded.

“Simple, yes.”

“This position,” Alfred paused, leaning forward to set his tea cup on its saucer. “When would it start?”

Now: Six hours, 23 minutes, 16 seconds to target

By the time Alfred had coffee set out for both of them in the renovated kitchen, the staircases above their heads were beginning to creak and shift, indicating that their shared morning ritual was about to be interrupted.

It was, by far, Alfred’s favorite time of day. Largely because he had been present for every morning Bruce had spent in bed, sleeping until noon with the curtains drawn and a pillow over his head. For the mornings-turned-days Bruce had spent in bed, shut-off from the world around him. When the food he’d plated and delivered to the doorstep had gone uneaten and unheeded, save for the bottled water.

This Bruce was a father through-and-through. He brightened visibly with each newcomer, sitting a little taller in his kitchen chair as the children filtered into the kitchen.

“Hey,” Jason said, nodding at them as he made a strategic advance to the refrigerator first, ahead of his siblings. “Happy Birthday, B.”

It had taken Jason a long time to settle on what to call Bruce. B was now interchangeable with Dad, but there had been a time when it was the only one he’d been comfortable using. The affection, the ease of use had all come eventually, but the nickname had stuck around.

“Hey, Jay,” Bruce said. He stood up, setting down his coffee on the way to the fridge. “Looking for the eggs? I put them up on the top shelf. Here--”

Alfred watched over the rim of his coffee mug as Bruce lifted up to his full height, easily dwarfing Jason by a few inches. He pulled out the eggs one-handed, squinting at the carton.

“I think there’s enough for you and some pan -- oof.”

Jason’s hug had been telegraphed from a mile away, but it still seemed to catch Bruce by surprise. After a beat of surprise, Bruce wrapped his arms around Jason, extending the surprise hug with a squeeze.

“Got you.”

Jason groaned as Bruce rocked them back and forth, squirming. “You’re gonna get eggs in my hair.”

Alfred turned his head, sensing motion in the corner of his eye. Dick leaned up against the kitchen doorway, a duffel bag in one hand.

“You already have eggs in your hair, Jay. Or is that supposed to be hair gel?”

Bruce let Jason go, still holding the eggs. He smiled at his eldest, delighted. “Dick. I didn’t think you’d be in town until later.”

“Hey old man,” Dick said, dropping his duffel on the ground. “Happy Birthday.”

Dick’s hug was faster and tighter, finished off with a few claps to the other’s back. Dick knocked his fist against Jason’s, then turned to Alfred.

“Alfred.”

“This is a surprise,” Alfred said, even though it hadn’t been. He’d tracked Dick’s location all the way from Blüdhaven, and had marked the exact moment his taxi had crossed the base of the driveway ten minutes prior.

“Yeah, I figured I’d help with the party set-up, get a good vibe going.” Dick gestured at Bruce with his head, who was watching him with open adoration. “Someone here is bad at multitasking.”

“I’m doing the grill,” Bruce defended. “Just the grill. Flipping burgers and hot dogs. I promise.”

“Good hot dogs,” Cass agreed as she entered, weaving around Dick and his bag to reach Bruce.

“Thank you,” Bruce said, exasperated. He dropped a kiss to Cass’ head, holding his arm out for an optional hug. This morning, Cass dove in, hugging his side fiercely before stepping back.

“How is…” Cass said to Dick, smiling despite her uncertainty. “School?”

“School is great,” Dick said, offering her the same hug Bruce had. Cass punched him in the side instead, which, unlike Alfred, Dick clearly hadn’t anticipated. “Agh. We can’t get that tag game started again, I want to be able to take my shirt off this week. Get Jason instead.”

“Not it,” Jason said, in the middle of cracking two eggs into a bowl on the counter.

“Who’s it?”

Cass immediately jabbed at Steph’s arm, which had just barely crossed the threshold into the kitchen. Steph, for her part, simply rolled her eyes and continued on into the kitchen.

“Happy Birthday,” she said to Bruce, replete with the expected pre-teen angst and distaste for such things. “I made you a card, but I forgot it upstairs.”

Bruce hugged her. Alfred didn’t miss the way Steph relaxed into the embrace for just a moment, eyes closing and posture loosening.

“I don’t need a card. I’m just happy to have all of you here.”

“Gross,” Steph said, pulling away from the hug. “Who’s making eggs?”

“Jay,” Dick said, trading a glance with Bruce. “But Bruce was about to make pancakes, if you want some.”

“Someone said pancakes,” a new voice said from the doorway. “I’m in.”

Steph and Cass joined Alfred at the island to make space, the former taking Bruce’s abandoned seat and -- with a sniff -- his coffee. Bruce had a bad habit of pouring creamer into his coffee just to spite Alfred. And, it seemed, to appease picky 14 year-olds.

“Morning,” Bruce said to his second-eldest, clapping Duke on the shoulder. His eyes were shiny with restrained emotion. “Pancakes it is. Does someone know where the apron went?”

The kitchen unfolded into chaos, as it always did with a crowd. The servants’ kitchen was far too small for a family of seven, but Alfred’s small army of contractors had done their best. There were two stoves, one for Jason to fry his eggs and one for Bruce to make pancakes. Two sinks for dirty dishes, two dishwashers, a massive refrigerator that went into the wall to save space.

And at the center of the storm, as always, was Bruce. Bruce, with a bowl of pancake batter under one arm and a witty rejoinder on his lips as he and Duke teamed up to tease Dick. Bruce, a Wayne heir, with the sunlight framing his dark waves like a crown through the window, rich in nothing more than family and time.

Darling boy, Alfred thought, taking a sip of his coffee.

One Year Prior

Bruce wasn’t in the kitchen at their scheduled run time. Alfred froze as he spotted the empty kitchen island, immediately on alert. He was too experienced to reach for a gun that didn’t exist on his belt, but the urge itched at the back of his mind anyway.

It took him less than five minutes to track Bruce to the back steps, his heart beating at double-time in his chest. The relief he felt when setting eyes on his charge was immediately dispelled, in near entirety, by the telltale scent of cigarettes.

Bruce looked up from the tablet in his lap, making no move to hide the still-lit cigarette in his hand. He was a little white around the mouth, grim in a way Alfred hadn’t expected.

“Morning,” Bruce said, nodding at the steps in invitation. “I’ve been up since three, so I don’t think I’ll be much use on a run.”

Alfred sat on the step just above Bruce, reaching for the cigarette. Bruce handed it over without a fuss, making a face when Alfred immediately stubbed it out under his shoe.

“It’s better than a glass of bourbon,” Bruce said, returning to his tablet. “Trust me, I thought about it. Right around four, actually.”

“You don’t mean that,” Alfred said. They both knew about the watch drawer overflowing with sobriety chips. They both knew what that meant.

“No, I don’t. Not really.” Bruce sighed, lifting both hands to his face. He scrubbed at his eyes with the heels of his palms. “I was on the phone with the lawyers trying to figure out what to do about this.”

Alfred accepted the tablet, settling in to read. At the top of the screen was a slightly out-of-focus photograph, likely taken on a telephoto lens from afar. Two figures, one smaller than the other, and --

Breath held, Alfred enlarged the image. He recognized the subjects instantly: Cass and Bruce, embracing outside after one of her school recitals. Bruce, kneeling on gravel as Cass hugged him around the neck, tears streaming down her face.

Doctor Wayne’s Medicine? the headline read. An deep-dive into Bruce Wayne’s preference for young Asian girls, in photos

“She’s eleven,” Bruce said, his jaw so tight, Alfred could see the individual muscles tensing as he spoke. “Steph didn’t get this kind of attention. None of the boys did. There were nasty rumors at parties, but nobody printed them.”

Alfred scrolled through the rest of the article, assessing the breadth of the issue. The supposed evidence -- beyond photographs of the two of them together -- were a few old paparazzi shots of Bruce, arm in arm with his date of the evening.

The cherry-picked images were far from damning. One of them, a Jessica Trinh Alfred had only met briefly, was “barely twenty-one” because Bruce had been twenty-one. The other photograph depicted Bruce in a crowd at a party, and was clearly a posed moment among attendees.

“He tried to pull her adoption records,” Bruce added when Alfred remained silent, staring at the tablet across his knees. “That’s why I was on the phone with Lori all morning. Normally it’s sealed, but this -- asshole, figured out how to FOIA her immigration record, and it snowballed. He doesn’t have a chance in hell of actually getting his hands on anything, but he can force us to fight him on it. And if we fight him on it--”

Bruce’s mouth snapped shut. His hands were balled up into fists in his lap. The muscles of his back were rigid under his thin sleep shirt.

“What an unfortunate development,” Alfred said. He scrolled back up the article, memorizing the byline. “And what a cruel thing to publish. Have you met this reporter before? Spoken with him?”

“I’ve never met that man in my life,” Bruce hissed. “But if I ever do, he’s taking a header off something tall, I’ll tell you that.”

Alfred turned off the tablet, resolved to his new course of action. He set his hand on Bruce’s shoulder, squeezing gently.

“Come inside. There’s no use in dwelling on it out here.”

Now: 0 hours, 36 minutes, 50 seconds to target

Alfred bowed out of the remaining preparations, more than willing to hand over the remaining tasks to Dick.

Small details -- chopping red onions for the salad, scraping the grill before use, charging the outdoor speaker -- were easy to forget, but Dick had always been a thoughtful child. At twenty-one, he was more of a team leader than ever, marshaling his siblings (and some of the nearby staff) into action with little more than a smile and small speech.

Bruce was still in the kitchen when Alfred made his excuses, chatting eagerly with Duke about one of his upcoming classes and, with some success, cleaning up the morning’s mess before it could become too sticky.

It was a twenty minute drive to his location, fifteen to get into position, and less than ten minutes of total idle time. Thirty to double back and ditch his gear, allotting him an hour total to actually pick up the cake and make his way back to Wayne Manor.

It would all go to plan. There was no room for deviation, and even if there was, Alfred would not allow it.

Travis McCarthy was a predictable man. He woke up at ten AM on the weekends and ran along the rivers that wound through one of Gotham’s only untouched green spaces, a nature preserve the Wayne Foundation had helped in part to purchase, parcel by parcel, during Thomas’ tenure

Travis, like Alfred, was a creature of routine. He arrived at the park no later than 1 PM, ran for exactly three miles, and went home. In the last year, Alfred had surveilled this exact run over forty times. The only deviation from Travis’ normal route had occurred after a light ankle injury back in March.

Alfred switched cars in a Gotham suburb, adding a ballcap and sunglasses as he slid behind the wheel of his new vehicle. He drove the nondescript sedan to the park at an unrushed 60 miles an hour, parking in the small lot for employees behind the main entrance.

As soon as he exited the car, popping the trunk to retrieve his gear, his watch began to buzz. Alfred acknowledged the ping off Travis’ phone, sending the location to his phone with a tap of the dial.

Three minutes later, Alfred was hiking an off-trail path to the river, his gear slung over one shoulder. Between the small lot and his ultimate destination, there were exactly two cameras. One, a trail camera he’d “nudged” away from his path three months prior, and one pointed at the employee entrance that, upon examination, had been entirely non-functional.

His small marker was still in place when he made it to the cliff’s edge, a small loop of green thread that would be virtually invisible to the average eye. Alfred tugged it off the branch, sliding it into his pocket.

He unpacked and assembled his gun quickly, attaching the suppressor. Once that task was complete, he tested the grip against his gloves, shifting the barrel back and forth to mimic rapid movement.

Ten minutes and three seconds later, Travis appeared in the distance, following the running trail along the cliff’s edge. He had his phone in a carrier on his bicep, bright white earphones in either ear.

Distracted, Alfred thought. He checked his chamber one last time, leaning back against the tree.

When Travis was ten feet away, Alfred clenched his thighs, preparing to stand up. Blood rushed through his legs, reactivating the muscles.

Five seconds. Four, three, two, one…

The shot was loud, even with the suppressor. Travis’ head snapped back, pulling his body toward the cliff edge. Startled, he windmilled his arms around, trying to regain his balance.

Alfred didn’t bother to reach out and tip him the rest of the way over. The whites of Travis’ eyes bulged, and, with a horrified look, he careened backward all on his own.

There, Alfred thought.

Travis’ body hit the rocks below the cliff’s edge a second later. The wet sounding thud was immediately followed by a wheezing breath. A pained, wheezing breath. Exactly as planned.

Alfred grabbed his bag, clicked the safety on his gun, and clambered down the cliff’s edge. He reached Travis’ body in under a minute, memorizing the overturned rocks and micro splatters of blood along the way.

Phone.

“Syy’doin…” Travis groaned as Alfred pulled at the phone holder on his arm. The bones bulged against the skin, visibly out of place. “...m’phone--”

Alfred slid the phone into his pocket. He assessed the rapidly-spreading blood pool under Travis’ left arm. It would be under the high-water line when the river rose later in the evening, washing away into the brackish water.

Even now, the river lapped at Travis’ legs, trying to tug him into the water. The only thing keeping him on the rocks was a mangled upper body that had no hope of moving, much less holding on.

“Thr’s…” Travis spit out blood, trying to form words. One of his eyes was rapidly swelling with blood, flooding the tear ducts and lash line in red. He was missing three of his front teeth. “People. Kn’m…here.”

“I’m counting on it,” Alfred said. “The discovery of your phone will give them some semblance of hope that you might be found. Until they realize that the river you jumped into leads directly to the ocean. And the current here…”

Alfred trailed off. He clicked off the safety on his gun, raising it to Travis’ forehead.

“The current here runs deep,” Alfred said softly. Renewed terror poured into the man’s functional eye. He began to twitch back and forth.

“Please,” Travis groaned. “Please.”

Alfred fired. Travis’ remaining eye turned into bloody mist as the bullet punched through his eye socket, exiting through the base of his skull with minimal splatter.

Alfred reached out with one boot, nudging the body the rest of the way into the water. Travis rolled sideways, plopping into the current with a sound that was barely audible over the roar of water around them.

Phone, Alfred repeated to himself. Earphones. Blood splatter.

The first person likely to notice Travis’ disappearance was a sister in Blüdhaven. She’d commented on a photo Travis had posted of the preserve eight months ago, which meant she could easily connect her brother with the location, given enough time. A day or two at the least. A week at the most.

The police, when they came, would find no body. No signs of a struggle. No evidence, save for the hastily-written suicide note on his phone, which would be left in the glove box of his SUV.

Alfred tracked Travis’ body down the river until it was completely out of sight, washed into the choppy water of the distant ocean. A sense of deep satisfaction spread through his chest, warming him from the inside out.

Happy Birthday, Alfred thought, My darling boy.

Twenty Eight Years, Six Months, 9 Days Ago

Killing for Bruce had, once Alfred began, become as simple as killing on behalf of country. The devotion had grown inside of him, winding up through his chest like a branch pushing toward a distant sun.

He’d made plans, in the wake of the Waynes’ deaths, to hunt down Joe Chill himself. It was a natural progression of thought, fueled in some small part by his own guilt. Guilt, for not having been present at the time, and the immense relief underneath it that Bruce had emerged unharmed.

Bruce Wayne was his mother’s son, and at the tender age of nine, he’d jutted his tiny jaw out and agreed, with a serious expression, to testify at the trial. And with that, Alfred had withdrawn all plans -- concrete or not -- from active thought.

Joe Chill went to prison for four consecutive life sentences. Bruce went to sixteen different child psychologists in the span of a year. He stopped eating regular meals. When he spoke, it was only to Alfred; soon enough, those precious words began to dry up, too.

At twelve years of age, Bruce had finally, haltingly -- like a flower hesitating to open up -- began to outgrow his grief. He spoke in full sentences to both Alfred and his therapist. He made a single friend at school, a quiet child who he sometimes traded lunches with.

Joe Chill appealed his sentencing four months after Bruce’s 12th birthday, having finally collected enough money from various supporters and family members. And in an unlucky twist of fate -- depending on a volatile investigation into the DA’s office, a defense attorney who had been indicted six months after the original trial, and a judge sympathetic to the issue -- a new trial had been granted.

The effect was near-instantaneous. Despite how gently Alfred had broken the news to Bruce, how carefully he’d crafted their environment to be familiar and comforting in a moment like this, it landed with the grace of an attack helicopter. Which was to say, loudly, and blowing away everything in its immediate vicinity.

A grave twelve year-old Bruce had asked, with pale lips and even paler cheeks, if he had to testify again. The lightness in him was dimming, before Alfred’s very eyes. By the second.

I don’t know, my boy, Alfred had said, lying between his teeth. The new ADA was confident in their ability to win at trial again, but Alfred knew as well as he did that their case rested entirely upon the witness account of a twelve year-old boy. Gotham’s star witness. Their only witness.

This time, Alfred let his thoughts progress unhindered, arriving at an inevitable conclusion. He hugged Bruce close to his chest, as if the fire inside his breast could warm him, too.

Three weeks later, Joe Chill choked on a piece of metal accidentally mixed into his lunch tray. Two days, the guards mused, before he was set to be released on bond for the upcoming trial. Helluva thing.

For dinner that very same night, Alfred made lasagna from scratch. Throughout the day, he painstakingly assembled the homemade sheets of pasta, the cheese, and the gently-browned veal, working layer by layer to achieve perfection. It was a pointed rebuke of the sad, limp, reheated lasagna Joe Chill had been served, made with love and dedication.

Alfred broke the news casually this time, in between bites from his own plate. He felt Bruce’s eyes linger on his face, resisting the urge to look up and meet them.

“It’s over?” Bruce asked, in the voice of a much smaller child. “Just like that?”

There was so much hope, hidden in that too-small voice. Alfred swallowed his bite of lasagna, an ache persisting in his throat.

“Just like that, my boy.”

Now: Two months, 13 hours, 8 minutes, 23 seconds to target

Alfred returned to a Wayne party well underway, even if the scheduled time was still two hours in the future. The grill was preheating on the patio, the pool was uncovered, and light pop music was pumping out of a speaker near the stairs.

The maids, groundskeepers, and other employees had already begun to congregate, many with their own children running around. Cass and Steph were lounging near the pool, shaded by an umbrella Bruce had no doubt maneuvered over them. On the lawn, Jason was talking to the neighbor boy, Timothy, both of them holding a handful of lawn darts. And in the midst of the chaos, Bruce and Dick stood by the sunken firepit, hands on their hips as they examined an unlit bed of charcoal.

Alfred made a pit stop at the house, intending to drop off the two cheesecakes. On the way to the kitchen door, Duke caught up with him, taking one before Alfred could ask.

“Oh man,” Duke said, lifting the cake up and down. “This thing is heavy. How the heck were you carrying both of these?”

“If I told you, I’d have to--” Alfred abruptly cut off, hiding the misstep with a smile. “Well, it seems I haven’t returned to anything on fire, at the very least.”

“Bruce checked the grill before he pre-heated it this time,” Duke said. He nudged the door open with his foot, holding it for Alfred. “No missing eyebrows for photos. You’re welcome.”

“Excellent. Top marks.”

There was a magic in these sorts of events. One, Alfred could admit, belonged almost entirely to the host himself. Bruce had inherited his mother’s presence and his father’s charm, though he rarely believed Alfred when as much was said.

The hours blurred into one another; the maids and gardeners gathered around the grill as Bruce held court, gesturing with tongs through a story so genuinely captivating, no one wanted to step away in order to eat.

He was stunning, in his element. Exactly the kind of man Martha and Thomas had hoped for him to be. Unburdened by death, by loss, by a grief Alfred knew he still carried deep within himself every day. Carried, but not burdened by. The load had lessened with time.

Alfred would do anything -- anything -- not to add to it. To preserve this exact moment in time, a man trapped in amber, something to match the rich syrup of his own presence. To preserve this Bruce, so that he would never again slip into the emptiness of his predecessor.

Night fell upon the Wayne estate in a drawn-out way only an August sky could manage. When it was dark, and the firecrackers were smoldering in pieces around the pool, and the children were up to no good around the fire pit, Alfred found himself in a tight embrace with a sweaty Bruce drunk on nothing more than laughter and exhilaration.

“Thank you,” Bruce whispered fiercely into his neck. Alfred could feel the slight tremor in his body, wavering where he couldn’t. For a man so large, he still felt small, sometimes.

Alfred hugged him back, twice as fierce. He cupped the back of Bruce’s head, pressing a hand to the same location where the bullet had exited Travis’ skull. Just above the nape of his neck.

“You’re welcome.”

Chapter Text

Now: 15 hours, 9 minutes, 52 seconds to target

Knock.

“Come in,” Alfred called out. He swiped the razor down to the final third of his chin, leaning closer to the mirror.

Bruce closed the bedroom door behind him, straightening to his full height. He was freshly showered from their run, stripped to nothing but a simple pair of threadbare tracksuit bottoms.

Healthy, a part of Alfred crowed as his eyes scanned over a well-developed layers of muscle and fat. It was one thing to know Bruce had improved, and another entirely to see the evidence of it with his own eyes.

A man with the characteristic Wayne frame had never been meant to whittle down to skin and bones. They put on muscle with ease, which made its loss even more alarming.

“Good morning,” Alfred prompted as Bruce trudged toward the bed. He leaned back from the mirror, tilting his chin back to begin on his throat.

Bruce collapsed on the bed face-down, letting out a dramatic -- if muffled -- sigh against Alfred’s bedspread. He’d at least had the decency to run a towel through his hair before doing so.

“Why thank you. I just made that,” Alfred said with mock affront. “Keep your feet off. I know you didn’t wear slippers on the way from your room.”

Internally, he was warmed by the comfort Bruce found in something as simple as his bed. By the ease with which Bruce commanded his space, not because it belonged to him -- it did -- but because he knew Alfred would relinquish it.

“It feels great,” Bruce said, turning his head to face Alfred so he was no longer smothered by the bedspread. He wiggled his -- bare -- toes for Alfred, giving him a boyish smile. “Any chance I can convince you to finally upgrade to a California King?”

