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Alfred Pennyworth believes little favours can go a long way.
Huge gestures of devotion and gratitude never quite felt right to the man, even from a young age. Bouquets of more than twelve flowers or lavish dinners for not-special occasions seemed rude. It was almost like the host was mocking whoever was to receive these ridiculously overly thoughtful gifts.
The same can be said for favours, given or received. Borrowing or giving away large sums of money was never anything but a business transaction. Remembering to pay for one's drink the next time you go out for dinner is lovely until they expect their entire meal to also be commiserated. The bigger the favour, the less genuine the attempt.
Alfred can't be sure why it is he thinks this way. Even before he started working for America's old money, this standard of overcompensation was a preposterous ordeal to witness, let alone be involved in.
Now, it's not to be forgotten that Alfred didn't come from much.
Though, he has more than others, in terms of inherited wealth and land, but that's something his mother and her three-generation family of farmers are to thank for. She herself isn't a farmer, neither were any of the men she married (of which, other than his father, there had been two) — but in her name she received the one hundred acres of land and the three farm houses.
Houses that now stay abandoned on some forgotten corners of the English countryside. Alfred has no real desire to stay in any of them, though, his late mother might rise from the grave if he tried to sell them. So there they sit. Unused and dusty.
So, really, Alfred comes from a lot. Three houses and untended farmland is something.
But there is a strange pull for aristocracy that this field of work attracts, and in that regard, he's not from much at all. It is an odd notion to wrap your head around, that rich people want to serve other richer people.
It's how he landed this job, perhaps. The maid from the Kane Household was a girl from a family who had once been dubbed Lords and Ladies, and they had known each other some-ten years ago at a school in London. Out of courtesy, and not much else, he informs her that he was to live in America for the unforeseeable future.
She must have remembered when he had walked her home after a late night dancing in town all those years ago, with no hidden intentions other than to use her bathroom and be on his way again.
This led her to recommend Alfred to the Kane Household's Head Butler, an old fashioned man with a strange likeness for the English despite being Welsh. He had, coincidentally, been looking for a respectable young gentleman in the care service to attend to their newly married mistress and her husband.
This was how, after a few short weeks of interviews and sparkling letters of recommendations, Alfred Thaddeus Crane Pennyworth was hired by Martha Wayne (previously Kane) as Butler of Wayne Manor.
Alfred was delighted by this sudden turn of events, if he's allowed to be so impetuous.
As a thank you for her small favour returned, Alfred invites the maid of the Kane Household to another night out of dancing — with slightly less hidden intentions when he walked her home.
Working for the Wayne's is not anything like what Alfred had expected.
Upon being hired, he was informed that Master Wayne was a busy man. He was, perhaps, one of the richest men this side of America, but insisted on working from morning to night, five days a week. He owned a few hospitals (yes, a few), but only worked at Gotham General Hospital — which was the only one he didn't own.
He was also a violent philanthropist. He was sitting on enough money to last him and his next five generations, that any extra money that came his way was rather forcibly thrown back into Gotham's reformations and charities.
Because he's a gentleman, Alfred never comments about this. Except on Sundays, which were his days off, wherein he would often think that Thomas Wayne has a bit of a big head and perhaps an even bigger ego.
Again, the bigger the favour, the less genuine the attempt. Gotham owes Thomas Wayne a humongous favour that will take decades to repay. That doesn't sit well with Alfred.
Mistress Wayne was far less… overt. Martha didn't work as publicly as Thomas Wayne, but a fool would call her a housewife. She was as generous as her husband, if not more. Alfred was constantly driving her around to different charity events or fundraiser openings, delivering letters back and forth from the multitude of places she was personally funding.
It was probably some sort of boss-employee solidarity that prevented Alfred from thinking anything bad about Martha Wayne. Even if Thomas was the one actually paying him, and if his place of work was Wayne Manor — he was hired through the Kane's, so Martha's butler he stays.
Thomas Wayne was less likeable. For the first few months, at least. Alfred soon learns it's rather difficult to dislike a man who doesn't have a cruel bone in his body.
It's been stated previously that Thomas Wayne was a bit of a workaholic, but Alfred didn't truly understand that until he witnessed the man quite literally falling asleep standing up.
From the short conversation over breakfast, Thomas was telling Martha about his twelve hour surgery he had done the day before. And then today, he had another six hour one to prepare for. Alfred thought it all sounded rather dramatic, sharing long and unimpressed looks with Martha everytime Thomas's head started to tip into his plate of sausages and eggs.
"Dear, maybe you ought to call in and say you can't go in today," Martha offers hesitantly.
Thomas blinks profusely, very obviously trying not to fall asleep, "What for? I'm fine!"
Martha sighs, "You're exhausted!"
"I'm fine," Thomas shrugs, standing up while holding his cup of orange juice, as if to prove his use of motor skills that refuted the point that he hadn't slept in twenty four hours, "Alfred, look at me! Don't I look delightfully awake?"
Alfred suppresses a sigh. Thomas and Martha were always so eager to include him in their squabbles. As if he does not have corners to dust.
"Absolutely glowing, sir," Alfred says indifferently, to which Martha rolls her eyes.
Thomas further wants to prove he is more than prepared for another full day of work by standing to his feet, a glass of orange juice precariously held in his hands as he shoots a charming smile at his wife. Alfred watches the man carefully.
Martha is not as easily swayed by her husband's handsome face as the rest of Gotham is, and she frowns, "You're dead on your feet."
Thomas doesn't respond immediately, so Alfred steps forward to pluck the glass out of the master's hands before it falls into his breakfast. On closer inspection, Thomas' eyes are half closed, and he's swaying forward. He is asleep standing up.
"Thomas!" Martha states loudly, startling him away.
Thomas erupts with a snort and flails his arms back the same moment Alfred reaches out to grab the glass. They move in opposite of each other, and the glass knocks against Alfred's hand before —
Thomas drops it all over Alfred.
There is an unnaturally tense silence that befalls the breakfast table then. Martha and Thomas get into their little arguments, as all newly wed couples do, but surprisingly, these fights rarely last through the night. Breakfast is always a warm and enjoyable event, filled with laughter and discussion.
Even Alfred finds it a pleasant start to their equally as busy days. Or, he usually finds it quite pleasant.
Slowly, he looks down at his dark grey and black suit. Martha is scheduled to be present for the opening of a new girls home soon after breakfast, so Alfred had worn one of his best silk ties for the occasion. Even the driver had to look presentable, after all.
That tie that was now soaked in orange juice. The white shirt he wears under his waistcoat slowly starts to darken with an odd yellow stain as the orange juice began to sink into the cotton folds.
"Bollocks," Alfred mumbles under his breath, which is entirely uncalled for and exceptionally rude, but he is so surprised it slips out before he can stop himself.
It's this admission of shock that pushes the Wayne's into action. Martha jumps to her feet, lunging across the table to grab a napkin from the carefully folded stack as Thomas drops the glass onto the table with a clatter.
"Oh!" Thomas cries out, before he's pulling his own handkerchief out of his breast pocket and patting it onto Alfred's sticky chest, suddenly very awake, "I am so dreadfully sorry Alfred I — Oh, your shirt is ruined! I am so sorry!"
Alfred's eye starts twitching as he gently grabs hold of Thomas' hands to push him away, "Sir, your handkerchief is silk."
"What's the use of a blasted silk handkerchief if not this?" Thomas complains distractedly as he grabs Martha's offered wad of tissues with his other hand, before he's back to wiping Alfred's suit and tie.
Alfred sighs. Given he's already sworn in front of them today, there's not much else he can do to offend his employers.
Besides perhaps; "Shall I prepare the master bedroom for you?"
Thomas pauses his weak attempts at cleaning Alfred's already ruined clothes, before dropping his head in defeat. Martha stands to the side, arms crossed over her chest in agreement, though she looks slightly amused by the entire ordeal. Alfred imagines the only reason she hasn't burst out laughing is because she quite likes having Alfred around to be on her side during these arguments.
"Alright," Thomas sighs, "Maybe I am a little tired."
The orange juice disaster is not a big enough one to cancel the rest of Martha Wayne's plans, and so within the hour the master bedroom is prepared and Thomas is all but locked in by his wife with clear instructions to sleep for at least six hours. Everytime he tries to argue, he spares a look at Alfred's ruined clothes, and silently accepts his fate.
Alfred then changes out of his stained suit and into his less fancy suit, no tie this time, before he and Martha leave for her festivities. She tries her utmost best to not bring it up or ask him if he's okay, but does make a point to compliment his navy blue suit as they walk to the car.