That made Alfred fully step out of the bathroom to convey his displeasure at the proposal via a singular raised eyebrow. Bruce waited him out, not wavering an inch under his attention.

“You’ve interrupted my morning routine and now you want to upend my bedding?” Alfred asked as he stepped back into the bathroom. He rinsed the razor under the tap, clearing out the hair.

“You’re the one who insisted on bringing a twin in here,” Bruce said. With a push of one well-toned arm, he flipped himself onto his back, staring at the ceiling. “This room wasn’t meant for a small bed. What do you think all this space is for?”

“I certainly don’t need it,” Alfred rebutted. “The room in the servants’ wing was--”

“Oh, would you quit it with that? No one sleeps in those rooms anymore unless they absolutely have to. A tiny twin bed in a room the size of a closet that doesn’t even have a bathroom attached? When we have seventy eight suites in this house?”

Seventy eight was a bit of a stretch, but Alfred could -- regrettably -- see Bruce’s point. Wayne Manor had more living space than a Berlin hostel, despite the increase in occupants across recent years. This portion of the Manor had been designed to host guests, not necessarily for long-term living.

“This room is more than enough, thank you very much.” Alfred leaned back again, beginning on the final stripe of shaving foam down his neck.

“Have you reconsidered the offer of the master bedroom?” Bruce asked, entirely undeterred by his protests.

“I have not, in fact.”

“The kids agree with me. That you should take it, I mean.”

“Perhaps you could rotate it among them,” Alfred mused. “For novelty. And the view, of course.”

Bruce’s room -- the master suite -- had a lovely view of Martha’s rose garden. It was also central to the other rooms in the family wing, which put him within arm’s reach at all times. A feature Alfred knew brought him comfort, despite his insistence on changing rooms.

Their ongoing discussion wasn’t truly about the room. A part of Bruce wanted Alfred within his wing, scattered among the children on the fifth floor. Alfred’s current room was on the third floor, nestled in between the empty guest suites and far, far away -- by design -- from any potential eavesdroppers.

“What if,” Bruce’s voice trailed off, thick with sudden emotion. “What if I just want you to be comfortable? What if we all just want you to be comfortable?”

Alfred hid a smile, tickled by his insistence. He hadn’t fallen for a guilt trip in forty years, and he wouldn’t start today. Still, the attempt was better than its previous incarnations.

Darling boy.

“Was there something I could help you with, or are you just visiting?”

Bruce sighed, abandoning his guilt trip. He sat up with a groan, stretching his arms out in front of him.

“Yeah, actually. You know I have that WE fundraiser tonight--” Bruce made a face. “Dick is my plus one, but when we did this last year, the press basically followed him all the way back to school in Blüdhaven. I told him he didn’t need to go this year if he wanted to lie low, but he said he was looking forward to it. So I was thinking--”

“Oh, goodness,” Alfred said. Bruce chuckled, momentarily distracted from his proposal.

“I was thinking, maybe I take all of the kids this year. If they’re willing. I haven’t asked them yet, but I wanted to run it by you first.”

Alfred thought about it for a moment as he finished up in the bathroom. When he’d applied his aftershave and cleaned the smudges of shaving foam from his jaw, he stepped back into the bedroom, ready for the day.

“It’s unexpected,” Alfred admitted. He took a seat on the edge of the bed, a habit Bruce had convinced him to adopt despite his dislike for daily clothing coming into contact with clean linens.

“That’s why it’ll work. No one’s expecting me to show up with a crowd,” Bruce explained. “Then the focus isn’t on anyone in particular. I read an article this morning that figured out the rotation we put together, by the way. They put an actual betting line on if Dick was going to show up tonight, and Cass in three weeks at the Elevation event. Can you believe that?”

You do keep them close, Alfred thought to himself. It makes them desirable, my boy. To the worst kinds of people. Even to those in the middle with nothing better to do.

“I applaud your creativity, but I’m fairly certain your invitation came with a plus one,” Alfred said. “Not a plus six.”

“My name is on the event,” Bruce said, waving away his concern with a hand. “My name is on the company. You think they won’t let me in?”

“Spoiled billionaire does suit you, my boy,” Alfred said. Bruce rolled his eyes, turning toward the window.

“That sounds an awful lot like someone who’s afraid to weigh in on my bold and ambitious plan.”

Alfred had already thought through the pros and cons of the proposal in the bathroom, resolving himself to the possibility that Bruce -- as he often did -- had a point.

“The theme?” Alfred asked. Bruce’s shoulders relaxed at the change in subject, accepting his victory with visible relief.

“I spoke with Lucius earlier to confirm,” Bruce started. Alfred made a note to apologize to the man later for what had undoubtedly been a three AM text to his personal line.

“And?”

“This year it’s Enchanted Garden. So they’re bringing in flowers and trees and all of that.” Bruce paused, thoughtful. “Cass mentioned it last night when we were weeding the tomatoes. I guess she heard about it at school. That’s what got me thinking. If she really wants to go -- if the others really want to go, why not?”

Alfred’s chest ached, just for a moment. They’d had versions of this conversation nearly every month for the last ten years. “Because it’s a risk.”

“I know.” Bruce sobered quickly. “Every time we step out of this house, it’s a risk. But I can’t keep them in here forever. Even if I wanted to.”

You do, Alfred thought, but didn’t say. He was so, so very proud at the growth Bruce had demonstrated in a brief conversation. A year ago, he hadn’t been this sure of himself. A year ago, he hadn’t yet made peace with potential risk and what he could -- and could not -- control.

Alfred had yet to make peace with that himself. There was so much he could control, beyond even Bruce’s bright mind.

“Shall I call the tailor?”

Bruce smiled. It was a parent’s smile, soft and proud and likely entirely unintentional.

“Would you? Please?”

Darling boy, Alfred thought.

“Of course.”

Four years, six months, sixteen days ago

“--sure what to do,” Jason said in a hushed voice, leaning across the kitchen island. Dick, on the other side, straightened up when he saw Alfred at the door, springing to his feet to help with the groceries.

“Thank god,” Dick said, holding his hands out for the bag. Alfred passed it over, setting the second bag on the floor in front of the fridge. “Alfred will know.”

“Know what, exactly?” Alfred asked. When Dick ducked away to start putting away the groceries, he turned his attention to Jason. “Well?”

“You know how you told us to tell you if Bruce was ever acting,” Jason chewed on his lip. “Weird? Like, not himself?”

Alfred’s heart lurched in his chest. A moment later, he felt his watch buzz inside of his wrist, alerting him to the atypical spike in his heart rate.

“Yes,” Alfred said, keeping his voice low. Jason looked genuinely ill for a moment, trading a look with Dick.

“Someone showed up a few minutes ago. Some uncle, I think he said?” Dick said, jumping in when Jason faltered. “Bruce knew him. They’re in the parlor talking.”

Alfred’s eyes narrowed. “His Uncle Phillip, I presume.”

“You know him?” Dick asked, eyes widening. “I’ve never heard of the guy. Bruce never even mentioned him.”

It was hardly a surprise. In the five years since Dick’s fostering and adoption, Phillip hadn’t deigned to visit, much less send a Christmas card or annual greeting. The man showed up for funerals and the occasional wedding -- and never for magnanimous reasons.

“Phillip is Thomas’ brother,” Alfred explained to the two boys. “Bruce’s paternal uncle.”

“He doesn’t look like Thomas. Or like Bruce,” Dick said, nose wrinkling. Jason nodded in agreement.

“You mentioned that Bruce was acting strangely,” Alfred prompted. Jason’s eyes flicked up to his face, widening slightly before he looked away.

“Dick didn’t see it.”

“That’s fine,” Alfred said, pitching his voice a little lower. Softer, to encourage the boy. “What did you see?”

“He was nervous.” Jason chewed on his lip again, thinking it through. “When Bruce was bringing him to the parlor, he was clenching his hands behind his back. Then he told me and Dick to go do our chores even though they’re already done.”

“I see.” Alfred took a breath, allowing the natural pause to linger for a moment. “I’m sure he was simply trying to keep you out of a boring conversation with an even more boring uncle. Phillip isn’t exactly known for his scintillating conversation.”

Jason scowled. Even Dick, facing the refrigerator, winced. “That guy wanted something.”

“Uncle Phillip,” Alfred clarified. Jason nodded.

“He wanted something, and Bruce could tell right away. That’s why he was nervous. But he still let him in.” Jason crossed his arms, still scowling. “He shouldn’t let people walk all over him like that.”

“Jay thinks Bruce should’ve slammed the door in his face,” Dick explained as he gently slid the eggs in behind the creamer.

I agree, Alfred thought in the privacy of his own mind. What an unbearable man. But if he did that, we wouldn’t know --

“Did he say why he was here?”

Jason shrugged. “He was talking in circles. Lots of fancy sentences with dangling modifiers.”

Alfred wasn’t surprised in the least. For someone with an impressive amount of money, Phillip had never mastered the art of speaking like someone in the upper echelons. Embarrassingly, this had never dissuaded him from trying. His attempts had clearly fallen flat, if a thirteen year-old boy had seen right through them.

“I’ll go check on our guest,” Alfred said, watching both boys visibly relax as the words registered. “Nothing is amiss. Sometimes family drops in at inopportune times, and we must accommodate.”

“He’s family?” Jason asked dubiously. Dick hid a smile in his hand.

“Unfortunately,” Alfred said. He snagged two Perrier bottles from the collection of groceries Dick was stacking in the fridge, pulling a tray out from the drying rack on the sink. “Refreshments are always a convenient interruption. Never forget that.”

As Alfred walked through the butler’s pantry to the front parlor, he mulled over the boys’ reactions. They had quickly become defensive -- borderline possessive -- of Bruce, though it rarely showed in the mundane moments. That defensiveness had only increased in the months after Bruce had retired from full-time work and begun spending more time in the Manor.

They hadn’t liked Phillip on principle. Even Dick, who liked almost everyone he came into contact with. In Bruce Wayne’s house, it was a good instinct to have.

Alfred didn’t bother knocking. One, because he rarely felt the need to extend such a courtesy to Phillip, and two, because the pocket doors to the parlor were already tricky enough with one hand occupied.

“--it over,” Phillip was saying as he entered, perched on the edge of one of the couches. He looked up at Alfred’s entrance, dismissing him almost immediately. “By the end of next week, we can--”

“Alfred,” Bruce said, interrupting his uncle from the opposing settee. There was a flush of color high on his cheeks, paired with a tightly-clenched jaw Alfred zeroed in on instantly. “We won’t need drinks, actually. Phillip was just leaving.”

“I wasn’t,” Phillip said, verbally ducking around the polite dismissal. “I don’t think you’ve fully understood the weight of my offer, Brucie.”

“Bruce,” Bruce corrected through gritted teeth.

“Bruce,” Phillip mocked. “God forbid I use an old nickname for my own nephew. What next, you’ll have me calling you Mr. Wayne, too?”

“Doctor Wayne.”

“What?” Phillip asked, playing dumb. His lip had curled up into a mightily unimpressive sneer.

“Doctor Wayne,” Bruce repeated. “If you have to call me anything. Alfred?”

Alfred set the tray down on the side table, sensing the shift in the air. “Yes?”

The sir was on the tip of his tongue. It felt out of place most days, but in this moment, Phillip needed to understand the kind of deference that was earned. That names were earned, especially nicknames. Even among so-called family members.

“Are the boys around?” Bruce asked, impressively calm. Alfred could see the muscles of his legs beginning to contract through the thin fabric of his dress pants.

“They’re in the backyard,” Alfred lied. The kitchen was close enough. Bruce nodded, forced his mouth into something resembling a smile, and looked straight at his uncle.

“Get the fuck out of my house.”

Phillip raised an eyebrow. “Are you serious?”

In a flash of movement, Bruce was on his feet -- bare, Phillip must have interrupted him while he’d been changing -- and across the room, grabbing Phillip by his flimsy collar and hauling him bodily off the couch.

“What are you doing--”

Alfred followed behind Bruce as he frogmarched Phillip toward the exit, secretly delighted by the development. Phillip hadn’t inherited his brother’s height; Bruce had, and the difference between the two had never been more striking.

Phillip was deposited, with little ceremony, on the front driveway, ten feet from his parked car. Bruce hadn’t simply marched him out the door; he’d carried his uncle as far as physically possible, one hand gripping his collar and the other clamped around his bicep like a vise.

Alfred followed them out, keeping a sharp eye on the overlooking windows. There were two familiar faces in the living room window, and more than a few maids peeking out of the third floor shutters. They knew better than to record the interaction, but the possibility still made him nervous.

“Have you had enough?” Phillip asked, backing away from Bruce. He straightened his own collar, smoothing a hand down his now-wrinkled shirt. “I grew up in that house. You’re just going to throw me out?”

Bruce, it seemed, was going to do exactly that. He turned on his heel and headed into the Manor without a backward glance, his shoulders tight and tensed up to his ears.

Alfred slowly -- deliberately -- shifted into a guard stance on the front steps, folding his hands at the small of his back. With a minute change in posture, he’d made it perfectly clear, even to someone as dull as Phillip, that following after Bruce would not be possible. Or advised.

“Oh, give me a break,” Phillip sneered, still trying to right his shirt and collar. “You’re the muscle now, too? He really has you running around doing everything, doesn’t he? Serving drinks, driving him around, wiping his ass--”

Alfred raised an eyebrow as Phillip trailed off, waiting for a reaction that wouldn’t come.

“Loyal. Huh.” Phillip leaned back, considering him. “I knew Thomas had a soft spot for strays, but I’m honestly surprised you stuck around this long. Is it the money? He pays you so much you don’t care about wiping asses and faces?”

It was the excited bluster of a man who’d been outmuscled and knew it. Phillip hadn’t expected to be thrown out. He wasn’t a man used to physical confrontation; the pallor and thin sheen of sweat on his upper lip were evidence of that.

“You tell him,” Phillip gestured rudely in Bruce’s direction. “You tell that little faggot that I’m serious. He doesn’t wanna sign on, fine. He can face the consequences.”

Alfred stood there, blank-faced. He gave Phillip no purchase or foothold, no reaction for him to grab onto and use against Bruce. He was a wall. A tree trunk far too wide for Phillip to ever hope of getting his arms around.

“Fine,” Phillip said. “Fine. See what happens.”

It took Alfred ten minutes to stand down, both physically and mentally. Long after Phillip’s car had disappeared down the driveway, he maintained the guard stance, on-edge in more ways than one.

The hatred in Phillip’s eyes had been real. Family members -- even those at odds -- didn’t look at each other with such derision. It made every time-honed instinct in Alfred’s body stand on end, all at once. There was a promise in that kind of hatred. An inevitable boiling point rarely eased by time.

When Alfred returned to the parlor, Bruce was pacing the length of the room, one of the glass Perrier bottles in hand. The flush in his cheeks had disappeared, leaving an unhealthy pallor behind.

Alfred closed the parlor doors behind him, warding off their curious onlookers with a pointed clearing of his throat. As the pocket doors snapped shut, he saw Dick and Jason slip back toward the kitchen, their heads close together.

“Did he try to buy you off?” Bruce asked. He was holding the Perrier bottle like a beer bottle, which was telling of his state of mind. “I figured he might. He doesn’t realize how much we pay you. I’m sure it was an embarrassing bribe.”

“He didn’t,” Alfred said, folding his hands in front of him. Bruce took a swig from his Perrier, shaking his head.

“Not like he has the money to be competitive. Jesus. That’s why he was here, by the way.” Bruce took another swig. His hands were trembling. “He’s trying to sell a story to the press. He was here for my blessing. Which is just a fancy way of dressing up a hostage negotiation.”

“About the boys?” Alfred asked. Dick and Jason’s adoptions had been fodder for several tabloid inside scoops in the last year. From sources close to the family, half of whom Alfred had already suspected of being connected to Phillip in some way.

“About Dad.” Bruce’s eyes went glassy in a way that made Alfred’s breath catch in his chest. “About me. He had this whole story cooked up about a memoir. A memoir where he admits that Dad -- that Dad was secretly -- to me --”

The Perrier bottle creaked in Bruce’s grip. Alfred interceded before the glass could give way, directing Bruce to the settee.

“Please. Sit down.”

Bruce sat down hard on the settee, still gripping the Perrier bottle. He’d gone entirely white in the face; even his lips were beginning to lose color.

Alfred mentally moved Phillip up from 36 months to 12 on his list. 12, with a mental question mark next to it. It was one thing to sell half-baked stories of the boys to the press, and another thing entirely to sell a story about Bruce with his name attached.

“He said -- I could give him what they were going to pay him for it, to save myself the scrutiny.” Bruce looked down at his lap. “Enough to leave me and the boys comfortable, were his words. He wanted millions of dollars to quash that story. Millions. And if I wasn’t amenable to negotiating, he could start forcing the sale of all of the art in the Manor. He wouldn’t even take a buyout on that. I offered.”

Alfred sat down on the same settee, putting a hand on Bruce’s knee and squeezing. They needed to stay grounded. Both of them.

“He hasn’t managed his money well,” Alfred noted. “He’s likely in a significant amount of debt.”

“I send them money. Every year. I have the paperwork from the lawyers to prove it.” Bruce set the Perrier bottle on the side table, leaning forward. He ran his hands through his hair, gripping his head. “God. I’m going to have to call every paper in this city and buy them off the story. Actually, I could just buy them. Save myself the trouble…”

“Bruce.”

Bruce looked up. His eyes were slightly red. Alfred squeezed his knee again.

“Winning a fight is a bit like gambling,” Alfred started. Bruce made an unintelligible noise in the back of his throat.

“You know I don’t do either of those things anymore.”

“But you understand the metaphor,” Alfred said. “Every fight you enter has risks. The risk of losing. The risk of misjudging a potential blow. Of jumping too soon when you think your opponent is telegraphing their next hit. Every time you move, you take a gamble on the outcome ahead of you.”

“You think he’s feinting. That he’s bluffing about the story.”

“I think,” Alfred said, choosing his next words carefully. “We need to assume your uncle will do exactly what he says he will. Or worse.”

“Worse?” Bruce’s laugh was hoarse. “What’s worse than telling the whole world my Dad was raping me? Making up some story about my childhood like he was there -- what’s worse than him publishing that story and ruining Dad’s memory? Because that’s the whole point of this, you know. Dad can’t exactly refute those claims.”

Alfred stared at him for a moment, his heart aching. “But you can.”

“I can,” Bruce agreed, jaw tensing. “Because they’re not true.”

“No one will believe Phillip,” Alfred said. “Especially if you don’t let them. You have more power than you think.”

Bruce took a shaky breath, covering it with a quick swallow of Perrier. When he was done, he lifted slightly-pink eyes to Alfred’s face, nodding.

“Clean yourself up,” Alfred said, not unkindly. He patted Bruce’s leg. “Dick and Jason were concerned about you. Why don’t you take fifteen minutes, then join us in the kitchen to start making dinner?”

Despite seeing the hug coming, Alfred was still caught off-guard by the way Bruce moved, embracing him tightly around the shoulders. A slightly-damp face was buried in Alfred’s neck.

Six months, Alfred amended, cupping Bruce’s head. Six months at most. I’ll find a way to make it work.

Now: 3 hours, 24 minutes to target

“Okay,” Bruce said, stepping up onto the banister to count off children. “I see one, two, three, four -- oh, there’s Alfred. Five, six -- six?”

“Hi Mr. Wayne,” Tim said sheepishly, waving. He was boxed in by Dick and Steph on either side, dressed in a black suit to match the sedate color scheme. He had even managed to tie his own bowtie.

“Hi Tim,” Bruce said, then turned to Alfred. “I have six kids now. Six?”

Out of the corner of his eye, Alfred saw Tim sneak a glance at Steph, as if uncertain. “Six, yes.”

“Six it is,” Bruce said, jerking his chin at Tim. “Can I talk to you for a moment before we leave?”

Dick saved Alfred the trouble of herding the other children out of earshot, quietly shifting them closer to the front door. His new suit was a deep, midnight blue from Bruce’s closet, tailored to his slimmer frame.

Once the tailor had finished, and Dick had dressed for the night, Alfred had been struck by how much the younger man resembled Bruce, despite the lack of shared genetic material. There was something similar in all of the children -- a particular angle of their shoulders, of stubbornness in their chins. Things they had inherited from Bruce, and more Wayne than the name they’d also received.

“C’mon guys, let’s go get the car warmed up for Alfred. Yes, Cass, you can bring Steph’s flats in the car, just don’t forget the -- great, you’ve got those too.”

Tim hung around the base of the stairs, shifting from foot to foot. Bruce descended back down to ground level, kneeling slightly on the last step. Dr. Wayne was present.

“Are your parents home?”

“Nope,” Tim said, looking anywhere but up. Bruce grimaced, like he’d been expecting the answer.

“Where are they this month?”

“Guam,” Tim said instantly. “Studying lizards. I think. Either lizards or salamanders. They’re really excited about it, though.”

Alfred watched Bruce’s heart break a little bit more, like it always did when Tim’s parents shuffled off parenting duties. It was plain as day across his face, even if Tim was too shy to look up and see it.

“Who’s watching you while you’re gone?” Bruce asked gently. Tim muttered something, scuffing one dress shoe against the floor. “Huh?”

“I said,” Tim looked up, hesitant. His eyes were painfully wide. “...You are?”

“Okay,” Bruce said, with the tone of someone who’d be on the phone with Janet and Jack Drake within moments of the conversation’s end. He clapped Tim on the shoulder. “You really wanna come to this?”

“Yeah,” Tim said. “It’s boring at home. All the staff leave at five.”

Bruce closed his eyes for a second, clearly trying not to react to that inadvertent admission. “You’re alone at night?”

“After five PM. Until six AM,” Tim clarified. Alfred pressed his lips together.

“Okay. Okay, we’ll come back to that later.” Bruce stood up, giving Tim a once-over. “If you see a photographer, you try your best to stay out of the shot. I don’t want your parents asking questions I can’t answer when they come back.”

“If,” Tim muttered.