He leaves his ruined grey suit and tie with Dorris, one of the oldest housekeepers at the Manor, who takes one look at the state of it and tells him she'll try her very best to clean it. Alfred isn't holding out too much hope for it to be saved at all, but he appreciates her efforts.
The rest of the day is filled with lots of moving and driving that Alfred almost forgets about the morning. Almost.
Later that day, upon returning home and preparing to serve Martha and Thomas dinner, Alfred finds his suit and shirt pressed clean and folded on the end of his bed.
At first, he thinks he needs to rush over to Dorris and ask her to marry him. The shirt looks brand new and while the suit had been of the best quality beforehand, it looked even better now. He runs a hand across the folds of the collar, just to make sure it wasn't a brand new purchase all together, but there is the slight bent fold that shirts get after being worn a few times. It is indeed his.
Alfred's absolute delight and sudden love for Dorris is rather unceremoniously lost when a small piece of paper flutters out from the suit, landing on his bed softly. Without even reading it, Alfred can recognise the neat curly writing as the same signature on his paycheck.
Alfred, don't tell Martha, but while the two of you were out, I snuck out to see my friend Harrison. I am only confessing to this heinous betrayal because he is the one to thank for saving your suit. He's the best tailor and dry cleaner in all of Gotham and he happened to owe me a favour.
I truly am sorry for ruining it. I promise I won't let my work affect how I behave at home again. You were a champ for taking it on the chin and carrying on with your duties and for that I knew I had to try and help.
This is not a gift. It's a thank you for shining my shoes the other day. Sorry again!
— T.W
Alfred frowns down at the note. Champ. No one had called him a champ since secondary school.
He's not sure why it's this silly note written like it's from a teenager that calms Alfred's slight annoyance towards Thomas Wayne. Perhaps it's the handwritten sentiment behind it, or the clarification that it is not a gift but a favour returned.
After all, very early on, Thomas had informed Alfred he didn't need to shine his shoes. But last week, Thomas attended an important conference in Star City, and Alfred was not going to let his employer walk around with dusty shoes.
So it was a favour. Thomas hadn't said anything when Alfred laid out his clothes and shoes for him. Alfred assumes he hasn't even noticed.
But he had. A clean suit as a thank you for clean shoes.
"Hm," Alfred hums, pleased.
The next time one of the Wayne's even gets close to spilling something on Alfred is an entire year after the orange juice incident (which, after letting settle for a few weeks, Martha brings up often to tease Thomas).
The Wayne's are probably the happiest couple Alfred has ever seen. He's not had the best experience with marriage, watching his mother filter through them like magazine catalogues, and he's emotionally aware enough to admit maybe that's why the prospect of it never appealed to him.
But watching the Wayne's in the first year of their marriage was every bit like those romantic novels he briefly obsessed over as a teenager. Every free day was spent together, so was every breakfast and almost every dinner. Every anniversary was treated like it might well be their last.
So, really, it is not surprising at all when it finally happens.
It's just another lunchtime at the manor. Thomas is at work, and for once, Martha has a free day to spend leisurely. She had informed Alfred that she'll be taking a stroll of the grounds, thinking of where she might put a greenhouse. It is a project Alfred was more than happy to encourage.
"Is the food not to your liking, ma'am?" Alfred asks after painfully watching Martha push around her roast potatoes for the last few minutes, not daring to take a bite.
Martha blinks in surprise, looking sheepish to be called out on it, "No no, it's lovely as always. I'm just not hungry, I suppose."
Alfred nods, but a nagging feeling doesn't let him drop it, "Shall I call for the doctor, ma'am?"
Martha laughs softly, "I hardly think a lack of appetite is any reason to —"
Alfred sees the flash of panic on Martha's face before she seems to realise what it means. In an instant, he grabs hold of the fruit bowl from the centre of the table, haphazardly throwing the apples and oranges out before he's placing it in her lap.
Martha instinctively grabs hold of it before emptying her entire stomach into the bowl. Alfred, ever the dutiful butler, holds her hair back as she hacks and groans into the bowl of, what appears to be, this morning's porridge and fruits.
"I'll call for the doctor," Alfred manages to say sympathetically in between her loud hurling and disgruntled grumbling.
"I'm a fool, Alfred," Martha coughs, pulling her head out of the bowl with a look of pure surprise and slight apprehension, "I thought I was just late this month."
Alfred blinks, the words not processing immediately, before a sudden burst of glee ripples through him. He grabs the napkin from the table and passes it to her, glad he's standing behind her still holding her hair so she doesn't see the humongous grin on his face. Highly unprofessional.
"Congratulations, ma'am," Alfred tells her once his excitement settles. He finds it is the most genuine congratulations he's ever given in his whole life.
This show of positivity is evidently what she needed, because in an instant, Martha's slight panic fades away and is replaced with similar joy. She wipes her mouth with the napkin and turns around to face him, her own bright smile blinding him. It's a rather disgusting affair, since in her lap is still the antique bowl filled with sick.
That being said, Alfred is almost certain this moment can't get any more perfect for Martha. In a way, her excitement is infectious.
"I'm going to have a baby!" She informs him in pleasant disbelief.
"I'll call for the doctor," Alfred repeats for the third time, but this time, he's smiling.
"God," Thomas whispers, "He's the tiniest thing I have ever seen."
Alfred hums in agreement, knowing by now that if he's in a room with Thomas, the man is going to do his best to drag him into conversation. It's a long lost argument to convince the man that Alfred is working for him.
Thomas chuckles quietly, gently tracing a hand over the sleeping baby's cheek as he blinks awake, "Hello Bruce. My son."
They're standing in the young masters nursery. Alfred was actually in here cleaning when Thomas rushed in to wake the baby for his afternoon feeding, but was promptly distracted by Bruce's peacefully sleeping form.
Alfred had only ever served people his age or older. Even with his very limited experience with children, Alfred knows Bruce is an exceptionally well behaved child. He's three months old and rarely ever cries, the only times being when he wakes up alone or isn't fed the exact moment he feels hunger.
For the rest of the time spent awake, the baby is silent. Martha read somewhere that classical music is supposed to help babies develop faster emotionally, and so Alfred has become used to cleaning or tending to his other duties with the gentle melody of piano in the background.
"Sir," Alfred prompts gently, "The young master needs to be fed."
Bruce is already eager for the food he knows is coming, a tiny palm holding onto Thomas's index finger strongly as he continues to wake himself up. The baby yawns, and much to Alfred's amusement, Thomas almost melts to the ground if not for his hold on the side of Bruce's grip.
"He looks just like Martha, the same nose and everything," Thomas mumbles in awe, an observation he makes almost everyday without fail.
And everyday, Alfred hums in agreement, "He has your eyes, sir."
"He does, doesn't he?" Thomas swoons, like he's hearing it for the first time, finally reaching into the crib to cradle the baby in his large palms, "Are you hungry, Bruce? My son?"
Alfred passes the already prepared bottle over, sparing just an extra moment to marvel at the way Bruce immediately leans back to take the bottle. His small stubby hands are not yet comfortable with holding the bottle, but he does rest his hand against it, staring up at the ceiling as he drinks.
He kicks his feet out in what can only be excitement to be fed. Alfred's chest is warm as he watches.
Then, he turns back to Bruce's changing table where he was organising the baby's clothes. There are enough clothes here that Bruce can wear a new one everyday, even if for now he wears the same five sleeping suits interchangeably.
Thomas is silent as he watches Bruce drink from the bottle, gently moving from side to side. This isn't surprising, after all, ever since Martha and Bruce returned from the hospital, Thomas falls into these pensive silences as he just watches.
Much to Alfred's surprise, Thomas is feeling more than just pensive today.
"My father wasn't a good man," Thomas suddenly confesses, and Alfred stops folding a small yellow shirt with a cartoon sun on it, "I think that's why he wasn't a very good father."
Alfred doesn't make any vocal indication that he's listening, but he does stop folding the clothes. His hand rests against the soft cotton material, and he waits patiently for whatever it is Thomas wants to get off his chest.
"I want to be a good father," Thomas continues, sounding oddly vulnerable. It's an unexpected tone from the usual charming and confident face of Gotham's unofficial royalty.
Alfred knows as much about fathers as he does about children. His own one died before he can remember anything important about them, and the men that came after were mainly there for his mother and not him.
Deep down, Alfred thinks being a father isn't something as easy as just having a child. It seems too much of a simplified phenomenon given it's such a difficult thing to keep. Losing a father, in any capacity, seems to be awfully common.
It makes Alfred wonder what being a good father actually means.
"Do you think I'm a good man, Alfred?" Thomas then asks. It's obvious this was his initial concern to begin with.
Alfred doesn't know much about the late Benjamin Wayne, except that the only portrait of him that remains is the one in the main foyer. The rest of the manor is filled exclusively of Martha and Thomas, together or separately, as well as various paintings of nature and places purchased over the years.