“They’re coming back,” Bruce said, voice softening. He leaned down, waiting until Tim made eye contact with him. “Don’t say that, okay? Of course they’re coming back.”

There was an awkward pause as Tim’s throat worked. Bruce smiled, patting him on the shoulder again.

“Go join the others. Let them know Alfred and I will be out in a sec.”

Tim scurried out the front door in his dress shoes, eager to put space between him and the awkward conversation. Alfred turned to Bruce, allowing himself a brief smile.

“Shall I try Janet again, Dr. Wayne?”

“You can certainly try,” Bruce said, with obvious derision. “Not sure she’ll remember she has a phone until next semester. Jesus, that woman pisses me off. How do you leave a kid home alone like that? For weeks, Alfred?”

He was at his best in moments like these. A warm, no-nonsense bedside manner that had put him at odds with the other Attendings in Gotham Sinai’s Emergency Room. So good, so natural with children, that even the standoffish and shy Timothy Drake had been drawn to him.

“You don’t mind a sixth,” Alfred reminded him, instead of agreeing that yes, Janet and Jack needed a reminder of what parenting was, and was not.

“If I had my way,” Bruce said, ignoring him. He was attempting to straighten out perfectly-straight cuffs, fiddling with his cuff links. “If I had the chance, I’d snap that kid up from them. They probably wouldn’t even notice.”

Alfred mentally reviewed his plans for Jack and Janet Drake -- limited as they were -- and silently agreed. Short of killing them, there was no easy way to transfer guardianship. Not without a healthy application of anonymous child welfare complaints -- complaints Jack and Janet would immediately track back to Wayne Manor, simply because no one else but them saw the child on a regular basis.

“Are you ready to leave, then?”

Bruce stopped adjusting his cuffs, letting out a breath. He smiled at Alfred, practicing the soulless, blinding thing on a captive audience. “How do I look?”

Like your father, Alfred thought. “Perfectly suited to the occasion.”

“Last year it was marvelous,” Bruce complained as he headed for the front door. “Everyone’s dressed. Everyone has shoes. I have an extra kid. What else am I missing?”

“Wallet?” Alfred guessed. Bruce patted his pocket, then looked upward in the direction of the master suite.

“I’ll be right back. Don’t leave without me.”

Four years, three months, twenty days ago

The phone vibrated on the nightstand and, after ringing twice, buzzed through to his watch. Alfred groaned, lifting his head from the pillow just long enough to claw at the nightstand and pull the thing onto the bed.

“Pennyworth,” he said into the receiver. His voice was a mess of gravel and congestion. Even the name had felt more like a question than a statement. Cough syrup tended to make everything hazy.

“It’s Lucius. Are you watching the news?”

That was a beyond-ominous question. Alfred minimized the call on his phone, swiping into the local Gotham news app. “Why?”

“Don’t,” Lucius said, his voice slightly tinny in speaker mode. “Don’t turn it on. Not yet.”

“Lucius,” Alfred warned. He had thirty seconds before the app refreshed. An impossibly long thirty seconds. Something was wrong. Something was wrong, and here he was, lounging in bed like a simple cold was --

“We received a ransom demand for Bruce,” Lucius said. Alfred’s heart froze in his chest. “Listen. Listen, I know you’re going to leap into action--”

Alfred threw the covers off his legs, sitting straight up. His vision greyed out at the edges, but he stayed conscious. It was a small battle to get his feet into his socks, then his boots. Next he needed a jacket. A gun. An address. In that order.

“--just listen to me for thirty more seconds, okay? Wayne Enterprises received the demand twenty minutes ago,” Lucius continued. “It hit the press three minutes before I called you. They grabbed him at the clinic--”

The clinic, Alfred thought, despairing. Bruce’s shift was two to five, every Sunday. He was a small-scale celebrity to most visitors. They had security, but not enough to hold off a targeted operation.

“They beat him up a little for the proof of life video, but he’s fine. He’s fine.” Lucius said. “Bruce’s secretary told me you were out sick. I’ve been in contact with the police, but they want to talk to you. There’s a--”

“Where are the boys?” Alfred interrupted. Lucius switched gears almost instantly, which was why Alfred liked him.

“With GCPD. They pulled them out of school as a precaution.” Lucius cleared his throat. “Listen, that’s not why I’m calling you. I know you’re going to rush down there. This is a courtesy call.”

“Courtesy?” Alfred asked, taking the back stairs two at a time.

“My IT team just traced the ransom note -- a small team, they work directly under me and they’re discreet,” Lucius explained. “Whoever did this covered their tracks. GCPD won’t be able to track it, but my team could. And it led back to --”

Alfred closed his eyes, already knowing the answer. “Phillip Wayne?”

There was a beat of silence as Lucius again shifted gears. “You see why I called you.”

“Are you asking for permission, or are you just giving me a courtesy call before you turn it over to GCPD?” Alfred asked.

There was a click down the line, as if Lucius had briefly placed him on mute. “We’d prefer this stay…within the family, if at all possible.”

“You mean within the company,” Alfred rebutted. He grabbed his jacket from the hook, slinging it over one shoulder.

“Same thing, with a name like Wayne,” Lucius said. He was, admittedly, correct. “We’ll pay the demand. The money’s already on its way.”

Alfred set the phone to the side, prying up the kitchen floorboard with trembling hands. He punched in the code to the safe underneath, sliding the door to the side and plunging his fingers into the darkened space.

“You do what you like,” Alfred said to Lucius as he pulled out a HK P30L he’d stored for this exact moment.

He and Lucius had always had an…understanding. Even before Thomas and Martha’s deaths. Lucius knew, beneath Martha’s excuses, Alfred Pennyworth wasn’t just a butler; Alfred knew, despite pleasant public appearances, Lucius Fox was a cunning, shrewd CEO.

Lucius wanted things like this handled. Alfred was more than willing to oblige.

“Good luck,” Lucius said, with the gravity of someone who knew why those words were being said. The line went dead.

Alfred jabbed at the end call button, putting a hand to his aching chest.

It’s a cold, he told himself. If you can breathe, you can run. If you can run, you can fight.

And even if you can’t do those things --

He tucked the gun into his waistband, shrugging on the jacket to cover the bulge.

-- you can still fire a gun.

In the end, Alfred tracked Bruce to a warehouse in the Narrows within forty minutes of Lucius’ call. He’d used the surveillance footage from the clinic, an eyewitness account circulating on the news, and a lucky ping on a license plate scanner. Child’s play, considering the bulk of his time had been spent on travel.

No ransom demand could have prepared him for what he found.

Bruce was leaning up against the exterior wall of the warehouse when he arrived, splattered in blood from head to toe. To Alfred’s astonishment, he was smiling and entirely hale and whole. Breathing heavily, covered in someone else’s blood, bruised on one cheek but -- whole.

“You were looking for me,” Bruce said, delighted, as Alfred approached, gun quickly tucked into his waistband. “Alfred. You would not believe the day I’ve had.” His smile turned into a frown. “Aren’t you supposed to be in bed?”

Alfred’s arms were full of bloody, panting Bruce a moment later. The adrenaline drained from him all at once. It left him relieved and -- very dizzy.

When GCPD arrived on scene a few minutes later, Alfred had the distinct, if bizarre, pleasure of watching Bruce walk the responding officers through his version of events. One that consisted of being hit on the head, thrown into a van, and then fighting for his life against three masked men inside of a dimly-lit warehouse. Three men so badly beaten, they had been taken to the hospital instead of directly into custody.

“He used to fight,” Alfred told the detective interviewing him, more than happy to extrapolate. “In underground rings, those sorts of things. Not anymore, of course, but you get the picture.”

The detective nodded. She’d squinted at Bruce upon arrival and hadn’t relinquished the expression since. “He’s a big guy.”

“And by all appearances, these were small men,” Alfred said, gesturing at the warehouse with his chin. The detective snorted.

“Relatively speaking, sure.”

The P30L remained undiscovered at the small of his back, hidden by the oversized jacket. His own involvement had barely been questioned. Gotham, it seemed, was far more interested in the Wayne heir who actually fought back.

“Does he get threats a lot?” the detective asked him, scribbling something down on her notepad.

For a moment, Alfred nearly forgot who he was talking to. His recent illness and subsequent convalescence had drained him. He smiled, thinking of Phillip Wayne and the expedited timeline ahead of him.

“Unfortunately.”

Now: 49 minutes to target

“You sure you don’t want to come with?”

Alfred turned into the driveway, sparing Duke a brief glance. “Did Bruce put you up to this?”

“Nope,” Duke said, with a faint smirk that said otherwise. “It just seems weird for you to drop us off and not even come inside. I heard there’s little mini lobster rolls. You love lobster rolls. I remember you telling us about your Maine trip.”

“And caviar!” Bruce called out from the backseat, where he was wedged between Tim and Cass. “You like caviar too!”

Bruce’s interjection immediately sparked a debate between the backseat and far backseat as to the merits of caviar and its production. Thankfully, they pulled into the valet line before the argument could reach full intensity, providing a seamless transition away from Alfred’s whereabouts.

“Enjoy the evening,” Alfred said as he switched the car into park. He flicked the lights off, then unlocked the rear doors. “I’ll be back at ten to pick you up. If you need me sooner, please call. I’m only a moment away.”

“And you call me if you change your mind,” Bruce said, unbuckling his seat belt. “Alright everyone. We’re going to run the gauntlet. Don’t leave anyone behind. I’ve got Tim.”

“I’ve done this before,” Tim said, with the air of a spoiled teenager who had, unfortunately, done this before. Bruce ruffled his hair, amused.

“Not like this.”

Dick cracked open the door, stepping out. The cameras on either side of the partition began to flash. When Steph joined him, the flashing doubled in intensity.

Bruce emerged second-to-last, hiding Tim behind his larger frame. He smiled and waved for the cameras, delivering a perfect replica of the one he’d practiced on Alfred earlier.

Cass took his arm, her colorful dress swirling in the light breeze. Jason closed both doors, glancing back at Alfred as he did so.

They were a beautiful family. It made Alfred’s next task more palatable. Not just palatable -- important. Righteously so.

Four years, three months, five days ago

Phillip Wayne was kidnapped on the morning of his sixty-eighth birthday. Wayne Enterprises received a ransom letter, a demand for twenty million dollars in unmarked bills, and a proof of life photo of a bloodied Phillip tied to a chair.

Lucius Fox made a public, impassioned case for his release. Wayne Enterprises announced that they’d paid the ransom in full, against GCPD’s recommendations and ultimately to no avail. His naked body was found floating in the river the next morning. The fast-tracked autopsy listed his cause of death as a homicide -- one high caliber round to the back of the head, execution style.

The morning of Phillip’s funeral, Bruce turned to him with an odd expression. Like he was chewing on something he wasn’t certain of.

His expression was eerily reminiscent of all the times Thomas had paused, eyes narrowing at something Alfred had said that didn’t quite fit into his expected worldview. It wasn’t quite suspicion -- that would require a lack of proof. Rather, there was proof under his nose, and like Thomas, Bruce wasn’t sure what to do with it. Or what it was.

“Did you,” Bruce began, swallowing. He was nervous, fiddling with his cuff links again. “Did you have something to do with this?”

Alfred stared at him for longer than he’d intended, taken aback by the accusation. “With what, exactly?”

“Phillip’s death,” Bruce said. “I feel like there’s something you’re not telling me. I know that sounds crazy, but I do. This is all just, I don’t know, a little--”

A little suspicious? Alfred thought. It was why he had staggered timelines. Space between kills. Plausible deaths by natural causes whenever possible. Phillip’s death had been none of those things; it was a pointed middle-finger to his memory. A professional hit in an entirely personal context.

“I told Lucius not to pay the ransom.”

Bruce’s head whipped up. “You what?”

“I told Lucius not to pay the ransom,” Alfred repeated calmly. “He called me when they received the demand. I told him not to bother paying it.”

“Why?”

Alfred raised his eyebrows. “I suspected he’d been involved in your kidnapping. Which I know you also suspected, by the way.”

Bruce grimaced, looking away. He was too smart to have ignored those puzzle pieces. Far too smart. Anyone who’d been privy to Phillip’s original threats could have pieced the motivation and opportunity together.

“In the end, it didn’t matter,” Alfred said. “Lucius paid the ransom. Not that it helped your uncle, I’m sorry to say.”

Lucius had done nothing of the sort, but Bruce didn’t need to know that. Bruce’s original ransom payment had quietly been funneled back to Wayne Enterprises through less than legal, somewhat legal, then very legal channels, pulled from the various accounts Phillips had clumsily stored it in.

“So who kidnapped him?” Bruce asked. “If he paid to have me kidnapped, who kidnapped him?”

Alfred glanced at the window, making a show of holding back his response. Bruce straightened, latching onto the small tell like a bloodhound with a scent.

“You’re not saying something.”

“It’s an unfounded guess,” Alfred replied. Gotham sparkled in the distance, catching the weak sunlight and reflecting it outward.

“Well, it’s not like you’re being deposed,” Bruce rebutted.

“I’d certainly hope not,” Alfred said. He turned back from the window. “Whoever your uncle recruited to take you wasn’t paid well. Or enough, perhaps. He was greedy. They turned on him. When I heard he was missing, it was my very first thought.”

The explanation seemed to mollify Bruce, at least for the time being. He scrunched up his nose, clearly unable to disagree with Alfred’s reasoning.

“His death isn’t your fault,” Alfred said, sensing his line of thought. “You paid him a fortune every year. He was greedy. He involved himself with the wrong people, and he paid the price for it.”

Bruce nodded. A muscle in his jaw tensed. “He was family.”

He was my only family, Alfred heard, even if Bruce didn’t say it. Living blood relatives were rare for the Gotham Waynes. The Kanes had long left the city. Thomas’ parents had died before Bruce’s third birthday. But Phillip had stayed, for obvious reasons.

“He was,” Alfred agreed, leaving it in the past tense.

Now: 5 minutes, 33 seconds to target

Alfred silenced the door alarm as he entered, entering the disarm code with a gloved finger. The panel beeped and, with a secondary code, Alfred reset the memory, erasing any record of the alarm from the system.

Patricia Walker had already retired to her bedroom for the evening. There was a bottle of gin on her kitchen counter, haphazardly placed against a cup with a melted ice and gin slurry.

Patricia’s preference for large amounts of alcohol on the weekends certainly made this kill far easier. Her prescription for 100 mg of Trazodone reduced the difficulty even further. Her snores were audible even from the first floor. The alarm hadn’t disturbed her. Even if it had rang for an hour, Alfred was nearly certain it wouldn’t have been heard.

Alfred set the bag of groceries on the counter, detaching the online delivery receipt and leaving it in plain sight near the gin. With gloved hands, he pulled out a half-full ice cream carton, setting it on the counter next to the gin. He left the candy and soda in the grocery bag and went off in search of a spoon Patricia had used recently.

He found one almost instantly, set down in the sink next to the remains of her dinner. Alfred carefully wiped it off on a paper towel, then stuck it into the ice cream carton.

With the kitchen staged, he did a sweep of the first floor, one hand on his holster the entire time. When he was confident they were alone in the house, Alfred headed for the rear stairs, climbing up to the second floor without touching the railing.

Alfred had suspected that Patricia’s snoring was undiagnosed sleep apnea, a condition which alcohol and depressants certainly didn’t ameliorate. In person, the sound was even more aggravating than he’d expected. Aggravating, but ultimately quite helpful.

He quickly unpacked the kit from her purse, which was helpfully looped over the handle of her nightstand. The dispenser and needles were organized in a hot pink case, including her current, opened pen.

Alfred pulled the pen out, double checking the contents. As planned, her pen was freshly opened, with over 290 units remaining inside. He primed the pen with a click, approaching Patricia’s bedside.

Patricia was a hot sleeper. She also injected most of her insulin into her thigh, which was a delightful coincidence. Alfred reached for her right thigh, pinching the flesh there between his gloved fingers.

The needle hovered just over the skin. With an exhale, Alfred pressed downward, depressing the pen’s contents into her thigh. He pulled the needle out, reset the dose, and injected it again.

It was hard to make insulin overdoses convincing, especially for a lifelong diabetic. A certain scene had to be painted -- a frantic, non-sober scene -- first. Impulse orders of sweets and ice cream at night. Alcohol and sleeping pills. A woman who had clearly tried to accommodate for her sudden sugar binge and purge and had accidentally dosed far too much insulin for her now-empty stomach.

Alfred capped the pen, slid it back into the case, and returned the purse to its original location. He stepped into the attached bathroom and used a gloved knuckle to tip the toilet seat into the up position.

The scene was set. Patricia’s body wouldn’t be discovered until Monday at the earliest, when she failed to show up for work. It also gave her three days to die, though Alfred was certain it would only take her a few hours.

It was, perhaps, the kindest death he had ever personally delivered. Patricia remained unaware, sleeping soundly as her body began to fail. For a woman who had been the cause of so many sleepless nights for Bruce -- and Cass -- it was more than she deserved. Far more.

Alfred had tried to nudge her off the path. He’d coached and counseled Bruce through her endless home visits and unannounced check-ins. He’d filed complaints with Gotham DCFS. Still, Patricia had continued to dig, prying into adoption records and Bruce’s own history. All excusable, all bearable sins. She had, ultimately, been just one woman, fueled by tabloid gossip and a quiet, internalized homophobia that prompted her to believe single male adopters were inherently predatory.

Then, as Cass’ adoption was pending before a judge, Patricia had proposed reunification with David Cain as a potential alternative. Not because it was likely; not because David Cain was open to reunification, but as a looming consequence. She’d dangled the possibility in front of Cass during a private conversation, relaying that -- should Bruce’s adoption fail -- there was “only so much” she could do to avert that outcome.

Cass hadn’t eaten or slept for four days after Patricia’s final visit. Bruce had coaxed the truth from her eventually, but the damage had been done. The small progress she’d made in verbal conversation disappeared, seemingly overnight.

The adoption was approved two weeks later. Alfred quietly reached out to a short list of overseas contacts, ensuring that David Cain would disappear if he hadn’t done so already. He’d left the interpretation of disappear up to them.

Patricia Walker went onto Alfred’s list the morning Cass had finally spoken again. A quiet thank you after Bruce handed her the syrup had caused him to go white in the face. With a trembling smile, Bruce had abruptly excused himself to his bedroom and cried himself hoarse in the shower.

With one last look at Patricia’s bed, Alfred returned to the back stairs, descending to the kitchen. He activated the alarm system as he exited, inputting Patricia’s code one final time.

Good riddance.

Chapter Text

Seven years, two months, 4 days ago

30 seconds to target

Killing was simple, but rarely easy. Alfred’s plans wound around each other; they took time. Careful planning. A detail-heavy approach, considering alternative courses of action and the potential for success to be very, very hard-won. Known unknowns. A gap in the composition swiftly filled with an enterprising coda and gritted teeth.

Killing was, in a way, much like composing. Alfred had had a mind for it, once upon a time. When his name hadn’t yet been Alfred, and the prospect of holding a gun was still charmingly off-putting. He’d pulled out the base line with little effort, filtering in the piano accompaniment around the low tones. Metric displacement had fascinated him as a boy; the true downbeat hiding amongst the cacophony of instruments, instead of in the drum beat itself. Displaced from the implied meter, to listeners with no sense of the deception taking place, nor the true meter.

Such things had made him an effective tool in the hands of his country. There was little use for a field agent who couldn’t improvise, or who couldn’t see the true meter underneath the madness. The drumbeat of conflict, and the hint of what was to come underneath. Alfred’s ability to syncopate, to play off-beat for extended periods of time, was more than just an asset. It was life-saving.

Rounding to an unexpected coda was an action that could not be completed while emotionally volatile. Hot anger had already characterized so much conflict; Alfred’s job had been to remain cool-headed despite the heated context. Anger was to be avoided, and if it was necessary, it had to stay cold. Distant. Detached from the personal in every way.

Alfred ran Wayne Manor with a similar mindset. Warmth for Bruce, for the children and the staff who worked hard to keep them comfortable. Cool, icy, even, for the ones who tried to take that happiness from them. Never angry, but a deeper, colder emotion instead. Detachment.

Alfred no longer improvised. He knew every measure that stretched out before him. If there were gaps in his compositions, they had already been filled twice-over in pencil. His targets were spread out in distant arpeggios; a build up to one chorus was never in isolation, nor was it ever replicated in quite the same way.

Killing was simple, but rarely easy. And yet, when hot anger prevailed, and reason took a backseat to emotion, it was far easier than it should have been.

The gun fired. The body tipped over the pier’s edge, muscles seizing as the brain tightened its hold through dying neural connections. Alfred stepped back, avoiding the resulting splash of river water.

It took a moment to breathe again. The hot anger had built up in his gut, and the rashness of the kill had barely satisfied it. His heart was beating quickly. His knuckles were bone white around the butt of his gun. His finger was still on the trigger.

A man who’d overstepped in such a fashion -- in Bruce’s home -- deserved far worse than a bullet to the back of the head. He’d deserved months of careful planning, a horrific, if brief, death. Agony in his final moments, retribution in the form of his own misdeeds. And yet. From the very moment Alfred had caught him in the shadows of Bruce’s room, a hand down his workpants as Bruce showered, entirely unaware, in the adjoining bathroom, he had felt nothing but rage. A burning, incomprehensible rage.

The body sank, likely hastened to the silt bottom by the weight of workboots, a thick winter coat, and a heavy belt buckle. After a moment, Alfred threw the gun in after it, sniffing.

If they dredge this river, Alfred thought to himself, they’ll find a century’s worth of firearms.

It was a paltry excuse for planning. But it was all that Alfred had, in retrospect. That, and a promise he intended to collect from a connection of a connection that Kyle Landauer would be employed elsewhere for a period of time, until his disappearance could be arranged with more finesse.

Despite the hot anger still running through his veins, Alfred didn’t linger. Even if he had relished this kill, even if he had been left wanting more -- there was a Manor waiting for him.

Now: 8 months, 16 days, 19 hours to target

“You’re distracted, my boy.”