He wasn't a good man. It's probably why he wasn't a good father.
Alfred's in no position to have any opinions about fathers and what their flaws are. He doesn't think he'll ever get the chance to put his foot into that conversation, not that it's one he's particularly eager to be involved in.
But as he spares a small look behind him, he watches the way Thomas stares down at Bruce like he's the key to the universe's incomprehensibilities. Alfred isn't just flattering his boss by saying they have the same eyes. Thomas Wayne looks down at his son with crystal sapphires and Bruce Wayne's meets the fond gaze with skies for eyes.
As the silence grows, Thomas leans down to rest his head against Bruce's. The baby reaches out with his free hand to gently slap his father on the nose.
(Distantly, Alfred is curious as to when he became so sentimental over the Wayne's.)
"You're a good man, sir," Alfred replies earnestly, turning away and staring down at the piles of baby clothes, somewhat desperate that Thomas believes him, "One of the best we've got left."
Truly, it doesn't matter whether or not Alfred's right. Thomas Wayne will be a good father regardless of if he is a good man.
But it's what Thomas wants to hear, and Alfred's job as their butler, before all else, is to keep the Wayne's happy and healthy.
For the last seven years that Alfred's been working as the Butler for Wayne Manor, he has always taken Sundays off.
It was in the initial contract, written and signed all those years ago. Lodgings and three meals a day were given to all permanent staff, of which there were seven people. Their paychecks used to be given monthly, before that was amended to then be paid weekly.
All staff got Sundays off. The kitchen staff usually prepare the meals for that day the day before or early in the morning for everyone to indulge in whenever they please. Alfred, up until now, had used that day to its fullest.
He catches up with friends over lunch in the City, visits the tailor or the market before tea. Occasionally he'll visit the pub for the evening. Sometimes he stays in his room with a book and just enjoys the uninterrupted silence.
Master Bruce, age seven and scarily intuitive for a boy his age, had also noticed his favourite butler's absence once a week.
"Tomorrow is my birthday!" The boy informs him gleefully, clutching a toy train in one hand as he follows Alfred around the den. The man has to take extra care not to trample over the boy as he ducks under and between his legs.
Martha is sitting on the sofa, watching the entire exchange with unabashed amusement. She's taken up knitting recently, as proven by the ball of yarn in her lap and the deformed fabric creature she's creating, to which Alfred has been offering advice here and there.
"Yes, Master Bruce," Alfred nods along, grabbing a toy horse that had somehow flung itself on top of the fireplace as he moves to clean up the bookshelf.
What the young master doesn't know is that Alfred has been busy preparing for his birthday when he's not indulging in the boy's playtimes. Since the boy is turning eight, it's time to start throwing extravagant birthday galas in order to integrate the boy into high society.
Of course, the family plan to have a smaller, far more comfortable evening at the theater the following week, but for tomorrow — Alfred prepares.
The catering has been set up. So has the decorators, who should be arriving later this afternoon. Music won't arrive until tomorrow morning to set up, by which time the security will also be arriving in time for guests to show up.
"I wish you would also be there, Mama said you like chocolate cake," Bruce tells him mournfully.
Alfred pauses in his attempt to free what looks to be a plastic spatula from Master Bruce's fake kitchen set out of the gap between the wall and the bookshelf, peering down at the boy in question.
He half wants to say that he does not in fact, like cake, especially chocolate, until the first part of the boy's concern reaches his brain, "Where else am I to be, young master, if not at your party?"
Now it's Bruce's turn to look confused, "It's Sunday tomorrow."
At first, Alfred wants to be impressed that the boy knows the days of the week so confidently at his age, until the implications of why Sunday is important makes sense to him. Alfred is rather shocked the boy had cared, much less noticed, his absence.
Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Martha continue to knit (or, attempt it) like she can't hear the conversation at all. She, too, is eager to hear Alfred's response.
"Or," Bruce starts up again, looking up at him hopefully, eye bright and young, "You will be there tomorrow?"
It's an almost embarrassing revelation to realise he hadn't planned to miss it anyway.
"Of course, sir," is all Alfred says, as the young master smiles, before immediately going on a ten minute tangent about his favourite type of train.
Martha watches them both with a knowing and fond smile.
The funeral is a rushed affair.
It's strange, to witness how fast it all happened.
Alfred had been called to identify the dead bodies of his employers on the night of the 18th and by the morning on the 19th, he had picked Bruce up from the police station. By the 22nd, he was standing in the back of their funeral in Wayne Cemetery.
He's not sure why he feels as unsettled as he is. His hands haven't stopped trembling ever since the police commissioner called and asked him to confirm the deaths of Martha and Thomas Wayne.
Partly, he assumes this strange discomfort is because he wasn't the one to prepare the funeral. It seemed like it was expected of him, but then Elizabeth Kane had swooped in and taken over the preparations and proceedings, despite having not spoken to Martha in over a year.
Alfred didn't feel the need to argue with her for the right. At the end of the day, she was Martha's mother and Bruce's grandmother. He was just the butler.
The butler Martha and Thomas had left sole custody of their only son to.
The will hearing isn't until later this week, where the remaining Kane and Wayne and other family and friends will undoubtedly attend in hopes of being given some piece of their insurmountable wealth.
What they didn't know was Alfred had already met with the lawyer on the 20th. He was already aware that every single penny, land and building was being left for Bruce and Bruce alone. Thomas had taken extra care to make it so not a single person on earth could fight and possibly win anything from his son.
They had also left Alfred three things.
Martha had left him her greenhouse.
Thomas had left him his collection of cufflinks.
Martha and Thomas had left him their son.
It's not really settled in yet, what that exactly means, or what it might entail from now on. His biggest concern at the moment is that Elizabeth Kane is going to once again jump it and try to steal Bruce from right under his nose.
But as Alfred looks out into the small crowd who were invited to the funeral, Bruce sticks out. Perhaps it's because Alfred has spent the last eight years watching the boy grow that makes it so easy to pick him out from a wave of similar faces.
Or perhaps, it's because the boy stands alone.
There's an almost obvious space that circles him, one which no one dares tread over to comfort him. Bruce's face is a mess of snot and tears as he stares unblinkingly at his parents grave, as if sheer determination will make them rise again.
His only cousins try to reach out to him, but are held back by their father. Jacob Kane is perhaps the only one left of Martha's family that didn't disagree with her marriage to Thomas. But even he can't bring himself to comfort a mourning nephew.
Can you see what you two have done? Is what Alfred wants to ask. He can imagine Martha's warm smile as she watches him, Thomas grinning mischievously as he shrugs.
I quit, Alfred wants to tell them, his own eyes burning.
But it's far too late to say anything to them.
They're gone.
And they've left him their son.
It's truly a testament to his patience that Alfred hasn't given up all hope, changed his name and fled the country.
"Please, master Bruce," Alfred sighs, rubbing the temples of his head in an effort to sedate the pounding pain that rattles his skull, "You must sleep."
"No!" The boy screams, unmoving from his spot in the den.
They had gotten quite far today. Alfred had convinced the boy to brush his teeth and change for bed. Bruce had even made it into the bed, but before Alfred could tuck him in, the boy jolted up like he was being electrocuted, racing out of the room.
Alfred sighed. If this was a month ago, he wouldn't have run after the boy in concern.
The only difference is, a month ago, the boy's parents were still alive.
Slowly, exhaustion finally starting to make his limbs heavier than usual, Alfred walks out of the bedroom and down the stairs. Bruce also runs to the same place every night, before he finally drops asleep in a random corner of the manor. Alfred carries him to bed, where he sleeps for maybe two hours, three on a good day.
"Do you intend to stay awake forever?" Alfred asks, closing his eyes and trying to calm his tone.
"Yes!" Bruce shouts, wiping his tears with the sleeve of his shirt, "Just — just leave me alone!"
"I can't do that," Alfred stresses.
A flash of anger takes over the boy's face, which isn't unfamiliar to see at all. Lately, if the boy isn't curled into himself sobbing for hours, or staring wide-eyed and silently at a blank wall for hours, Bruce is lashing out and screaming at anyone who dares come too close.
It's this reminder that Bruce is hurting in a way that is far too big for his small body to comprehend that makes Alfred pause. He takes a deep breath in. He's not had one good night or rest ever since the funeral, but that is not the child's fault.
"My job is to care for you, master Bruce," Alfred tells him forlornly, "So that's what I will keep doing."
The strangely honest answer stuns Bruce out of his screaming tantrum, but only for a moment. A cruel scowl twists onto his face once more, and he breathes in harshly, trying to fill his lungs with more air than he can handle.