Bruce blinked, bringing his attention back down from the clouds to the silver polish in his hands. “Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize to me,” Alfred said, scrubbing gently at the grooves of his own pitcher. “You’re the one who insisted on polishing the silver well into the evening hours. An endeavor, I’ll remind you, which often takes--”

“All day,” Bruce finished for him. “I know. You didn’t have to help me. I know how to do it.”

“More polish,” Alfred said, instead of acknowledging the implicit dismissal. He tipped his head at the jar of silver polish. “Yours is drying up.”

Bruce dipped the sponge into the silver polish, pulling up more of the pink cream. He dutifully applied it to the silver plate, swirling the sponge in gentle circles around the perimeter.

“I’m worried about Jason.”

“I see,” Alfred said, with the tone of someone who hadn’t already guessed such a thing an hour and a half ago. “You’ve texted him, I assume?”

“He didn’t respond,” Bruce said. Footsteps sounded above their heads, and he abandoned his polishing -- yet again -- to peer upward at the crown molding. “I don’t want to -- smother him. He’s almost an adult. He knows the curfew.”

“Which we have not yet reached,” Alfred added. Bruce grimaced.

“9:55 is pushing it.”

“You were often out late, at odd hours,” Alfred rebutted. He flipped the pitcher over, scrubbing at the underside. “I rarely received an explanation for your whereabouts, if you recall.”

“Well.” Bruce suddenly became occupied with his silver plate, intent on scrubbing out what Alfred knew was a minor cosmetic scrape in the silver. “Between you and me, I don’t think Jason is pit-fighting in the Narrows. Or passed out in some awful dive bar somewhere. It doesn’t really seem like his style.”

“Oh? And what is?” Alfred asked.

“I’m not sure yet,” Bruce admitted. “I’m not sure he knows yet. But I know it sure as hell isn’t as destructive as whatever I was doing.”

“Destructive?”

“Self-destuctive,” Bruce corrected. His hands, again, stalled in place. His eyes were hazy. “Jay is -- so much more mature than I was at the same age. Sometimes I forget he’s seventeen, Alfred.”

Darling boy, Alfred thought, as Bruce’s pride for his children -- on behalf of his children -- settled between them. He was a father in a way Alfred hadn’t been, couldn’t have been. Even tinged with self-deprecation, Bruce’s warmth was irresistible.

“He wants to be a teacher,” Bruce mentioned, returning to his task. He tilted the plate up toward the chandelier, inspecting his work. “He mentioned it the other night when we were mowing the lawn.”

Alfred stared at him, amused. Several puzzle pieces -- a half-mowed section of the back lawn and a new shipment of lawn mower parts -- suddenly fell into place. “Why on earth were you mowing the lawn?”

“Jason wanted to know how it worked,” Bruce said, like it was obvious. “The mower. And then we got into a discussion about safety, and the whole thing spiralled. I took it apart in the maintenance shed to show him the basics, and then --”

“You couldn’t put it back together?” Duke asked as he entered the dining room. He set down his drink on a coaster, then pulled out the chair next to Bruce.

“I put it back together,” Bruce defended. “Jay helped. But when we turned it back on, the drive belts snapped. Both of them, at the exact same time. I mean, the odds of that occurring…”

“Perhaps a defect in the batch from the manufacturer,” Alfred said. Bruce nodded in agreement.

“I thought so. The mowers are so well-maintained.”

Duke sipped his drink. Bruce scrubbed at a particularly hardy spot of tarnish, brows drawn together. Alfred mentally counted off footsteps above their heads, realizing Tim was -- again -- spending the night.

From the way Bruce’s lips pulled into a smile, he’d likely realized the same thing.

“Is Tim staying over?” Bruce asked Duke, who shrugged.

“I think so? He and Jay were gonna play something later on the Xbox. Steph’s teaching him how to french braid Cass’ hair right now.”

“Okay,” Bruce said, clearly withholding additional questions. “What about you? Homework all done?”

“It was done before I left school,” Duke said proudly. “But thanks for the micromanaging, Dad.”

“See?” Bruce asked Alfred, gesturing at Duke with his chin. “I’m micromanaging now.”

“Because you care,” Duke amended.

“I do care,” Bruce said. The joking tone of their conversation seemed to dwindle. “You know that, right?”

Alfred looked up from his pitcher, sending the shift. Duke’s lips were pressed together. His eyes were ever so slightly wet.

“Yeah.”

“Good,” Bruce said. He held up his plate for Duke to see. “Does this pass inspection?”

“Sure.”

“You didn’t even look at it.”

Alfred couldn’t blame Duke for staring at Bruce instead of the silver plate. In this, all the children were alike, chasing after that implicit approval and the subtle pride in the microexpressions of Bruce’s face. Wanting his approval more than almost everything else, and yet so reluctant to voice that out loud.

They always missed the same, cautious hope in Bruce’s replies. He, too, was looking for their approval. Hoping for it, never assuming he had it until it had been confirmed in words. Doubting himself, even after so many years of fatherhood.

“Looks great,” Duke said, glancing briefly at the plate. “Only….six hundred and thirteen left to go, right?”

“Forty-two,” Alfred said. The pile at the center of the dining table was impressive, but certainly not that impressive. “And some serving pieces in storage, should we feel the inclination to power through.”

“You like this?” Duke asked Bruce, mystified. Bruce barked out a laugh, shaking his head.

“Once you’re old enough, you’ll understand.”

“That wasn’t an answer,” Duke pressed.

“I like it,” Bruce said. With a final swipe of the cleaning cloth, he set the plate aside. “It’s good for thinking. And clearing your mind. Kind of like the crossword.”

Alfred was certain there had been very few, if any, Wayne heirs who polished their own silver. Or who even knew the difference between the everyday and hosting sets. Thomas had been an exception, having agonized over the gift of a new set to Martha on their sixth wedding anniversary. In this, Bruce was also an exception. A far more remarkable one, in Alfred’s private estimations.

Before Duke could reply, likely to poke at Bruce’s supposition that crosswords were relaxing, they were interrupted by a distant ringing. Alfred leaned closer to the kitchen door, cocking his head.

“That’s the landline,” Bruce said. He had admittedly sharper ears than Alfred. “I didn’t know you still had that hooked up.”

Alfred excused himself from the table, pushing through the swinging door and into the kitchen. He pulled the landline off the hook, holding the receiver up to his ear.

The woman on the other end of the line spoke, haltingly at first, but growing more confident as Alfred responded in kind. She was a nurse down at Gotham Memorial, and did he possibly know a Jason Todd? Your address is on his driver’s license, and --

Bruce stepped into the kitchen, scrubbing his pink-flecked hands with a towel. He locked eyes with Alfred, holding his gaze in silent question.

“His condition?” Alfred asked the nurse. He forced himself not to react to the response, but that in itself was a reaction. Bruce knew him too well.

“Call Leslie. I’m getting my coat.”

They arrived at Gotham Memorial in record time. Bruce parked in the Visiting Physician stall with the confidence of someone who’d done so many times in the past, out of the car and well on his way to the entrance before the engine had fully shut off.

Alfred followed behind him, grim. It was the work of moments -- seconds, even -- to slip back into the role of a bodyguard. This was Bruce Wayne stalking through a Narrows ER like he belonged there. A public figure despite his need to only be a person. Someone who caught attention by simply existing.

Bruce either didn’t notice the subtle shift, or simply didn’t care. Alfred lingered a step behind him to the left, maintaining visual cover in both directions. Mentally rehearsing how he’d draw the gun at the small of his back and the knife hidden in his left sock if needed.

They bypassed the waiting room, the triage station, and the nursing station. Bruce stepped through the automatic double doors, heading for the trauma rooms in the back of the treatment area.

“You can’t be here,” a nurse said to Alfred as they passed. “This is a--”

“Tell Rick he can come down here and argue with me,” Bruce growled, undeterred. “What bay is Todd in?”

The nurse stumbled after them, wide-eyed. “Dr. Wayne?”

Bruce abandoned his line of questioning, yanking a curtain to the side. The first bay was empty. The second curtain revealed a family of four crowded around a small child. The third --

“Jay.”

Alfred stepped in behind Bruce, yanking the curtain closed behind them to spare them some scrutiny. Bruce staggered toward the bed, white-faced.

It was a grim scene, exactly as he’d expected. Jason’s head was covered in bandages, leaving only his right eye visible. Blood caked his skin from head to navel under the thin hospital gown. His bare feet and knees were black with dirt, a vivid contrast to the faded white of the hospital sheets.

He was unconscious. Alfred stood there, uncertain if that was a mercy. For Bruce, perhaps not. For Jason? Surely.

Bruce assessed Jason quickly, then snatched the chart off the end of his bed. He flipped through the pages, growing more enraged by the second.

When a doctor cleared his throat, stepping around the curtain, Bruce threw the chart at his head, The chart slammed into the thin wall of the trauma bay, missing the man only because, Alfred knew, Bruce had wanted it to.

“You gave my son Narcan?” Bruce roared. “For a head injury, Rick? He’s bleeding into his brain and you couldn’t even get an IV started?”

Rick -- the visibly unnerved doctor -- took a step back, holding up his hands. “Jesus, Bruce. Slow down for a second. He was--”

“Six doses of Narcan,” Bruce said, shaking his head in disbelief. His hands were trembling. “That’s how long it took for you to check his pupils. You incompetent fuck. You went to Harvard. YOU KNOW BETTER!”

“He came in covered in dirt from the Narrows,” Rick defended, finding a modicum of courage -- or stubbornness -- and fighting back. “Couldn’t tell us his name, couldn’t talk without slurring. Wasn’t wearing any shoes. Yeah, I gave him Narcan, Bruce. What, you wanted me to check him for a stroke? A twenty year-old?”

Bruce didn’t respond. His eyes scanned Rick from head to toe, sizing him up. Alfred felt a shiver go down his spine.

“He’s seventeen,” Bruce said, in far too calm of a voice. “And he was bleeding from the head.”

“Head wounds bleed a lot. Jesus, Bruce, you know that as well as I do.” Rick’s shoulders puffed up, his body responding -- subconsciously -- to Bruce’s sudden stillness. “We got him under the portable CT eventually. He’s got a --”

“I want him transferred.”

Rick’s mouth froze in an unflattering half-open position. “What?”

“I said,” Bruce took a visible breath. “I want him transferred. Now.”

Alfred carefully side-stepped to Jason’s bed, putting himself in between Jason and the volatile scene. After a moment, sentimentality won out; he wound his hand into Jason’s clammy palm, squeezing tightly.

Sleep, my boy, Alfred thought, if you hear this, hear only a Father’s love for a child. All is well. All will be well.

“I’m not releasing him,” Rick said. There was a stubborn flush high on his cheeks. “He’s going up to the ICU. Jensen--”

“Jason.”

“Jason,” Rick amended, “will be taken care of. This isn’t some underfunded charity clinic on the side of the road, Bruce. We have--”

“I don’t care.”

Rick blinked. “You--”

“I don’t care what you have. I don’t care if you have Bartolome Oliver himself upstairs. I’m transferring him to Sinai.” Bruce raised his eyebrows. “When I’m done there, I’m coming for your medical license, Rick. And if I can’t get my hands on that, I’ll pull your certifications.”

Rick swallowed, throat working. His eyes darted between Bruce and Jason’s bed. “He’s not stable enough to transfer.”

“He’s stable enough for a helicopter.” Bruce leaned down, picking up the half-broken chart from the floor. “Put the transfer in, Rick.”

“It’ll need to go through his insurance--”

“Rick.” Bruce’s hands tightened around the chart, going white at the knuckles. “I’ll pay for it out of pocket. Put the transfer in.”

The now hung over them, implied but unspoken. Rick glanced at Alfred, as if seeking reassurance, before he nodded.

“Fine. You wanna blow 50K to fly him twenty blocks because you didn’t trust me --- fine.”

Rick bustled out of the room, shoving the curtain out of his way. Bruce remained still for a moment, his spine stiff and his shoulders tight.

When he turned around, it was like seeing another person entirely. Bruce’s expression was calm. Focused. Not detached, but not sunk so far into emotion, he couldn’t tell up from down. This was Doctor Wayne, renowned ER Physician.

“Leslie will meet us at Sinai,” Bruce explained, setting the broken chart down on a nearby tray. Alfred quickly noted the name at the bottom -- Dr. Richard Landley -- and nodded.

“I can’t believe they left him like this,” Bruce said. His jaw tensed, the only physical sign of his emotional state. “It’s been more than an hour since they called us. An hour.”

Before Alfred could respond, Bruce yanked at the cuffs of his shirt, rolling them up to his elbows. A button popped off as he did so, pinging off a nearby shelf.

“There’s blood all over the floor,” Bruce commented as he headed over to the small sink in the corner. “They must have -- Jesus, his clothes are in here. Of course they are.”

Alfred peered around his shoulders. Jason’s jeans were in the sink, cut into bloodied ribbons. Bruce began to wash his hands, soaking the already-ruined denim.

There was nothing to say to that, so Alfred didn’t try. He kept hold of Jason’s hand as Bruce pulled a small basin from the cabinet above the sink, filling it with warm water.

“Stay,” Bruce ordered as he approached, dipping a rag into the water. He stepped around to the other side of Jason’s bed so Alfred didn’t have to get up. “I’m just going to wash the blood off. He doesn’t -- he doesn’t need to be seen like this.”

Darling boy, Alfred thought, bereft. It was a sentiment he hadn’t even considered. A father’s need to maintain his son’s dignity, even through the smallest of actions.

Bruce leaned down, sponging at the side of Jason’s face. He painstakingly pulled the half-dried blood from his skin, moving the rag with the same care he’d used on the delicate silver pieces earlier than evening. Blood, like tarnish, came up gently, in layers. Scrubbing wasn’t just useless; it was harmful.

“He loves those jeans,” Bruce said, ten minutes into his task. Alfred looked up from his and Jason’s intertwined hands. “The ones in the sink. They’re technically dry clean only. He runs them in the machine on a delicate cycle every week. Then he hangs them up on the old drying racks so they don’t wrinkle.”

Alfred knew this. He’d already resolved himself to gathering the scraps on the way out for evidence. The fact that replacing the jeans had clearly occurred to Bruce in the midst of so much chaos spoke to his character.

The basin was set on the tray. Bruce slipped the bloodied rag into the pink water, letting out a breath.

He was teetering on the edge. Alfred could see the signs. He needed purpose, a task to occupy his mind as Jason bled, slowly, into his own brain. As the monitors above the bed beeped and chimed, and the emergency room beyond their curtain welcomed a new wave of patients.

Alfred stood up, releasing Jason’s hand. He reached into his coat, pulling out his phone.

“I need to make a call. Would you…”

It took a moment for Bruce to realize what he meant. He shuffled into Alfred’s seat, reaching for Jason’s hand.

“It would do him good to hear you talk,” Alfred said. Instead of yelling, he didn’t say. “Quite a lot of good, I’d imagine.”

Bruce hunched forward. His eyes were red, tears swimming at the corners. Alfred squeezed his shoulder, withdrawing as gently as he could.

When he pulled the curtain shut behind him, Bruce began to speak. He had a lovely voice he employed, on occasion, for reading to the children. Jason’s favorite novel had been committed to his near-eidetic memory years ago.

“It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife…”

Alfred started a new list. Richard Landley was at the top of it. The nurse who’d tried to prevent them from entering the trauma bay was added, then removed. He’d discovered, stopping by the nursing station for directions to the vending machines, that she had been the one to call the Manor’s landline. Nurse Jackson had erred in leaving Jason caked in blood and dirt, but she had shown initiative in trying to reach a next-of-kin.

At Gotham Sinai, things moved quickly, as they did for men like Bruce Wayne. Jason was rushed into surgery. Two plainclothes GCPD detectives arrived at their private waiting room only minutes after the surgery began.

Three new names went onto Alfred’s mental list, already known to GCPD. They’d jumped Jason for his shoes, the detectives explained. He’d fought back in the surveillance footage they’d reviewed from a nearby bodega. That had made it worse, apparently.

Bruce sat back against the hard, plastic sofa. His hands were clenched in his lap. “And?”

“And?” the first detective -- a thin man with equally thin eyebrows -- repeated.

“He was beaten,” Bruce said. “And then what? Who found him? How did he end up at Gotham Memorial?”

The two detectives glanced at each other, hesitant. Alfred added a list within his list, mentally underlining the new title.

Witnesses.

An hour later, Alfred had the surveillance footage and initial investigation notes uploaded to a private server. He excused himself from the waiting room to watch it, locking himself in the floor’s only single stall toilet so he wasn’t disturbed.

Sixteen people in total had passed by Jason’s unconscious body before someone had called 911. The bodega owner had smoked a cigarette within ten feet of him, entirely aware, and entirely unrepentant. A delivery driver had stepped over Jason’s bare, bloody feet to deliver a package. Someone had even rifled through his jeans for spare change, wiping off the blood-soaked five dollar bill before it, too, was taken.

Jason, the detectives assured Bruce, had been picked up by EMTs after a concerned passerby had called 911. What they’d neglected to mention, Alfred learned, was that the “concerned” citizen had called GCPD first. GCPD had arrived, administered a useless dose of Narcan, and washed their hands of it by dropping Jason off at Gotham Memorial. Gotham Memorial’s Emergency Room had, in turn, admitted him as a vagrant, possibly drug-seeking.

Hot anger rose up in his throat. Alfred locked the phone, breathing through his nose until the emotion died down.

When he returned to the waiting room, Dick was at Bruce’s side, a small duffel bag at his feet. He gave Alfred a nod, unselfconscious of his own red-rimmed eyes. He had Bruce’s hand in a vise-like grip; their expressions were, for a moment, identical.

It took a moment for Alfred to remember to nod back.

Jason returned to the Manor six weeks later. He climbed the back stairs with Bruce’s help, stepped into the elevator Bruce had installed five and a half weeks prior, and was settled, with great care, into the medical suite that had replaced one of the empty bedrooms bordering the master suite.

Therapy began in earnest. Likely to make a full recovery was not a promise, but rather an uncertain challenge. Jason’s left hand was weak. He had difficulty speaking when tired. There was an ugly scar across his temple from a boot heel Alfred was certain would never completely fade. His hair had been shaved for surgery, and was only just beginning to grow back in.

In a moment of confusion, two nights in, Jason had gripped Bruce’s forearm, dug his nails in, and refused to let go. With tears flowing down his face, he had begged him, without words, not to leave.

For the first four weeks, Bruce slept at the foot of Jason’s bed, never more than a few inches away.

Alfred meditated on cold anger. He ran the Manor without a thought for his typical list. The deadlines in his mind were gradually delayed, one by one. That, in hindsight, had been a mistake. Without the rigidity of planning, cold anger was nearly impossible.

The GCPD detectives reported in every month, relaying updates to Bruce as the victim-witness in lieu of Jason. They had been unsuccessful in arresting the perpetrators. No one had seen them since the attack. They’re lying low, one detective had explained. They must have seen the news. They know who they jumped by now.

The three attackers -- barely men, by years attained, and certainly not in composure -- were lying low. If lying low in Gotham Harbor counted. It was a guilty sort of knowledge in Alfred’s head. Not because he’d killed them, but because of the hot anger he’d used to do it. Sloppy, bloodthirsty emotion that was unfamiliar in his chest but damnably ever-present.

He’d split their heads open with an axe while they’d been alive to see the swing coming. Bolted to the ground in a Narrows warehouse, where even if their screams were heard, they would receive no assistance. One by one, he’d proceeded down the line, stretching out the time between each swing of his axe.

No one would find them. And again, it was a paltry excuse for planning. A weak consolation he gave himself instead of order. Structure.

“We need to return to normal,” Bruce said to him, late one night over a cup of tea Alfred knew he wished was stronger. “As normal as we can be. The more we walk on eggshells around Jason, the more he starts to accept that this is the new normal.”

For a man who had done nothing but walk on eggshells around Jason, it was a surprisingly insightful assessment. Alfred raised an eyebrow.

“Normal,” he repeated.

“As normal as we can be,” Bruce hedged. “Tomorrow, I’m marching over to the Drakes and hauling Tim back with me.”

That made Alfred’s other eyebrow raise as well. “I thought Jason didn’t want to see him?”

“He misses him,” Bruce said, with the stubbornness of a father who knew best. “He doesn’t need to be embarrassed. Tim’s a good kid. He’s been texting me nonstop since Jason got back.”

That didn’t surprise Alfred very much. Despite being somewhat shy, Tim was -- in his best moments -- persistent. “You like him.”

“I do,” Bruce admitted. He lifted his teacup to his mouth, but didn’t drink. “I…I think it might be good for him to stay awhile. If I can convince Janet and Jack, of course.”

“If they’re home, you mean,” Alfred said. Bruce grimaced, taking a sip from his teacup.

“I’ll figure out a better way to phrase it. Something about convenience and not needing to worry about him or homeschooling while they’re away. Janet’ll go for it. She already tells him to come down here if he’s hungry and there isn’t food in the house. Can you believe that? One of the maids passed along a copy of their emergency contact sheet to Sara. My cell phone number is right at the top.”

“Good lord,” Alfred said. Bruce shook his head, dispelling the frustration before he could inevitably get worked up over Tim Drake again.

“And I’m going to start working clinic hours again,” Bruce continued. “Just a few shifts at first. Jason needs time on his own. Or with Tim. He can’t do that if I’m hovering all the time.”

Another surprisingly self-aware assessment. Alfred nodded.

“Also,” Bruce said, brow furrowing. “I need your opinion on a suit.”

“A suit?” Alfred asked, surprised.

“I’m speaking at Rick’s state medical board hearing tomorrow,” Bruce said, as if it were entirely unremarkable. “For some reason, they look down on sweatpants and t-shirts.”

Alfred glanced at Bruce’s current attire -- a t-shirt and pair of joggers -- and silently agreed with the state medical board’s assessment. A suit would do him good. It would be, in Bruce’s own words, a return to some new version of normal.

“I remember when you wore a suit every day for work.”

“Yeah. Well.” Bruce blew an unnecessary breath over his teacup. “Thanks to your exercise regimen, they might even still fit.”

Alfred wasn’t so certain. The months of Jason’s convalescence had included plenty of lifting and assisting. Bruce was bigger around the shoulders than he’d ever been. Slightly wider in the chest, too.

“We’ll have to see.”

The smile Bruce gave him -- soft, hesitant, hopeful -- warmed him more than Alfred’s next mouthful of tea ever could.

Six months after Jason’s attack, Alfred tipped the plastic-wrapped body of the bodega owner off the side of an anchored boat in the center of a darkened Gotham Harbor.

Cold anger had prevailed, if only barely by his standards. He’d waited for this exact moment, had measured out the days as if it had been any other timeline. He’d tried to detach himself, even as he’d forced the man, at gunpoint, into the van. It wasn’t personal.

But it was. Deeply personal. And that was why the body wrapped in plastic, gagged, and weighted down at the ankles was still alive. It was why the man had been conscious and aware the entire boat ride, squirming against Alfred’s ankles as he desperately tried to free himself.

The body sank, still squirming. Alfred watched the flicker of plastic sheeting in the darkened water, tracking it until it plunged out of sight. His first thought was not of satisfaction. It was not of future deaths or carefully-planned diversions. It was of Bruce.

I wish you could see this, Alfred thought. The urge was childish. Emotional. I wish you could see this and know. Know that I would never, ever let someone like this hurt you again. You or Jason. Any of the children. I wish you could --

know.

Alfred took a breath, unsettled by the train of thought. After a moment, he began to pull up the anchor, beginning the long process of returning to shore.

Chapter Text

- 00:35 to target

Alfred didn’t make a habit of sneaking back into Wayne Manor. The best alibi always had a kernel of truth to it. Preferably more than a kernel, if conditions permitted. A butler in his position had myriad excuses for a short trip or errand, or an extended day trip to supervise the procurement of some inane foodstuff.

What was much harder to explain, indeed, was that same butler’s return at a hair past 4:00 AM, slipping into the servant’s stairs just as the sun began its slow creep over the horizon. Freshly showered, in brand new clothing, with his watch -- harder to replace than clothing, though anything was possible, in theory -- bundled in several layers of plastic and hidden at the bottom of a new leather overnight bag.

When -- if -- pressed, Alfred’s last resort was the thin implication of a secret affair. Even if it worked, news of his torrid rendezvous would quickly circulate through the Manor, bringing about inevitable scrutiny on his daily trips.

Luckily, the brief window between 4:00 and 4:15 AM was the perfect sweet spot between the night and day shifts of Manor employees. The staff who stayed overnight for day shifts were still in bed, and the skeleton crew that worked at night had retired fifteen minutes prior.

Alfred took the stairs two at a time, muffling his steps on the thick center of the runner he’d installed for just this reason. He reached the third floor landing and turned right into the pitch black hallway, feeling along the wall for the molding around his door.

The door opened. The door shut, a near-silent click that Alfred covered with his palm for good measure. He turned the lock, sliding the bolt slowly along its greased path until it, too, clicked.

The bag went on the floor. Alfred pulled out the watch, wrapping the plastic around itself. He discarded the wrapping into the bag, intent on burning both later when the opportunity arose.

It wasn’t until he’d placed the watch into its sanitizing pod that Alfred realized his hands were trembling. Trembling wasn’t quite the right word. His hands were still pulsing with blood, responding to the endless supply of adrenaline his body seemed to be creating. They were waiting -- vibrating -- for more.

Alfred slid the pod shut, clicking start. He turned his hands over, examining the prominent veins. His fingers twitched as they grazed their neighbors, oversensitive despite -- or perhaps, because of -- the lack of stimulus.

This was a mistake.

He had never regretted a kill before. Not since a kill, decades ago, had gone so poorly, he’d tracked blood splatters through a forest for days before finding the exhausted body of his quarry lying against the trunk of a tree. Sloppy kills had the potential to undo an entire operation; they created evidence and the kind of attention that only brought more attention with it.

If you can’t do it well, an instructor once told him, don’t do it at all.

Alfred took a breath, closing his eyes. He held it for as long as he could, slowing down his heart rate and -- hopefully -- loosening the hold the adrenaline had on his body. His exhale lasted until the sanitizing pod beeped, indicating the end of its cycle.

The trembling in his hands had ceased, a small mercy among a night of mistakes. His hair was finally passably dry. The morning sun was a tepid warmth on his cheek, as if bestowing a passing caress upon him.

Not that I deserve it, my dear.

Alfred pulled the watch from the pod, holding it up to the light from the window. There was an ugly scratch across the left quadrant of the screen, bisecting the weather dial.

It was still functional, which was what mattered. Bruce’s keen eyes would pick out the scratch soon enough, but longer sleeves would obfuscate it for the time being. A replacement could be ordered and delivered within a day. Alfred had become adept at installing his own screens; there were very few repair technicians who were willing to swap in a tactical watch screen on an unbranded smart watch.

The watch went onto his wrist. Alfred clicked the latch, settling it against the inside of his wrist. The watch vibrated, recognizing his biometrics.

He swapped out the temporary clothing for a pair of trousers and a thin cotton shirt, a plausible set for nighttime wear. Without a conscious decision to do so, Alfred found himself climbing the stairs to the fifth floor, taking the time to hold the banister and put one slippered foot on each and every stair.

Bruce wasn’t in the master bedroom, which wasn’t a surprise. What was a surprise was the room he’d chosen to retire in for the evening.

Retire was a pleasant word. Alfred closed Steph’s door behind him, grimacing as he saw Bruce’s cramped body folded over the ottoman at the foot of Steph’s bed. His head was pillowed on his arms. He was, despite claims to the contrary, snoring softly into Steph’s comforter.

Alfred pressed his lips together, overcome with fondness. A flicker of movement caught his eye further up the bed. Steph waved, her teeth flashing in the low light.

“I think he thinks this is Jason’s room,” Steph explained, just above a whisper. “I didn’t want to wake him up because…well…”

Alfred understood. It was a sacred thing, to have Bruce’s protection at the foot of your bed. A soft, snoring warmth by your feet, more solid than bedrock itself.

“Your room has a similar arrangement,” Alfred said, amused. He couldn’t see Steph’s expression, but he was certain it included an eyeroll.

“Not on purpose,” Steph protested. “Jason got the idea from me. He used to have his bed facing the other way.”

“You could place the ottoman elsewhere,” Alfred pointed out, trying to be helpful.

“I like the ottoman there.”

“Well,” Alfred said, and left it at that. Steph’s teeth flashed in the near-darkness.

“Need help with him?”

“I’m fine,” Alfred said. He crept closer to Bruce, sliding a hand down his back. “Darling boy…”

It was delightful how, even at thirty-five, Bruce still burrowed back into the bedclothes, ignoring the attempt to wake him. Alfred smiled, rubbing slow circles into his back.

“Darling,” Alfred said, relishing the opportunity to use the words out loud. Bruce rarely remembered the content of their conversations upon waking. “Darling boy. I believe you’re in the wrong room.”

Bruce grunted. Alfred nodded, understanding.

“This can’t possibly be comfortable,” he said, pitching his voice to something low and soothing. “In any event…Jason’s room is across the hallway. And I believe he asked you to stop sneaking in last week, darling.”

“Jay,” Bruce mumbled. He was waking up now, hands stretching out across the bedspread. Steph snickered as one landed on her shin, sizing it without looking.

“Not Jay,” Steph added. Alfred shook Bruce’s shoulder.

“Darling.”

It took another thirty seconds for Bruce’s head to lift from the comforter, delightfully creased on one side. He squinted at Alfred, then turned to Steph, squinting some more. Hazy eyes eventually returned to Alfred, climbing up his shirt to his face.

“Alfred?” Bruce asked. He covered his mouth, warding off a jaw-breaking yawn with his palm. “You -- is it time for the run?”

“It’s time for bed,” Alfred corrected. “Your bed. In your bedroom.”

“It’s--” Bruce turned to the window, blinking rapidly. “Oh. It’s morning.”

“It is,” Alfred agreed, endlessly amused.

“Why are you up?” Bruce asked Steph, switching back into parenting mode without any effort at all. “You should be sleeping. It’s the weekend.”

Steph stared at her father for a moment before responding. Alfred could see that same fondness in her eyes, tinged with some exasperation.

“I…” Steph trailed off. “You’re right.”

“Go back to sleep,” Bruce urged. He pushed off of Steph’s bed, bending forward to lay a kiss on her forehead. “Night.”

“It’s morning,” Steph said. Then, as Bruce shuffled toward the door: “...Night.”

Alfred closed the door behind them, giving Steph an apologetic look. Steph waved him off, pulling her phone off the charging cable on the bedside table. She likely wouldn’t be sleeping after this, even if she tried.

“Time for -- running?” Bruce asked in the hallway. Alfred guided him in the direction of the master suite, one hand at his hip.

“I think we can take a morning off.”

“What?”

Alfred smiled. “Don’t sound so excited.”

“I’m not excited. I’m relieved. I don’t think I could…” Bruce yawned, covering his mouth with an elbow. “I don’t think I could run right now. Or walk in a straight line.”

That, Alfred agreed with. He again nudged Bruce’s hip in the right direction. “Bedroom.”

“Bedroom,” Bruce mumbled, agreeing.

If the deep breathing earlier had taken the edge off, herding a sleep-soft Bruce into bed purged the final traces of adrenaline from his body. Alfred could feel -- feel -- the way his nervous system began to calm, thoughts and instincts slowing down to a glacial pace in deference to Bruce’s sleepiness.

A good field agent molded himself to his charge. Mirrored them, whenever possible. Silent when they were silent. Moving when they moved.

Forty-six minutes before Alfred helped Bruce into bed, he’d bled a man hanging from the ceiling of a barn on the outskirts of Gotham. He’d watched, from the safety of a ten-foot distance, as blood had rained down onto the hastily-placed plastic sheeting. The heat in his blood -- the satisfaction -- agreed that this had undoubtedly been a better fate than a simple, carefully-arranged car accident for a delivery driver known to drive recklessly.

It was the waiting that had done him in this time. The measured, surveillance-based timeline kept him from being rash. It kept him smart. Detached, if only in degrees. It contextualized the kill within a web of priorities and vulnerabilities.

Tonight, waiting had made him rash instead of detached. His first kill in three months. His control had bowed under the weight of his impatience. It had, in one gloriously hot moment, snapped. Like a half-dried tree branch, snapping out at anyone in its vicinity.

“Alfred?”

Alfred pulled himself away from the memories, smoothing a hand down Bruce’s back. He’d arranged himself in his most comfortable position, a loose sprawl face-down in the center of the mattress.

“Yes?”

“Check on Jason?”

Bruce was on the precipice of sleep. And in those moments, he sounded no different from his younger self. That small boy who, in the absence of his parents, had asked Alfred -- in an equally small voice -- to stay. please?

“Of course,” Alfred promised.

If you can’t do it well, don’t do it at all.

Alfred abided by those words in all aspects of his duties. He had expected to retire from killing when his body failed and his kills became sloppy. He hadn’t expected to pull away because his resolve had failed, long before the strength fled his limbs and age wore on his joints.

The list in his mind was set, deliberately, to the side.

- 336:40:02 to target

Alfred held out the tray to Tim. The boy blinked, hesitating. After a moment of indecision, his hands rose up, grasping the silver handles of the serving tray.

“Left side,” Alfred instructed, settling the silver tongs against the steaming pancakes. “When you approach the person you’re serving, the tongs always rest with the handle facing them. Never serve from the right, even if they turn in that direction.”

“Right,” Tim said. “And then you clear from the right.”

“Correct,” Alfred said, pleased. “And why is that?”

Tim’s eyes narrowed. “It’s rude to reach over them?”

“Exactly.” Alfred gestured with his chin at the kitchen door. “Onward, my boy.”

“Right,” Tim repeated, hefting the tray up. He backed into the kitchen door, swinging it out with a bump from his hip. “Hey guys. Pancakes!”

From the burst of noise Alfred heard in the other room, the announcement had landed exactly as expected. He smiled, returning to the stove to plate the remaining pancakes in a warming dish for the buffet.

As expected, the etiquette lessons had gone over like a lead balloon with children used to elbowing their way to the salt in the servants’ kitchen. Alfred had sweetened the pot with literal sweetness -- pancakes, syrup, and other breakfast items that could be served in the formal manner as a real-life example.

It felt right to eat as a family in the formal dining room again. Bruce had taken his father’s seat at the head of the table without protest, facing off an empty seat on the other side where a wife would have been seated. The absence at the table went unnoticed by the five hungry children and teenagers present.

Tim was well into his serving lesson when Alfred stepped into the dining room, carrying two platters himself. He set them on the buffet, slipping trivets under both.

“Hey,” Bruce said to Cass, who had reached for a pancake on her plate. “We’re waiting until everyone is served, right?”

“No,” Cass said, grinning. She popped the bite of pancake in her mouth, swallowing quickly.

“But we know we’re supposed to wait for everyone, right?” Bruce pressed. Cass nodded. “Okay. Good. Just checking.”

“That’s a stupid rule,” Steph said.

“It is pretty stupid,” Bruce agreed, trading a glance with Alfred over her head. “But it’s always better to knowingly break the rule rather than not know it at all.”

“The pancakes are getting kinda cold,” Duke said.

“That’s because Tim is taking forever,” Steph teased. Tim’s shoulders went up as he rounded the table to Bruce.

“I’m sorry! This is literally my first time ever doing this.”

“You’re doing great,” Bruce said. He smiled at Tim, reaching for the tongs as the tray was presented to him. “Don’t rush. Steph’s just hungry.”

“Hangry,” Steph corrected. Tim snorted.

“Sneak a pancake like Cass, then.”

“I heard that,” Alfred added. Cass smiled at him, keeping her lips closed -- barely -- around a mouthful of pancake.

Tim stepped past Bruce to Jason, immediately to Bruce’s right. Alfred followed behind the boy, taking more time than necessary to set down a gravy boat of warmed syrup in the center of the table so he could observe.

“Pop quiz,” Alfred said to the table, using the Americanism just to see the children groan. “Platters are served from the left. Dishes are cleared from the right. From which direction are fully-plated dishes served from?”

Jason reached for the tongs with his left hand. His fingers trembled ever so slightly. Bruce was watching him closely, a thin line appearing between his brows.

It was the first time in months that Jason had attempted to use his left hand in front of his siblings. Countless hours of physical therapy had preceded the casual moment. If Alfred had been the one serving, he would have shifted the platter to Jason’s right side, if only to give the boy a fighting chance. Tim remained, instead, on his left, clearly noting the awkward serving style but making no move to intervene.

Jason wasn’t left-handed. Grasping a pancake with slippery silver tongs with a far-weaker hand and plating it, from an awkward angle, on his own plate, was a personal test. A mountain he had clearly chosen to summit at this exact moment, as Bruce held his breath and Tim gripped the tray with hands that had gone white at the knuckles.

“That feels like a trick question,” Steph said.

The tongs closed around the pancake. Jason lifted it up, haltingly, above the lip of his plate. He opened his hand, releasing the tension of the tongs. The pancake fell onto his plate, perfectly centered.

Alfred could feel Bruce’s unfolding pride, even if he said nothing. Jason set the tongs back on the tray, smiling from ear to ear. Tim moved on to Duke, holding out the tray.

The goal of making things feel normal for Jason again was not remarking upon simple achievements. If Jason made a mountain out of plating a pancake, Bruce’s job was to believe that he had always been capable of summiting it.

“Right side.”

Alfred raised his eyebrow, amused by how confident Jason sounded. “And why is that?”

“It’s easier to pick up dishes that way. Most people are right-handed,” Jason said. “Except Tim. He’s weird.”

“Hey,” Tim said, sounding offended. “It’s not like I chose to be left-handed.”

“Really?” Steph asked, with mock-interest. Tim rolled his eyes.

“It’s also rude to reach over people,” Tim added, glancing at Alfred, who nodded.

“And silverware handles face the right side of the plate at the end of a course,” Bruce added, rounding out Alfred’s list.

Cass placed her fork on her plate, raising her eyebrows at Bruce. Bruce leaned over, then nodded.

“Yes. Just like that.”

Alfred’s watch buzzed against the inside of his wrist. He stole a glance at the screen, recognizing the auto-cropped face from the surveillance camera at the gate.

Janet Drake, he thought, intrigued. What on earth are you doing here?

“I love you guys,” Duke said, “But can we please start eating? We can talk about this later.”

“After,” Steph said.

“During,” Bruce corrected with a grin. He raised his water glass to Alfred, who had just pulled out his chair near the end of the table. “To Alfred and Tim.”

The children lifted their own water glasses, chorusing a thank-you. Tim sat down across from Jason, cheeks pink.

“Thanks, guys.”

Alfred plated himself a pancake from the tray Tim had set down. As he did so, Tim started, as if he’d realized his mistake.

Stay, Alfred mouthed, shaking his head. Tim stared at him for a moment, then returned to his own plate, eyes dropping to the table.

Jason cut into his pancakes with great care, slowly bringing up pieces to his mouth. Bruce was watching him while pretending to eat his own breakfast, struggling to hide a smile.

Alfred’s watch buzzed, the sensor by the front door indicating movement. The doorbell chimed a moment later, echoing through the first floor.

“I’ve got it,” Bruce said, throwing his napkin onto his seat as he got up. He waved Alfred off. “Sit down. You’ve been on your feet all morning. The least I can do is answer my own door.”

A part of Alfred never wanted Bruce to answer his own door again. But it was a silly, selfish kind of urge. Janet Drake was a small woman wearing far too thin of a dress to conceal weapons with. She was a neighbor; in theory, a threat. In actuality, an inconvenient variable at play.

When Bruce was out of sight, Alfred abandoned his own meal, pushing back his chair. He gave Jason a pointed look, knowing the teen would understand.

“So,” Jason started as Alfred slipped out of the room, broaching a new avenue of conversation. “Anyone else here left-handed?”

Alfred crept through the butler’s pantry into the hallway to the parlor. Bruce had taken Janet to the library instead, bypassing the parlor entirely.

That was rarely a good sign.

“--that bad,” Bruce’s voice sounded through the library door. Janet’s sobs were muffled, as if she had a hand over her mouth. “Just because the trip went poorly doesn’t mean everything is ruined. Please, don’t cry--”

“I just. I just--” Janet’s voice cracked. “I just n-need you to hold onto Tim for a few more days. Until we f-figure this out. He d-doesn’t need to s-see this.”

“Of course,” Bruce said instantly. “Of course, Janet. Anything you need.”

Alfred slowly backed away from the library. Bruce’s kindness took him by surprise more often than it should have. He had endless room in his heart for lost causes; even the kind, like Janet Drake, who infuriated him on a weekly basis.

Darling boy.

Bruce helped Tim move a few additional things over to the Manor the next morning. Janet and Jack had already departed for a new adventure, according to the staff left behind. They had been more than happy to assist with Tim’s things. Relieved, Alfred assumed, to no longer be perfunctorily responsible for a child in the absence of his parents.

Tim went from spending the night multiple times a week in a spare bedroom across the hallway from Jason’s room to, formally, occupying the room. Alfred knew he hadn’t spent a night in the Drake house in months, but the charade had still been maintained.

Dick, home from college for the weekend, summed up the change best.

“You’re a real Wayne now?” he’d asked with a hopeful smile. Tim’s eyes widened, then immediately snapped to Bruce, who was seated with the New York Times crossword at the kitchen counter.

“He’s staying,” Bruce said firmly. It was as close to a claim as Alfred knew he’d allow himself in front of Tim. He heard it for what it was, even if Tim didn’t.

I’m not letting him go.

“Okay,” Dick said, agreeing. He reached out, mussing up Tim’s hair a little. When Tim went to fix it, he did it again. “Welcome to the family, kiddo.”

“I’ve been here,” Tim said, “like, the entire time.”

“I know.”

Timothy Drake was signed up for an exclusive European-based homeschooling program with an ironclad tuition agreement and a cancellation fee the size of a mortgage. Bruce had agreed, after days of fighting with various Swiss administrators on the phone, to let him finish out the semester online before transferring him to Gotham High with the other children.

It was becoming increasingly obvious that Janet and Jack Drake were having issues with cashflow. Alfred refused to let Bruce cover the cancellation fee for them; there was nothing to gain from sinking hundreds of thousands into a homeschooling program that would be over in a few months. Especially, as Alfred privately feared, when there was little hope of the Drakes using the money for that purpose.

If Alfred had learned anything from decades of service in Wayne Manor, it was that money problems did not simply appear in an estate of this size. They came from a problematic outlook. An attitude toward money that went far deeper than one unlucky business development.

During the school day, Tim spent most of his study time trailing after Alfred, bored out of his mind and clearly seeking some sort of mental stimulation. Bruce’s shifts at the clinic and meetings with Lucius kept him out of the house more often than not.

Tim, Alfred learned very quickly, was a font of information. He knew what the maids gossiped about. He’d memorized Bruce’s clinic shifts, for lack of anything better to do. He relayed the “deets” on the school board’s recent embezzlement allegations to Alfred in the afternoons, poking holes into the evidence as Alfred dusted shelves and polished marble inlays.

Tim’s presence made Jason happy. Jason’s continued resilience made Bruce happier than Alfred had ever seen him. And, indeed, Bruce’s happiness warmed something inside of Alfred that only hot anger had ever truly touched. It reached into him and smoothed away the wrinkles in his control. Tim, in his own roundabout, convoluted way, soothed him.

Alfred’s mental planning resumed in a new direction. Adopting Tim was still out of the question, as was killing the Drakes. But in Gotham, Tim was legally old enough to petition for emancipation. And an emancipated teen could choose a family, even if there were no legal ties between them.

It was an interesting thought to mull over. One made even more complicated by Tim’s answer when Alfred had explored the very edges of it with the boy.

“Bruce is…well. It’s stupid.”

Alfred paused in his polishing. “What’s stupid?”

“Bruce is this perfect dad,” Tim muttered, leaning down to squint at his own fork. There was still tarnish between the tines. “And it’s stupid because. My dad doesn’t even like me.”

Alfred raised an eyebrow. “I’m sure that’s not true.”

“It’s true enough. My dad remembers I exist every three to six business days,” Tim said. He began scrubbing at the fork, brows drawn together. “He doesn’t like me. I’m just -- an accessory to him. He and Mom drag me out to parties every now and then, just to prove they have a kid. That they didn’t fail in doing that, at least.”

“You are far more than an accessory,” Alfred said, resuming his polishing. He saw Tim’s shoulders tremble out of the corner of his eye, but said nothing.

“I’m glad you think so.”

They polished together in silence. Tim eventually worked up the nerve to speak again, clearing his throat.

“Bruce is really cool.”

“He is,” Alfred agreed. Tim nodded.

“He…sees me. If that makes any sense. Like when he looks at me, he isn’t just thinking about something else. He’s actually focused on me.” Tim lifted one shoulder, attempting to undercut the vulnerability of his own words. “I dunno. I know it’s stupid.”

“It’s not stupid,” Alfred said.

“And I’m -- scared of that changing some day, you know?” Tim’s eyes went to Alfred’s face, mustering a startling intensity. “Like, some day he’s going to look at me and it’s going to be like I’m just some other kid on the street. One day, when he says my name, it won’t be…”

Alfred understood. He reached out, grasping Tim’s wrist.

“That won’t ever happen.”

Tim’s throat worked. “Right.”

There was a true devotion in the boy’s eyes. One that Alfred recognized with a sinking feeling in his stomach.

“Tell me what else you’ve learned about the Manor,” Alfred suggested, allowing the change in subject. He squeezed Tim’s wrist before pulling back, more for his own benefit than anything else.

Darling boy, Alfred thought, these children would do anything for you. And you would never ask it of them, would you?

“I saw some of the maids passing around a flask,” Tim said, sitting up straighter in his chair. He set aside the fork, grabbing another one. “I know Bruce can be, like, around alcohol, but it seemed kind of risky. I asked them to dump it out. Then I found out where they kept a couple bottles stashed and dumped those out back too, just to be safe.”

“Risky?” Alfred queried, privately impressed.

“Yeah, well,” Tim started, matter-of-fact, “It’s his house. He shouldn’t have to be around that if he doesn’t want to be.”

“I…see.”

“You’re mad,” Tim said, eyes flicking between his fork and Alfred’s face. Alfred shook his head.

“Not at all.” Then, after a brief pause: “Do you perhaps remember the names of the maids?”

As Jason improved, Alfred accepted that his momentary lapse of control had been just that -- a lapse. A temporary failure. The list of targets stemming from his attack had been different for a reason that had, embarrassingly, taken Alfred the better part of a year to pull to the surface.

Every kill prior had been done in the interest of eliminating a potential future threat. Once bitten, twice shy, Alfred had never given a single person a second chance to harm Bruce. And through Bruce, his family. If there had been a sense of righteousness in his kills, it had always come secondary to that.

Jason’s attackers, and his cowardly bystanders, posed no real future threat to the family. They were random individuals, a statistic. Most of them likely hadn’t recognized, and never would, a Wayne heir.

Alfred’s control had fractured, had wobbled, precariously, because they’d nearly succeeded in what so many others had failed to achieve. They had swiped, unknowingly, at the core of Bruce’s stability. His happiness. His children.

If Jason had died, Alfred was certain Bruce’s heart -- the goodness at the center of his very being -- would have been forever changed. He would have salvaged the remnants for the sake of the other children, but it would never be the same. He would never be the same.

“Have you ever considered hiring security?”

Bruce swallowed a mouthful of too-hot coffee, making a face. “What?”

“For the children,” Alfred clarified. His own mug was pressed between two chilled palms, absorbing its warmth. Despite the length of their run, he was still cold by the very end.

“I haven’t,” Bruce said, after a pause. He smiled boyishly at Alfred over his mug. “That’s what you and I are for, isn’t it?”

Darling boy, Alfred thought, despairing, and left it at that.

Alfred had lost focus somewhere along the way.

He had killed in the context of, for the sake of, Bruce, and Bruce alone. Killing the reporter had not been to spare Cassandra additional pain, but to spare Bruce the pain of seeing her in pain. He had arranged Joe Chill’s death for no reason other than to spare Bruce the fear of testifying against him a second time, not to spare the public the danger of his newfound freedom.

He had killed selfishly, with a detachment that still, ultimately, wound its way back to Bruce. And in doing so, he had avoided killing for the sake of the children, even though the children and Bruce were two entities so thoroughly entwined, the distinction had been meaningless.

In a way, it was the final permission Alfred needed. To allow himself to mold to Bruce in this most intrinsic way, viewing the children as irreplaceable, as divine, because it was the way Bruce saw them. To see the children as truly his own, instead of as competing interests that, on a given day, closely aligned with the goal of Bruce’s happiness.

It was, perhaps, a process that had already been well underway. A part of Alfred had undoubtedly killed the delivery driver, the bodega owner, and Jason’s three attackers as a punishment for the grief they had unknowingly brought upon Bruce.

A part of him had reveled in the deaths on Jason’s behalf. For the crime of touching their child. An eighteen year-old left behind by his classmates, spending the upcoming year at Wayne Manor instead of university. Alfred had allowed himself that hot, burning anger, because a part of him -- separate from Bruce entirely -- recognized the injustice in Jason’s first wobbling, uncertain steps back into Wayne Manor.

Killing for Bruce had become, in an instant, an imperative. From the very moment Martha Wayne had shared her fears, the threats she had received on his behalf, he had understood.

Killing for the children was something else entirely. Killing for family, because they were family, was both simple and easy.

That, Alfred observed, was what made it so dangerous.

“I’m not turning it back,” Bruce said, batting away Steph’s hand from the radio dial. “They’re playing commercials and you’re not wearing your seatbelt.”

Alfred bit down on a chuckle as Steph leaned back into her seat, sending Bruce a dirty look through the rearview he pretended not to see. Next to her, Cass was smiling, already belted in and clearly proud of this.

“Nobody wants to listen to your dad rock,” Duke called out from the far backseat, which he was splitting with Jason. “Put something on from this century!”

“Dude,” Jason said.

“This is from 2005,” Tim said. “Which is technically from this century, even if it was twenty years ago--”

“Can’t hear you,” Bruce said loudly, twisting the volume knob abruptly to the right. He raised his voice to be heard over the music. “2005 was ten years ago. Right, Alfred?”

Alfred gave him a dry look. Bruce’s pleading expression morphed into a brief, charming smile. He turned the volume back down, letting out a huff that was clearly for the children’s benefit.

“Everyone clicked in?”

Alfred wondered, distantly, if Dr. Wayne’s patients knew that he spent every other afternoon transporting an entire minivan’s worth of children home from school. That he’d actually begged Alfred for the chance to drive instead of sitting in the passenger seat up front like rich men typically did when they were forced to share space with their own children and staff.

“Uh,” Tim said. When Alfred turned around, the boy was staring directly ahead through the windshield, at something --

“Jesus,” Bruce said under his breath, recognizing what Alfred had at the same time. “Keep the kids in the car, I’ll go talk to him.”

Jack Drake stalked toward the car, hands balled into fists at his sides. Alfred scanned him from head to toe, searching for the bulge of a gun or the outline of a knife’s handle. He didn’t see any, but that didn’t mean Jack was unarmed. An absence of weapons also didn’t mean the man was unlikely to use his fists, if he felt the situation called for it.

Alfred reminded himself, quickly, of two things: one, the size difference between Jack and Bruce, which was considerable, and two, the fact that they were in public, parked just outside of the school pick-up line. If it came to blows, Jack would be the start and end of it. Bruce was too smart to be caught brawling on camera outside of his children’s school.

Jack stepped up to Bruce, talking loudly -- and quickly -- about something Alfred couldn’t quite make out. Jack gestured at the car, pointing -- quite clearly -- at Tim through the window.

Bruce held up his hands, trying to soothe him. This only seemed to make Jack angrier; his face, which had been flushed before the argument had even started, turned an ugly shade of puce.

“Goodness,” Alfred said, reaching for the knob on the radio. He twisted it to the right, turning up the volume. “Stay in the car, would you?”

He exited the vehicle quickly, shutting the door behind him before the sound of the argument could reach the children. A casual skim of his lower back confirmed the handle of his HK P30L was still in his waistband, concealed under the curve of his jacket.

“--think you can fuck my wife and steal my kid? You wanna take over my family, that’s it?”

Alfred approached slowly, keeping his eyes down. Not a threat, he tried to project.

“I’m not sleeping with Janet,” Bruce said, hands still raised in front of him. “Jack. You’re not thinking straight. It’s--”

“I know you bought those other kids,” Jack sneered, shaking his head. “But you don’t get to buy mine. Just because you’re Bruce Wayne doesn’t mean you get to treat me like this. You don’t get to take him!”

“Janet asked me to,” Bruce said, exasperated. “You weren’t there. You’re never there. Did you want me to send Tim to an empty house every night?”

“He’s MY SON!” Jack exploded. “He’s MY SON, damn it! Not yours! You think porking my wife means you get to say what he does? Not while I’m still breathing. You--”

“Stop,” Alfred said, stepping forward when Jack began to lean, tellingly, into what would likely become a telegraphed hit.

“You’re in on this too,” Jack growled at him, briefly taking his eyes off Bruce. “You’re gonna have your butler do your dirty work here, too? You’re too privileged to hit a man yourself, Wayne?”

“Does it look like either of us want to hit you?” Bruce asked. It was a reasonable question, made even more reasonable by the low, soothing tone his voice had taken on. Deescalation, something Dr. Wayne had to excel at after a rotation through Gotham’s medical system. “Jack. I can tell you’re angry. But I can assure you--”

Jack leaned forward. Bruce, in the split second before the hit landed, stepped backward, gave Alfred a pleading look -- don’t interfere -- and let Jack’s fist strike him in the cheek.

Don’t interfere. Let it happen, in other words. Let him hurt me, because this has to happen and I’d rather it happen this way.

Bruce’s head snapped to the side. He raised his hand to his reddened cheek, feeling along the bone. Anger sparked to life in Alfred’s chest, fanned by the realization that this hadn’t, in any conceivable world, needed to happen.

“There,” Bruce said, still holding his cheek. “Do you feel more like a man now, Jack?”

“Fuck. You,” Jack spat. “I hear about you talking to my wife again, it’s over.”

“Okay,” Bruce said.

Jack huffed, abandoning the argument with a shrug of his shoulders. Alfred watched him depart, meditating, distantly, on the idea of stringing him up by those very same shoulders and hitting him.

“Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” Bruce said, dropping his hand. He moved his jaw from left to right, testing the extent of the injury. “It’ll bruise, but that’s it.”

Alfred inhaled slowly, pushing down what -- oddly enough -- felt a bit like a scream. “I fear that wasn’t wise.”

“You’re probably right,” Bruce said. He glanced over his shoulder at the minivan. “This is going to be a fun dinner table conversation.”

Alfred followed his gaze to Tim through the window, who was watching them both with impossibly-wide eyes.

“You’ll manage.”

Bruce leaned into Alfred’s casual clap on his shoulder, extending it. His cheek pressed to Alfred’s hand, just for a moment.

“He’s having an affair,” Tim told him later that night. He’d found Alfred in the kitchen far past a reasonable bedtime and had invited himself to share the cooling pot of tea Alfred had made an hour prior. “That’s why he’s so angry at Mom. He does this thing where he gets paranoid about people doing the same thing as him. It’s -- deflection. Really bad deflection.”

“How do you know he’s having an affair?” Alfred asked, genuinely curious. Tim rolled his eyes.

“Everyone in the house knows about it. Mom probably knows about it, honestly. He’s not good at hiding things. It’s some woman in his office downtown,” Tim shrugged. “He sees her every few months. Don’t know why, she’s kinda ugly. Mom’s way prettier.”

Alfred privately marveled how much simpler things were when two people, married to each other, genuinely loved each other. Thomas and Martha had never stooped to such a level. It likely hadn’t even occurred to them as a possibility.

“Mom’s not having an affair by the way,” Tim said. “She says it’s not worth the trouble. Whatever that means.”

Alfred agreed with Janet, for once. “Do you know why your father was so upset today?”

“You don’t need to talk to me like you’re a therapist,” Tim said, swirling the remnants of his Irish Breakfast around in the bottom of his tea cup. “They’ve been like this my whole life. I can talk about it.”

Alfred thought about that, nodded, then rephrased: “Why did your father hit Bruce?”

“Best guess?” Tim raised his eyebrows. “Money problems. He only ever takes an interest in family stuff when things are going poorly at work.”

“Are they?” Alfred asked, sensing Tim was holding something back.

“Yeah. I think so.” Tim finally looked up, meeting Alfred’s eyes. “Do you think Bruce is going to send me back?”

“Why on Earth would you ask that?” Alfred asked, astonished.

“Just tell me. Yes or no.” Tim’s lips pressed together in a furious pout. His hand tightened around the handle of the tea cup. “I need to start planning either way.”

“Good lord,” Alfred said, with genuine disbelief. He stood up, pulling the tea cup from Tim’s fingers before they could crush the delicate handle. “Do you want to know the truth?”

Tim stared at him, wide-eyed, before nodding.

“The only reason Bruce hadn’t adopted you,” Alfred gestured in the direction of the Drakes’ residence. “Is because, unlike the other residents in this house, you still have parents. Unfortunate parents they might be, but parents, nonetheless.”

Tim swallowed. He seemed floored by the revelation, as if the possibility of Bruce genuinely wanting him hadn’t even occurred to his bright mind.

Something gave way in Alfred’s chest, like it had for Jason, months before. He set the tea cups down, reaching out to grasp the boy’s shoulder.

“Go to sleep,” Alfred said, in a far gentler voice. “Dwelling on it will do neither of us any good.”

“You’re dwelling on it?” Tim asked in a shaky voice. Alfred closed his eyes, silently admitting the slip.

“Not anymore, my boy.”

“There,” Dick said, tightening his grip on Jason’s ankles. “Ten more seconds, Jay. You’re killing it. You’re--”

“This fucking sucks,” Jason groaned, as his arms began to tremble. “Put me down. I’m gonna fall.”

“No way. Five more seconds,” Dick said, keeping Jason’s legs up in the assisted handstand. “Four, three, two…two and a half…one and a half…”

“Dick,” Jason groaned. He flailed his legs, trying to kick his brother.

“...One. You’re done!”

Dick helped Jason kick his legs over, dropping him to the soft cushion of the grass. Alfred began a round of applause, joined by Tim and, a moment later, the sound of Bruce’s booming claps.

“Really good job,” Bruce said, grinning from ear to ear. “I don’t think I could do a handstand for five seconds. Ten would be pushing it.”

“Sure,” Jason said from the ground, with a healthy amount of disbelief.

“Yeah, B, you’re fucking ripped,” Dick said, eyeing Bruce’s shirtless torso. He, like Alfred, had noticed the added bulk. “When did you start taking gear?”

“Very funny,” Bruce said, wiping his hands self-consciously on his joggers. “You know, steroids are horrible for your heart.”

“Noted,” Dick said.

“And if you wanted to--” Bruce cocked his head to the side, eyes narrowing. “I think that was the doorbell.”

“Really?” Tim asked.

“Yeah.” Bruce turned to Alfred, who was in the process of rolling up his sleeve to check his watch. “One sec, I’ll go check.”

“Wait,” Alfred said, but Bruce had already started jogging toward the back door, barefoot and shirtless. When he rotated his wrist, the watch face flickered, making a vain attempt to respond to the prompt. “Wait.”

The trip back to the house was a heart-pounding blur. Alfred pushed through the kitchen door, into the dining room, out the butler’s pantry, into the hallway, and toward the front door. He could hear the boys following behind him, worried footsteps adding to the rush of blood in his ears.

He rounded the corner to the foyer just as Bruce was turned around by a uniformed GCPD officer, his arms held out obligingly behind him. The GCPD officer pulled a pair of cuffs from his belt, clicking them open.

“Bruce Wayne,” the female GCPD officer announced as her partner pressed Bruce against the foyer wall. “You’re under arrest for the murders of Janet and Jack Drake.”

Chapter Text

“Bruce Wayne. You’re under arrest for the murders of Janet and Jack Drake.”

The moment slowed down. Alfred, in turn, slowed with it. His next exhale was extended, fighting the sudden spark of adrenaline racing through his chest. The space between his heart beats lengthened; for a moment, it felt like his heart had stopped altogether.

The ability to condense months of careful planning, contingencies, and alternatives into one moment was, in his possession, rarely used. A muscle he hadn’t had the chance to stretch in years, but never entirely gone from his awareness.

Alfred, in the space between slow, measured breaths, allowed the moment to collapse inwards.

Gun, he thought, sweeping his gaze up the first officer’s leg and hip. Cuffs. Taser. A penknife in the right pocket. Tall, little muscle definition. Vest gaping at the sides and neck. Guarding the lower back, indicating prior injury.

The female GCPD officer turned away from Bruce. She raised her eyebrows, acknowledging Alfred’s presence and delivering a silent warning.

Small for the force, Alfred thought to himself, assessing. Gun, taser. Radio. Loose hair. Well-sized vest.

He’d shoot her first, in the head to avoid a ricochet off the edge of her vest or a bleeding neck wound that didn’t kill immediately. Gotham police officers were gritty. They fought for their lives, even when those lives were well on the way to expiring.

The partner would go for his own gun when he heard the shot, dropping his hold from Bruce’s wrists. Another headshot, close range. Close enough that there was no chance of the bullet skewing to either side -- to Bruce’s side. The officer might manage to fire before the bullet made its way to the brain stem, but if he did, it would be a wild shot --

Behind me, Alfred thought, closing his eyes. He could hear Jason’s panicked inhale. Dick, next to him, muttering a low hey, hey and, presumably, herding his brothers back from the foyer.

“Alfred.”

Alfred opened his eyes, unable to deny the sound of Bruce’s voice. It anchored him to the moment, pulling him away from the collapsing star of a rapidly-unfolding plan.

“Can I have a shirt, please?” Bruce asked. The officer was patting him down, swiping flat palms over his joggers.

The female officer hesitated, just long enough for Alfred to know the root of sympathy had taken hold.

“Please,” Alfred urged. He felt the need to appeal to her, even if the exact mechanism of her death was still fresh in his mind. Have some decency, for God’s sake.

Bruce said nothing, allowing Alfred to plead his case in his stead. The muscles in his arms and shoulders flexed, protesting the awkward positioning of the cuffs. One side of his joggers had been dislodged by the pat-down, hanging off the edge of his hip.

“Jess,” the male officer said. It was a warning.

“If you get it in under thirty seconds,” the female officer said to Alfred. Her eyes darted to the side, skimming Bruce’s bare back. “And we search it before you hand it over.”

“I’ll get it,” Dick said. Alfred turned around in time to see him dashing for the front stairs, taking them two at a time with long, powerful strides.

“Clear,” the male officer said, finishing his pat-down. He rose to his feet with a wince, one hand going to his lower back.

Bruce was turned around by the cuffs. When he was face-to-face with Alfred again, he was smiling. Faintly, with a hint of worry in his eyes, but smiling nonetheless.

For the children, Alfred realized. He glanced behind him, surveying their audience. Jason was wide-eyed, with fists clenched at his sides. There was a flush in his cheeks. Tim, in contrast, had gone quite pale.

Tim. Alfred felt a weak ache in his chest as he looked at the boy. He had just become an orphan, the knowledge of which had been delivered, in true GCPD fashion, with little to no sympathy or understanding.

“Here,” Dick called out, sprinting down the stairs. He had a collared shirt from Bruce’s closet hanging from one hand. “I grabbed the first one I saw, I--”

Alfred yanked the shirt off the hanger, undoing the buttons at the collar and cuffs as quickly as possible.

“Let him out for a sec,” the female officer said to her partner. She gestured for the shirt, which Alfred handed over quickly. “You couldn’t have grabbed him a t-shirt?”

“He’s being arrested,” Dick pointed out before Alfred could. “And all of his t-shirts are band shirts.”

“I like my band t-shirts,” Bruce said. He held perfectly still as the male officer unlocked his cuffs, spine straight and shoulders relaxed.

“Hush,” Alfred said. The less Bruce said, the better. They both knew that, but the banter wasn’t for Bruce’s sake. Something they also knew.

“Clear,” the female officer said. She handed the shirt to Bruce, who nodded his thanks.

“You got a lot of scars,” the male officer said. Bruce ignored the leading question. He shrugged on the shirt and began to do up the buttons, fingers moving with a surgeon’s precision.

Alfred suddenly felt the urge to assist him, like a manservant had once done for their charges. To slip buttons through fine silk and imbue, with every movement upward, a layer of protection.

Bruce finished at the collar, steady hands leaving the final button undone. He gave Alfred a tight smile at the end, as if to say well?

For a single heartbeat, the moment threatened to stretch out again. Alfred’s fingers curled, imagining the grip of his HK P30L. He thought about how easy it would be.

“Cuff him,” the female officer ordered. Her partner complied, cuffing over -- not under -- the open cuffs of the shirt.

“Where will you be taking him?” Alfred asked. His voice was as steady as Bruce’s hands. It had to be.

“Central,” the female officer replied. “Rick, let’s go.”

Alfred stepped around them. He held the door open as Bruce was marched out. His fingers dug into the door, leaving behind small crescents in the wood.

It would be so easy. With their backs turned -- with the dashboard cameras visibly disconnected in both squad cars. Neither of them would expect a shot from behind. Alfred wouldn’t miss.

“Alfred?”

It took him a moment to recognize Jason’s voice. He blinked, pulling back from the hypothetical before he was lost in it.

Bruce was seated in the backseat of one of the squad cars. Despite the distance between them, their eyes locked again. Alfred felt the silent request in his chest, like it had grown and taken hold in there all on its own.

Alfred made tea. The tea was followed by a pot of double-strength coffee. The children’s conversation -- frantic questions, confused cross-chatter -- flowed past him like the gentle current of a stream.

As he worked, he considered the knowns. The known unknowns. Known: He hadn’t killed the Drakes. Known: Someone had killed the Drakes. Known: The GCPD believed Bruce had killed them. Known: There was no world where Bruce killed them. It wasn’t unthinkable, it was impossible.

Unknown: Who had, ultimately, killed the Drakes. Unknown: Why. Unknown: Why GCPD believed Bruce was connected.

A part of him had always expected this moment. A sloppy death leading investigators back to Wayne Manor. A pair of handcuffs around his own wrists. Bruce’s horrified expression as he was marched out, the moment unfolding around them. He wouldn’t have fought it, had it happened. Fighting suggested that he couldn’t accept what he had done.

He’d practiced his denials. He’d rehearsed the very moment of breaking away from Bruce, of professing the truth -- that Bruce Wayne had no knowledge or participation in his activities. That he was as much of a victim as anyone else. That the only hands with blood on them were his.

This, he hadn’t accounted for.

At the kitchen island, Dick rubbed Tim’s back. Jason stared at the far wall, having fallen silent moments before. Tim was bent forward, eyes closed. He wasn’t crying. In the last half hour, he’d barely spoken.

Something itched at the back of his mind. Alfred pushed it to the side, unable to shoulder additional lines of thought. He set his untouched cup of tea on the island.

“I have some calls to make,” Alfred said, as gently as he could. Dick looked up from Tim. He nodded.

“Okay.”

“I need someone.”

On the other end of the call, Lucius was silent. Alfred’s hand tightened around the phone. It wasn’t satisfying, largely, Alfred suspected, because it wasn’t the texture grip of a gun.

“What happened?”

Alfred relayed the news quickly. Lucius was silent again for a moment, assessing the same risks and paths forward Alfred had already taken into account. Knowns and unknowns. The kinds that CEOs had to hold at the same time.

“Did he do it?”

“Would I be calling you if he did?” Alfred asked.

“You would.”

It was true. Alfred took a breath, repositioning the phone against his ear.

“Are you interested in controlling this situation, or would you prefer it play out in the newspapers for the next eighteen months?”

Lucius was too polite to sigh on a phone call, but only just. “What do you need?”

“Who,” Alfred corrected. “I need a shark. One who bites back. A grudge for the GCPD, if possible.”

“Done,” Lucius said, as if it were that simple. For men like him, it was. “I assume you’re on your way downtown?”

“I can be.”

“She’ll meet you there,” Lucius said. Alfred inclined his head, even though Lucius couldn’t see it.

“Thank you.”

“Alfred?”

There it was. That same thread of understanding, passing between them as two arbiters of overlapping spheres. Lucius’ voice hardly changed, but Alfred could pick out the shift in tone.

“I’ll handle it,” Alfred promised. “Whatever it takes.”

The call ended. Within seconds, Alfred had already dialed the next number.

A heavyset GCPD officer sat down on the park bench next to him. He slid a duffel bag under the bench, staring straight ahead. He smelled like cigarettes and cheap coffee.

Alfred continued to read his newspaper. The medical mask over his mouth and nose concealed the majority of his features, but there was a difference between confidence and tempting fate. Today, of all days, was not one to tempt fate.

“Report’s in there,” the officer said, gruff. “Preliminary details. Nothing’s public yet. Short of it is, it ain’t look good.”

Alfred turned a page, examining the sports section. When he spoke, it was with a purposefully neutral accent.

“Elaborate.”

The officer’s lips pressed together. “They got a witness. Some maid. Says she heard a commotion and then saw someone running back toward--”

“I understand,” Alfred said, cutting him off before he could say the words Wayne Manor out loud. “How were they killed?”

“Execution style. Two shots to the back of the head.” The officer’s eyes shifted to the side, trying to sneak a glance. “Looks more like a gang thing, if you ask me.”

Alfred wasn’t asking him. He tilted his head to the side, ostensibly for a better view of the week’s football schedule. “And the probable cause for the arrest?”

The officer reached down, unzipping the duffel bag. An evidence bag sat at the top of the copied reports. Inside the bag was --

“That,” the officer said, before re-zipping the bag. “And the maid swore up and down that Jack Drake was in fear for his life before his death. Kept bringing up one name in particular, if you get my drift.”

Alfred turned to the next page, feigning indifference. “Has it been processed yet?”

“Not yet,” the officer responded. “It’s another 500 for me to lose it, by the way.”

The presumption was almost admirable. As if they were speaking in terms of hundreds, instead of thousands.

“Lose it,” Alfred said. The officer nodded, unaware that his fate had been sealed the moment he’d sat down.

“Consider it done.”

Lucius’ lawyer was a sharp-faced woman in head-to-toe black. Her hair was pulled back from her face in a shiny french twist. Alfred was, despite his high expectations, instantly impressed with her.

Alfred left their meeting confident she would have Bruce free on bail by nightfall, if not sooner. He didn’t discuss the specifics of the case, and she didn’t ask. Her job wasn’t to exonerate her client; her job was to snap at every move made that didn’t benefit her client. Alfred had no doubt she’d snap, dig her teeth in, and hold on.

He spared only a brief thought for Bruce’s sake. Jail wasn’t kind to the children of Gotham’s elite, if it was kind to anyone at all. Lucius’ lawyer assured him Bruce would be off-limits. A hefty private donation to the Gotham Police Union had made it so.

Someone would eventually throw a punch. Alfred trusted that Bruce would know better than to fight back. But if he did -- if he had to -- it would be in self-defense.

The matter would be resolved long before that was necessary. Alfred willed it, and so it would be done.

Alfred stepped into the kitchen, carefully closing the door behind him. He slid the lock into place. The soft click was barely audible, and likely not audible at all to the kitchen’s sole occupant.

Tim looked up from his mug of tea. There was grief in his eyes. Exhaustion in the grim twist of his lips. Regret. But not the kind Alfred had expected.

Alfred set the evidence bag on the kitchen island between them. The blood drained from Tim’s pale face. Fear bloomed in his eyes.

For a moment, Alfred thought about killing him. Two hands, strangling the boy’s throat across the kitchen island. Squeezing until his airway collapsed and his eyes bulged from their sockets. Too slow to be merciful; fast enough to satisfy the burning in his chest.

“It wasn’t,” Tim started. His hands were trembling against the mug. “It wasn’t supposed to happen like this.”

A rage unlike any he’d felt before. Disgust. A delirious sort of disbelief. Alfred cycled through them all in the span of a second.

He set the gun down on the table next to the evidence bag. The words that came next were soft-spoken. They had to be.

“And how, exactly, was it supposed to happen?”

Tim’s eyes darted to the back door, then to the locked kitchen door. He was smart. Far smarter than Alfred had realized. They had both underestimated each other.

“Are you going to kill me?”

If Tim hadn’t known -- if he’d only realized now, what the gun meant, the question would have been something more innocent. Why do you have a gun? Or, simply: What are you doing?

Alfred raised his eyebrows. His face was a mask. Every movement was a concession, in a way. If Tim knew anything about his own kills -- if he even suspected -- Alfred wouldn’t confirm it. There would be no proof without a confession. His confession.

“Answer my question.”

“I will. Okay?” Tim took a breath. His hands flattened against the island. “It was just supposed to be Dad. Mom wasn’t supposed to be -- home. She was supposed to be on a trip.”

The words came quickly. A flush returned to Tim’s cheeks. His eyes lifted to Alfred’s face, filling with panicked tears.

“I tipped them off,” Tim admitted. “The men my dad owed money to. I told them -- I implied -- he was going to sell them out. I’ve been watching him. I knew these guys were dangerous. I thought they’d--”

“Kill him?” Alfred asked. Tim let out a breathless chuckle.

“Yeah.”

There was a flinty sort of confidence in Tim’s eyes, even as they filled with tears. Resolve, to the situation he’d set in motion. He didn’t regret his father’s death. If he regretted his mother’s death, it was hard to tell. He, like Alfred, cared more about how it had happened than the end result.

“Why were you there?”

Tim’s eyes dropped to the island. His hands were trembling against the marble.

“I saw my mom. On the cameras.”

Alfred filled in the blanks. “You went to save her. To warn her.”

“Not like it mattered,” Tim croaked. His lip curled up in disgust. Disgust for himself. “They were dead by the time I got there. Both of them.”

Where Alfred had once found sympathy, deep within himself, there was only apathy. He was indifferent to Tim’s pain. It was, ultimately, entirely self-inflicted.

Alfred picked up the evidence bag between gloved fingers. He held it up. The contents were remarkable for two reasons: the bloodstain on one side of the thick linen napkin, and the delicate monogram in the corner.

“And,” Alfred said, grave. “You dropped this.”

The tears in Tim’s eyes spilled over. He scrubbed a hand across his face, desperately trying to clear them away.

“I wasn’t stealing--”

“That’s what you think is important right now?” Alfred asked, astonished. He set down the evidence bag, disregarding the urge to throw it as hard as he could at the boy. “This napkin could put Bruce in prison for the rest of his life and you think I’m worried you stole it?”

“I didn’t mean to,” Tim said. He was taking quick, panicked breaths, unable to compose himself. “Please. You have to believe me.”

It was a child’s plea. Alfred believed him. It still didn’t matter. If they were pieces he could follow -- a missing napkin at Tim’s place setting after breakfast, a set of cameras the police would eventually notice and take into evidence, a description the detectives would inevitably narrow down from a man to a short man -- then others could, as well.

“Who else has access to the cameras?”

Tim wiped away fresh tears with the back of his hand. “Just me. Nobody knows they’re there.”

Alfred’s jaw tensed. “Someone saw you leave.”

“I know,” Tim said. “The maid. She wasn’t supposed to be there, but I guess dad had her stay late. She didn’t know it was me. She didn’t see my face, I mean.”

It lined up with the police report, at the very least. Alfred unclenched his jaw with some effort. If he didn’t, his entire head would snap from the tension.

“You should turn me in.”

“What?”

Tim nodded, still tearful.

“You should turn me in. Exonerate Bruce. This is all my fault, and they’re never going to catch those guys.” Tim took a shaky breath. “I did this. It’s my fault he was arrested. You should turn me in.”

Alfred stared at him, beyond words entirely. Tim stared back. The devotion he saw there was still intact. If anything, it had sharpened in the last 24 hours.

Love, in its most twisted form. A kind that motivated a boy to kill his own parents, if only to spend a day longer in Bruce’s presence. A kind that made the prospect of bloodshed seem far less painful than separation. Even a brief one.

Good God, Alfred thought. It’s like looking into a mirror.

“No.”

“...No?” Tim asked.

“You’re of no use to me in jail,” Alfred said. He grabbed the gun off the counter, slipping it under his shirt and into his waistband. “They won’t believe a child had anything to do with this. It won’t exonerate him. Foolish, foolish boy.”

“What exonerates him, then?” Tim asked. “I can testify that I dropped the napkin on a different day. I could say the maid was lying, and she--”

Alfred held up a hand. Tim’s mouth snapped shut.

“Stop. Listen very carefully to what I’m about to ask you,” Alfred instructed, softer than before. “The men who killed your parents. Who are they?”

“Russians,” Tim said.

“How did you tip them off?”

“Email. That’s how Dad was talking with them. I just…” Tim trailed off. “I pretended I was him. Said I was going to the cops.”

The Russians had reacted in a predictable way. They’d eliminated the threat almost immediately. Clean shots, no witnesses. Alfred doubted GCPD would find a shred of evidence pointing in their direction.

“Where are the cameras?”

Tim grimaced. “Front door. Front staircase up to my room.”

“Not the back door?”

“No.”

It was both fortunate and unfortunate. It didn’t exonerate Bruce, but it made the solution that much more concrete in his mind. Alfred closed his eyes for just a moment, thinking it through.

“A replication.”

“What?” Tim asked. Alfred opened his eyes. He was smiling. It was a bitter, bitter thing.

“An answer to your previous question. What exonerates Bruce? A replication,” Alfred said. “Something so characteristic, it cannot be dismissed. The continuation of a pattern.”

A line appeared between Tim’s brows. “What do you mean?”

For a moment, Alfred pitied him. He was right on the precipice of it. There was still a way for him to turn back. To keep his hands clean. To be unaware in his own thoughts.

“Show me,” Alfred said, instead of answering his question. “What you did. From the very beginning. And I’ll--”

“Handle it?” Tim finished, emboldened. His eyes were wide. His chest rose and fell with quick, unsatisfactory breaths.

“Is that what you want?”

There was a second question hidden underneath. Are you willing to do this?

“More than anything,” Tim vowed.

If he had asked, Alfred was certain the boy would go down to his knees. He’d swear it like a man swore to something holy and so much larger than himself.

Yes.

Alfred held his gaze for just a moment longer, unable to withstand its intensity. He gestured for Tim to stand up.

“Come here.”

Tim fell into his arms with a sob. Alfred clutched him to his chest, bearing his weight as the boy collapsed against him.

It would be a simple, easy kill. He could clutch the boy’s head in his hands and squeeze. He could wrap his fingers around a weak, pale throat and collapse his airway with his thumbs.

“I’m sorry,” Tim sobbed into his shirt. “I’m so sorry--”

Alfred let him force out the grief, the flurry of it, into his chest. He soothed the boy with a hand down his back, rubbing in meaningless circles.

Before the man could emerge, the boy had to break. That, Alfred had always known. Still, the hand rubbing circles rose to the boy’s neck, hovering over the delicate flesh there.

How odd it was, that Tim could still find comfort in his arms. That he knew -- suspected -- and still clung to him like a drowning man in a choppy sea. As if Alfred were a buoy, and the ninth wave was about to crest over the horizon.

“I couldn’t go back,” Tim said hoarsely. His fingers dug into Alfred’s sides with surprising strength. “I couldn’t go back to them. You said it was -- I just--”

Alfred shushed him. The hand returned to Tim’s back, soothing him with a soft brush of fingers.

“I know,” he said, because he did. He understood in a way Tim might never fully grasp. “I know. Hush.”

Chapter Text

No bail tonight. District Attorney is digging their heels in about flight risk. I have a meeting with the mayor’s office at 8:00 AM to make a stink about the probable cause for the arrest. Updates soon.

Alfred locked his phone, sliding it back into his pocket. He had no doubt that Lucius’ lawyer was, without pause, digging her heels in as well. Perhaps not heels, but teeth. She wouldn’t let go until the GCPD went limp.

She won’t need to hold on long, Alfred thought. His goal was to present her -- and the mayor -- with enough distraction to dismiss Bruce’s guilt entirely.

“Hey.”

Alfred gave Tim a once-over, looking for anything reflective. The boy had followed his instructions, dressing himself in head-to-toe black layers that disguised his slim figure. The only thing out of place was --

“Phone,” Alfred said, holding out a hand. Tim looked briefly pained before handing his smartphone over. The pained expression returned as Alfred dumped it into the Faraday bag with his own phone.

“What about your watch?”

Alfred glanced down at his wrist, impressed. The new screen he’d added lit up, sensing his attention. “What about it?”

“I know it’s a smartwatch. It’s trackable,” Tim said. “The cellular connection would--”

“This watch is special,” Alfred said, cutting the boy off before he could continue. “Tracking it is impossible. It doesn’t connect to cellular towers.”

Tim’s nose wrinkled. “So what, you have your own satellite or something?”

“Well,” Alfred started, amused by the way Tim’s jaw began to grow slack. “It’s not my satellite. But yes, in a way, I’m its only current user.”

It was disconcerting -- and thrilling -- to see understanding bloom in Tim’s eyes. The understanding came with fear and, on its heels, cautious reverence. In the span of only a few seconds, he’d understood the magnitudes of illegality Alfred operated under. He’d begun to see through the mirage.

“Okay,” Tim said. He ran a nervous hand through his hair. “Okay, yeah.”

Alfred sealed off the Faraday bag and tucked it into the tactical bag sitting at his feet. He pulled out two tactical masks, holding out one for Tim.

“Really?” Tim asked.

“Really.”

At the edge of the Wayne property, Alfred paused, holding out a hand before Tim could barrel forward. He dropped to his knees, beckoning the boy closer.

“We’re at the property line,” Alfred whispered. “After this, we move quickly. We don’t speak. You retrace your exact footsteps and I’ll follow. If we encounter someone--”

“Run?” Tim interjected. Alfred raised his eyebrows behind his mask, reluctantly amused.

“Run. And if they catch you, lie. Tell them you couldn’t bear to be away from where your parents died. You wanted to see the scene. You wanted to grieve. Do you understand?”

It was a kernel of truth wrapped in a half-truth. Tim’s eyes were watery in the moonlight. He was likely thinking of his mother.

“Emotionally manipulate them. Got it.” Tim readjusted his footing, glancing down at the ground. “What about you?”

Alfred’s lips stretched into a smile. “They won’t catch me.”

“Okay Rambo,” Tim muttered. Still, Alfred could see the way his throat worked up and down, swallowing a silent emotion.

A part of Alfred wanted to protest his own chutzpah. To assure Tim that he would never leave him behind. One, because it would only complicate the case further, and two, because if Bruce ever found out -- if Tim told Bruce --

He can’t, Alfred reminded himself. He took a breath, holding it until the slight uptick in his heart rate subsided.

“...Alfred?”

Even the way Tim said his name had changed. That, Alfred could abide. In him, Alfred could accept the change and the threads of uncertainty and fear in his voice. The moment he heard that same uncertainty in Bruce’s voice, Alfred would simply cease to be.

There was a pause. Alfred didn’t let it linger for long. They couldn’t afford to lose momentum now.

“Ready?”

Tim nodded.

“Yeah.”

When they reached the Drake house, Alfred slid a knife through the GCPD seal on the back door, grasping the handle. He waited for an alarm; when none came, he opened the door, gesturing Tim inside.

“Aren’t they going to find that?” Tim asked.

“No,” Alfred said, gesturing again. “Inside. Now.”

Tim stepped inside. Alfred followed, checking his watch again to ensure they hadn’t tripped a silent alarm or recording device.

One device detected, the screen read, followed by a serial number that matched Tim’s wifi camera. Alfred double tapped the screen, killing the device connection.

Better safe than sorry, he thought. He trusted the boy not to share that footage. He didn’t trust the boy to keep it secure, however.

“Now what?” Tim asked, His shoulders were nearly to his ears, displaying his obvious discomfort.

Alfred unholstered his gun, sliding off the safety. He sighted away from Tim, bracing his right hand on his left wrist. He clicked on the flashlight in his left hand.

“We sweep the house. Then you show me where it happened.”

The closer they got to the second floor, the more nervous Tim became. His hands began to shake. His eyes darted back and forth, flashing white in the near-darkness.

Still, the boy persisted. His trembling hands became fists at his sides. He followed inches behind Alfred, as if he was in fear of being left behind.

“This room,” Tim whispered when Alfred paused at a landing, clearing the corner. “Right head.”

Alfred safetied and holstered his gun. He pulled his knife from his belt, slicing through the yellow tape sealing the door shut.

“How are you going to fix that?” Tim asked nervously. “They’re going to know someone was here.”

Alfred swapped the flashlight into his right hand, holding the knife in a reverse grip in his right. He stepped in first, clearing the room as Tim waited by the door.

The study was large enough to toe the line of cozy. A desk occupied the western half of the room. Two wingback chairs bracketed the marble fireplace to the right of the door. The hardwood floor was protected by several overlapping rugs in varying shades of the room.

The bloodstains at the center of the room blended into the rugs. The splatter went further; on second glance, Alfred could see dots of dried blood on the desk. Two shots per person, four shots total. Four splatter fields from the exit wounds.

Clear, Alfred thought on instinct. He slid the knife back into his belt, waving Tim in.

Tim stepped into the room, visibly pale under his mask. His eyes were wide. Alfred could hear his shallow breaths from ten feet away.

He’s panicking, Alfred thought. He needs a gentle hand. Kind words. Someone to lead him through this.

Tim needed Bruce. Alfred had never seen it so acutely in the boy before, but it was unmistakable. Alfred knew, in the core of his very being, that Bruce’s presence would have been the sun to a Tim drowning in his own darkness.

Alfred reached up, pulling off his mask. Tim flinched, eyes snapping up to his bare face.

“What are you doing?”

“Take off your mask,” Alfred ordered, softening his voice. “You need to breathe, my boy.”

After a moment, Tim reached off, tugging off his mask with a trembling hand. He tried to smile at Alfred; the effect was belied by the tears welling in his eyes.

Good lord, Alfred thought. A part of him bucked at the unexpected burst of affection threading through his chest. That same part wanted to wring Tim’s neck. It wanted to pick Tim up by the collar of his shirt and shake him for being so stupid. For being sloppy.

Alfred set his hands on Tim’s shoulders, squeezing them. He waited until the boy looked up to speak.

“You need to tell me every detail you remember,” Alfred said. “This is the only way we can free Bruce. Do you understand?”

Tim took a deep breath. The flinty confidence returned to his eyes, fighting off the panic. He nodded.

“Good,” Alfred said. He used the grip on Tim’s shoulders to direct him into place. “Show me.”

Tim swallowed, glancing around the room. “I saw my mom on the cameras. She was in the foyer with her bags.”

“Your father was up here?” Alfred asked. Tim nodded.

“At the desk, yeah.” Tim glanced over his shoulder at the open doorway. “I saw two men on the camera. They dragged her up the front stairs. That was when I knew I had to run.”

“Only two?” Alfred asked. “No one was with your father?”

“I don’t know,” Tim said. He stepped forward, pointing out the two blood stains in the center of the room. “The back door was open when I got here. There could have been more upstairs with him when she got back, yeah.”

“Your mother was dragged upstairs,” Alfred prompted. “Someone may or may not have been up here with your father. You didn’t see him subdued?”

Tim shook his head. “My cameras don’t point this way. They were supposed to help me know if they were coming up to my room. They never used the back stairs.”

It made sense, though the lack of footage was frustrating. Alfred hummed, mostly for Tim’s benefit, and stepped around the bloodstains to face the boy.

“Then you ran,” Alfred continued. “You ran straight from Wayne Manor?”

“Yeah.”

“What did you see when you arrived?”

Tim swallowed. As he looked down at the stains, his eyes grew hazy. Reliving the scene, as Alfred had asked.

“They zip tied them and put them on their knees, and I--”

“That’s an assumption,” Alfred cut in. “You didn’t see that. Tell me what you found.”

“Jesus,” Tim said, blinking quickly. He took a short breath. “I found them slumped over. Kind of like they were praying, but their hands were behind their backs. They weren’t breathing. And their heads were--”

Alfred waited as Tim’s voice faltered. The boy took a moment, blinking furiously, before he regained his ability to speak.

“The backs of their heads were bloody,” Tim said. “So I went around -- kinda where you’re standing -- and then they didn’t have faces. It was just…meat.”

Alfred pursed his lips, projecting sympathy. Internally, he ruled out several calibers. GCPD hadn’t processed ballistics for the case yet, according to the report he’d received. They’d pried at least three bullets from the floor, but no casings had been found. A fact that had the potential to exonerate Bruce entirely.

“When did you drop the napkin?”

Tim looked up from the floor, taken aback. “What?”

“When did you drop the napkin?” Alfred repeated. “You weren’t in this room regularly. You had the napkin with you yesterday evening.”

A flush appeared on Tim’s cheeks, fighting off the pallor. “I didn’t mean to drop it.”

Of course you didn’t, Alfred thought, withholding his frustrated reply. “But you had it with you.”

Tim’s eyes returned to the floor, haunted. “I always had it. Since that breakfast.”

Stupid boy, Alfred thought to himself. Of course you did. Of course you couldn’t bear to let it go.

“It was Bruce’s napkin,” Tim admitted. Fury began to build in Alfred’s chest. “From that morning. I grabbed it off his seat. I was trying to be helpful. And then I…held onto it, I guess.”

Like a token, Alfred added silently. A napkin with Bruce’s monogram was damning; a napkin with Bruce’s DNA would almost certainly guarantee a conviction. If the regret weren’t so obvious in every fiber of Tim’s being, he would assume the napkin had been planted maliciously.

“You examined the bodies,” Alfred summarized. “At some point, you dropped the napkin. You left, and the maid saw you.”

“Yeah. I guess she didn’t hear the shots. Dad had her in the laundry room cleaning something,” Tim explained. “She was in the basement. When I left, I went through the back door. She was coming up the basement stairs behind me. She didn’t see my face -- I had a hoodie on. I just ran. As fast as I could.”

And returned to Wayne Manor without triggering my sensors, Alfred thought, mulling the thought over. “How did you get in and out of Wayne Manor?”

“Well,” Tim said. “I climbed the drain pipe outside my room. I didn’t want Bruce to hear me. He’s always up at night for Jason, and--”

“You climbed the drain pipe?” Alfred asked, astonished. “Five stories up?”

It was almost beyond belief. But considering Alfred’s watch had malfunctioned at some point during that evening, he didn’t have any data to refute it. Bruce had asked to reschedule their morning run, and he’d acquiesced. Foolishly.

“Yeah. And it felt like it was going to fall off the house the whole time, so I’m not doing it again,” Tim said. “My arms were on fire. I need to start doing push ups with Duke and Cass.”

“And after that?” Alfred asked. Tim blinked at him. “After you returned to Wayne Manor. Did anything else happen?”

“Not until I saw the cops with Bruce,” Tim admitted. His eyes lowered to the floor. He felt guilty; Alfred couldn’t find fault in letting him simmer in it.

Alfred turned back to the desk and rugs, surveying the scene. He stood behind Jack Drake’s desk, crossing his arms.

“Kneel,” Alfred ordered, losing some of Bruce’s borrowed softness. “Where you found them. I want to see something.”

Tim stared at him, wide-eyed. After a moment of indecision, he lowered to his knees in front of the first bloodstain, flattening his palms on his thighs.

Alfred stepped around the desk, unholstering his gun. He positioned himself behind Tim, raising the gun to the back of the boy’s head.

When the metal of the gun made contact with Tim’s scalp, he shivered. Alfred held completely still; after a moment, Tim regained his composure.

“Like this?”

Alfred clicked off the safety. Another shiver wracked Tim’s body. He knew, almost immediately, what it meant.

“You’re of no use to me in jail,” Tim repeated, keeping his eyes forward. His chest was rising and falling rapidly. “That’s what you meant by replication, right? You needed me to replicate the scene.”

Alfred remained silent, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. His finger remained on the trigger guard. Tim couldn’t see it.

“You never replied to my question,” Tim continued. His voice was beginning to tremble. “I asked you if you were going to kill me, and you deflected. Guess I know why now, huh?”

Alfred pressed his lips together, fighting off a smile even though Tim couldn’t see him. “More than anything.”

“What?”

“When I asked you if you wanted me to handle it,” Alfred said slowly. “You told me more than anything. Those were your exact words.”

Tim’s shoulders lowered. He nodded, butting up against the gun pressed to the back of his head.

“Would you do anything to fix this?” Alfred continued, pitching his voice low. “To make this right?”

“You mean, would I die for Bruce?”

The question brought a chill into the room. It carried a kind of significance beyond both of them. An intentional invocation of Bruce, as if they weren’t powerless before him. Because of him.

“I would.” Tim continued before Alfred could prompt him again. “If that was what it took -- yeah. If it’s the only way, then yes. Yes.”

“Would you kill for him?”

Tim turned around, dislodging the gun from the back of his head. He looked up at Alfred, eyes wide and mouth open.

“If you had someone kneeling like this in front of you,” Alfred said softly. “Would you kill them? If it was the only way?”

Tim had moved, but Alfred hadn’t. The gun was now pointed at a spot between Tim’s eyes. Alfred couldn’t entirely dismiss the possibility that Tim had done it on purpose.

“Is that what you do?”

It was the closest anyone had gotten to the truth. Even Lucius was careful to never directly acknowledge what Alfred did. There wasn’t a soul alive on Earth who could see the full picture.

Tim’s eyes darted down to the trigger, then back up to Alfred’s face. He hadn’t quite mastered playing dumb. His eyes were too sharp.

“I handle things,” Alfred corrected, voice lowering. “Do you want to help me, or do you want to continue to be part of the problem?”

Deliberately, just when Tim's eyes returned to the gun, Alfred moved his finger from the trigger guard to the trigger. The confidence drained away, leaching the flush from Tim's cheeks.

It all came down to this. This moment, this decision. Tim's conviction. The future teetered on the boy's response. Alfred would follow it dutifully in whichever direction it chose. 

“If it’s…” Tim trailed off. He looked up at Alfred, his shoulders pulled back and his jaw set at a stubborn angle. “If that’s what it takes. Then yes.”

Alfred lowered the gun. Tim sagged forward, letting out a choked breath. His forehead grazed the bloodied carpet, milimeters away from Alfred’s boots.

After a moment, Alfred reached out, pressing his free hand to Tim’s head. The boy let out another choked breath, shivering at his touch. .

“Come. We have work to do.”

0 hours, 2 minutes, 16 seconds to target

Alfred wasn’t teaching Tim how to kill. The boy had learned that, inadvertently, on his own. Jack Drake’s blood was on his hands, and it would never be washed away. Janet Drake’s death hadn’t been intentional, but the weight of it still rested on Tim’s soul.

He didn’t need to teach Tim to kill. He needed to teach the boy how to live with killing. To realize how mundane it was, at the end of the day, to take a life. It wasn’t that it couldn’t affect him; he couldn’t let it do so.

Alfred kicked the bedroom door in with enough force for it to hit the wall with a loud bang. The two people sleeping in the bed sat up, grasping at each other in alarm.

“Down on the ground,” Alfred ordered in a neutral voice, motioning with the gun. “Face the wall. Hands behind your backs.”

“What?” the man asked. He shuffled forward on the bed, putting himself between the gun and his wife. “We didn’t--”

“Down on the ground,” Alfred repeated. “Now.”

“Leon,” the woman gasped, “Just listen to him. Get on the ground.”

After a moment, Leon listened to his wife. He knelt slowly to the bedroom floor, putting his hands behind him.

Alfred pointed the gun at the woman. “Now you.”

“Please don’t hurt us,” the woman said, holding her hands up. Her entire body was trembling. “The jewelry is in the other room with the--”

“Sharon,” Leon said, cutting off his wife. “Get on the fucking ground.”

Alfred motioned with the gun. Sharon gathered up her nightgown in two fistfuls, sinking to her knees next to her husband. After a moment, her arms came behind her back, trembling wildly.

Tim stepped forward, holding the plastic cuffs Alfred had given them. At Alfred’s nod, he bent over the husband, zip-tying his wrists together. He moved on to the wife, zip-tying her with hands that didn’t tremble, shake, or hesitate.

Alfred felt a vicious burst of satisfaction deep in his chest as Tim stepped back. He rarely found comfort in the deaths of others, and surely not in the deaths of innocents. But he could find satisfaction in a job well done. He could find satisfaction in seeing Tim move without hesitating, fulfilling the role he’d been assigned.

No tears now, Alfred marveled privately. Not even for innocents..

He stepped backward, assuming the approximate firing distance the Russians had employed with the Drakes. Tim moved with him, staying by his side instead of hiding behind him. Under the mask, his eyes were sharp.

“What,” Leon said, faltering. He was growing restless the longer they waited to act. “What are you going to--”

Alfred pulled the trigger twice. As Leon slumped forward, he stepped to the right. Before the wife could scream, he fired again, sending a matching two bullets through the back of her skull and into the floor.

Alfred lowered the gun. When he was certain they’d passed, he crouched down, gathering the spent casings from the floor.

“Is that it?”

Alfred looked up. Tim was staring at the bodies. He could only guess at the boy’s expression under the mask. Shocked, perhaps.

“For now,” Alfred said, pocketing the casings. He pushed up to his feet. “Time to leave.”

Tim glanced between him and the bodies, hesitating. Despite the itch under his skin to leave the scene as quickly as possible, Alfred let him. There was a question percolating, and it was always better to ask than to let it fester.

“Was it…” Tim trailed off. His head tilted to the left. “Did doing that bother you?”

Alfred eyed the bodies. He knew the answer. It hadn’t changed in years. It likely never would.

“I didn’t think about it at all.”

“Right,” Tim said. He shook his head slightly, as if trying to wake up. “Right.”

They crept back over the Wayne property line just shy of 2:00 AM. Alfred signaled for a halt with a raised fist. He pulled the tactical bag off his shoulder, finding the Faraday bag inside and prying it open.

Tim looked disappointed as Alfred bypassed returning his phone, but said nothing. Alfred peeled off the glove on his right hand, dialing a number by heart. Before the call connected, Alfred hit the speaker button, allowing Tim to listen in on both halves of the conversation.

“Who the fuck is this?”

“Good morning,” Alfred said, smiling. He could hear the sounds of a CPAP machine in the background. “I hope I haven’t disturbed you, officer.”

There was a grunt, a muffled swear, and then -- finally -- the CPAP machine shut off entirely. Static ran down the line, like the man had accidentally grasped it by the receiver.

“Why the fuck are you waking me up at--”

“I don’t have time for bristling,” Alfred said, cutting in. “500 for another favor. Yes or no?”

There was a pause, and Alfred knew he’d hooked the man. Tim leaned forward, eager to hear the reply.

“What favor?”

“Two parts, actually,” Alfred said, deceptively light. “The crime scene at the Drake house needs new tape on the back door and study door. Nothing else was disturbed, you don’t need to worry about that.”

“Fuck,” the officer said, letting out a groan. “You really did that?”

“I’m calling you to fix it, which you are more than capable of doing before your colleagues return later this morning,” Alfred said, moving forward so there wasn’t time for the irritation to grow. “Second favor: Your report said that three bullets were retrieved from the original scene. Given the timeline, I assume those haven’t been processed by ballistics yet.”

“No.”

“Excellent,” Alfred said. “Three new bullets will appear in your desk drawer by six AM. I need you to swap them out before they’re processed.”

“Are you kidding me?”

Next to him, Tim was grinning from ear to ear. For a moment, Alfred considered grinning back.

“Should I find someone else, then?”

“No, I just--” there was another groan, presumably the officer rolling over in bed. “They’re rushing the ballistics ‘cause it’s -- you know what I mean. Someone’s gonna be there by six thirty.”

“That gives you twenty nine minutes to swap it out,” Alfred said, undeterred.

“It’s fucking tight is what it is.”

“A million if both are done by seven AM,” Alfred said. Tim’s eyes widened at the number. “Final offer.”

“Jesus fucking christ,” the officer said. “Fine. I’m getting up. That shit better be in my account by--”

“Lovely, thank you,” Alfred said, jabbing at the end call button before the officer could elaborate. He locked the phone, raising his eyebrows at Tim. “Well?”

“That’s how you got the napkin, isn’t it?” Tim asked. Alfred nodded. “And now you’re going to have him swap all the evidence. So Bruce is…”

“His preliminary hearing is at 9:00 AM,” Alfred explained. “By that time, the evidence holding this case together will have completely collapsed. GCPD will appear to be grasping at straws. The District Attorney won’t prosecute, and the charges will be dropped. The swapped casings help ensure the charges won’t be reopened in the future.”

And then, Alfred continued, smug, Lucius’ lawyer will countersue the GCPD for a mind-boggling sum Bruce will undoubtedly choose to funnel into his philanthropic efforts, the Chief will resign as a part of the settlement, and the arresting officers will be transferred out to--”

“And they let you plant the gun on whoever you want,” Tim said, suspicious. “Are you going to do that?”

“What do you think?”

Tim’s nose wrinkled. “You’re answering questions with more questions again.”

Alfred felt his lips stretch into a smile. “Guilty as charged.”

Still, the deflection seemed to work. Tim chewed on his lip, moving on to the next question.

“How do you even know how to do all of this?”

Alfred blinked, bringing himself back to the present. Tim was watching him. Studying him. He knew what the boy was trying to ask.

Why should I trust you?

It was an unburdening, folded up in a simple question. Alfred felt his shoulders relax. His weight sank down toward the earth. The sharp web of focus in his mind widened, encompassing Tim for a moment.

“Bruce needs me,” Alfred said, solemn. “Just like he needs you, in a way.”

Tim’s expression crumpled inward.

“Bruce needs me?”

Oh, my boy, Alfred thought. You don’t even know the half of it.

“All rise for the Honorable Judge Anne Lendezy.”

Alfred stood, followed a half-second later by Tim. Just past the rail in front of them, Lucius’ lawyer rose to her razor-thin heels, hands folded behind her back.

Judge Lendezy waved as she entered the courtroom. “Please be seated.”

They sat back down on the bench. Tim’s knee jiggled up and down, breaking an otherwise perfect illusion of confidence.

“Bring the defendant in,” Judge Lendezy ordered. The bailiff on the far left of the judge’s bench opened the door behind him, motioning a set of guards in.

Alfred’s vision blurred at the edges as Bruce stepped in. He was accompanied by a guard on either side, neither of whom looked entirely pleased by the task. His arms were cuffed in front of him this time, over -- not under -- the sleeves of his jumpsuit.

Darling boy, Alfred thought just as Bruce’s eyes connected with his, a kneejerk reaction. Bruce smiled first; It took a moment for Alfred to remember how to smile back.

The assessment was automatic. There wasn’t a hair out of place on Bruce’s head. His skin glowed despite the 24 hours he’d spent in custody. He wore the lurid orange jumpsuit of the GCPD jail with a kind of dignity Alfred could only recognize as Martha’s. He wasn’t limping or guarding an injury. He was --

He’s okay, a voice whispered in Alfred’s ear. Martha’s voice, somehow. You didn’t let him get hurt. I knew you wouldn’t.

I knew you’d never forgive me if I did, Alfred thought back, amused. For a moment, he could hear the bells of Martha’s laughter in his mind, ringing with joy.

I would find a way.

“The state of New Jersey versus Bruce Thomas Wayne,” the clerk read out as Bruce was seated next to Lucius’ lawyer. “Case number 00837626.”

Judge Lendezy adjusted her glasses, leaning forward over the bench. “Appearances?”

“Good morning, Your Honor,” the District Attorney said, rising to his feet at the plaintiff’s table. “District Attorney Cranston appearing on behalf of the state.”

Judge Lendezy nodded, waiting for the court reporter to take down the appearance. She turned to Lucius’ lawyer. “And the defense?”

Lucius’ lawyer rose to her feet, buttoning her blazer as she did so. “Good morning, Your Honor. Elissa Procter appearing on behalf of Mr. Wayne.”

Judge Lendezy nodded, turning back to the District Attorney. “Can the prosecutor present the charges?”

Cranston glanced at the defendant’s table, hesitating. “Your Honor, at this time, the state would like to dismiss all charges.”

Next to Alfred, Tim’s body went rigid.

“You’d like to dismiss charges?” Judge Lendezy repeated. Cranston nodded. Lendezy’s eyebrows rose behind her beaded glasses. “And your reasoning?”

“A lack of evidence, Your Honor,” Cranston said. “And--”

“The Statement of Probable Cause field with the court indicated several key pieces of evidence,” Judge Lendezy cut in. “Is that evidence no longer accurate or relevant, Attorney Cranston?”

Cranston, for his part, tried to smooth over the wrinkle. He cleared his throat. “Your Honor, new evidence has come to light that we believe may complicate prosecution of Mr. Wayne.”

Lucius’ lawyer stood again, addressing the Judge. “Your Honor, entirely discounting the new evidence in this investigation, the Defense asserts that at no point has probable cause established for Mr. Wayne’s arrest. The proffered evidence in the initial report matches no element of the alleged offense--”

Lucius’ lawyer continued on, speaking so quickly, Alfred’s exhausted mind could barely keep up. Her words were sharp. Most importantly, the Judge was nodding along.

“Attorney Cranston,” Judge Lendezy said when she was done, turning back to the District Attorney. “Do you move to dismiss charges against Mr. Wayne?”

“Reluctantly, Your Honor.”

“Yes or no, Attorney Cranston,” Judge Lendezy rebutted, clearly unimpressed with the response.

Cranston glanced at Lucius’ lawyer, jaw tensed. “Yes, I move to dismiss, Your Honor.”

“Then I think we’re done here,” Judge Lendezy said, folding her hands in front of her. “The motion to dismiss is granted. I don’t want to see a case like this in front of me again, Attorney Cranston.”

Cranston’s scowl could have cut through glass. “Yes, Your Honor.”

“Mr. Wayne,” Judge Lendezy said, addressing Bruce. At his lawyer’s urging, he stood up. “You’re free to go. I don’t want to see you in front of me again either.”

“If it’s all the same, Your Honor,” Bruce said, his voice ringing clear as day through the courtroom. “I wholeheartedly share your opinion.”

“Hmph,” Judge Lendezy said, with some amusement. “The Court stands in recess. Thank you all for the shortest hearing I’ve had all week.”

Tim let out an audible breath, slumping back against the court bench. Alfred smiled, squeezing the boy’s knee.

It was done.

Bruce emerged from processing with a smile, a plastic bag with his belongings, and a sheaf of paperwork under his arm. Despite the latter two items, he immediately engulfed Alfred in a bear hug, squeezing hard.

“Thank you.”

“No thanks necessary,” Alfred said. The words came out muffled against Bruce’s shirt. “If you must, Attorney Proctor is far more deserving than I am.”

Bruce released him, stepping back. “Is she here?”

“She just left,” Tim said. “Said something about Alfred not being able to afford her hourly rate just to stand around and yap.”

Bruce’s smile disappeared as his eyes landed on Tim. He ignored the anecdote like he hadn’t heard it at all, sinking down to one knee on the linoleum floor.

“Hey.”

One word -- one soft, simple word -- cracked Tim’s composure. The boy burst into tears, covering his face with both hands.

Bruce made eye contact with Alfred as he drew Tim into a hug, shushing him. “Hey. Don’t cry. It all worked out. It all worked out, okay? We’re fine.”

The gentle hand rubbing up and down Tim’s back only seemed to make things worse. He sobbed loudly against Bruce’s shoulder, gripping his shirt with white-knuckled hands.

He’s fine, Alfred mouthed to Bruce, quelling his concern. Just tired.

“Hey,” Bruce said, pulling back so Tim could see his face. “I just wanted to say, I -- I don’t want you to worry that I had something to do with your parents’ death. Your dad and I had differences, but I never wanted him dead. I wanted you to hear that from me, directly, okay?”

Tim nodded, even as tears streamed down his cheeks. “Y-Yeah.”

“I’m going to help them find who did this,” Bruce vowed. “Losing your parents is -- it isn’t fair, Tim. And I’m so sorry it had to happen to you.”

Darling boy, Alfred thought. If Bruce said it, it would be done. Now Tim finally understood why.

“There’s quite a bit of media amassing outside,” Alfred gently interjected, allowing Tim time to compose himself. He gestured at the bag and paperwork. “Why don’t you let me carry that?”

Bruce stood, handing over the items. Like a moth to a flame, a father to a grieving child, he quickly returned to Tim’s side, putting an arm around the boy’s shoulders.

Proctor was right, Alfred thought, It does look more sympathetic this way. The poor boy looks like he’s been in tears all night.

An orphaned Wayne heir stepped forward, the Drake heir under his arm. A security guard opened the door for them, looking vaguely impressed as they passed.

The cameras began to flash, forming a continuous source of light from all angles. Alfred knew, as Proctor had asserted, the cameras would capture Bruce’s innocence from all angles. The concern in his eyes. The arm around Tim’s shoulders. The justice served in the grim twist of his lips, reluctantly accepted, but not meant to be permanent.

Darling boy, Alfred thought, just because he could, and followed behind them.