"Why did my parents leave me to you?" Bruce asks, with enough childlike genuinity and confusion that Alfred can't even be offended by the slightly backhanded accusation.
In a way, he can agree with the boy's disbelief. Why had Thomas and Martha Wayne left their darling son to a man who they barely knew in any emotional capacity? Serving them lunch and organising their linen closet is hardly a reason to write him into their wills.
Staring down at Bruce, the butler, desperately, tries to work out how to explain to an eight year old that his parents might have been insane.
But maybe, the insane one is him. Because Alfred finds that the more he looks down at the boy, the stronger the overwhelming responsibility to protect becomes.
With another sigh, Alfred turns on his heel for the sofa. His head is starting to spin, whether it be from the daily screaming matches with Bruce, or the lack of sleep finally catching up with him.
He falls backwards onto it with a tired groan. He's barely even forty yet, but the last month has added decades to his life. Between stubborn family members trying to discuss Bruce's inheritance, or the general public trying to break into the grounds for an exclusive interview with their very own orphan Prince — Alfred is tired.
He barely has any time to truly admit to himself that Martha and Thomas are gone. That he no longer has to remind Thomas to take a break as he works, or drive Martha to her next charity event. Sweet Martha, who had left him her greenhouse because gardening was something they both used to enjoy. Thomas' cufflinks lay untouched in their boxes, Alfred unable to go near them let alone admit they are now. It was the only household related work Alfred allowed Martha to help with, and only because it used to make her so happy. Thomas' cufflinks lay untouched in their boxes, Alfred unable to go near them let alone admit they are now his.
It's not yet set in for him that Master Wayne is no longer Thomas.
"Master Bruce," Alfred mumbles quietly, leaning his head on the back of the sofa, "Please come sit next to me."
There's a tense silence, and for a moment, Alfred truly expects a table ornament to be thrown at his head before scurrying little feet run out of the room.
Except, Bruce sniffs, before quietly making his way over to the sofa. Alfred has his eyes closed, but he feels the faintest sip of the seat when the boy sits next to him.
Alfred exhales, all but deflating, "You don't want to sleep alone?"
He had assumed that was what the problem was before, but Alfred wasn't exactly sure what to do about it. Bruce had his own room opposite from his parents that he was good at sleeping in, but more often than not did Alfred find the boy sleeping in between his parents when he came to wake them in the mornings.
He supposes that isn't something Bruce can do anymore. Unfortunately, it's not a problem Alfred can fix either.
The quietest, most devastating, "Yes," is heard beside him. Alfred nods in understanding.
"Alright," he sighs, shifting back so he's sinking deeper into the cushions of the sofa, which feel softer than any bed could at this very moment, "Let's sleep here then. Just for tonight."
There's a pause, before Bruce whispers a slightly disbelieving, "Together?"
Instead of answering immediately, Alfred gently raises one of his arms, placing it around Bruce's shoulder and pulling the boy to his side. There's enough room for the boy to pull away if he becomes uncomfortable, but instead, Bruce melts into the embrace.
Alfred's eyes feel warm, so he doesn't open them at all, unless he's planning to join Bruce in his crying tonight.
With small, hesitant hands, Bruce manoeuvres himself so he's almost laying on Alfred's chest, an ear pressed against his heart.
Alfred breathes in and out deeply, steading the beating of his heart until it's a calm and familiar rhythm. Bruce relaxes against his chest, small palms buried in his shirt.
"I miss them," Bruce whines after a long moment, taking in a shuddering breath to calm himself down from a further panic.
Alfred gently rubs a hand up and down Bruce's back, coaxing the boy to relax more. It seems to work, since not even minutes into it, Alfred hears the softest snore against his collar bone, the gentle rise and fall of the boy's body in his arms.
Gently, Alfred shifts so he's cradling Bruce a little tighter, suddenly not so exhausted as he finally opens his eyes and peers down at the boy's sleeping face.
It's the most peaceful he's looked in weeks.
With a heavy heart, Alfred leans down to rest his forehead against Bruce's, thinking about how grief can come with a gift as precious as this. He thinks back to a mother's excitement and a father's insecurity and mourns.
"I miss them too," Alfred whispers, pressing Bruce's cheek into the crook of his neck and he holds the boy like the world might try to take him away as well, "I miss them too, Bruce."
He's still not entirely sure why Martha and Thomas Wayne decided to leave Bruce to him. Why would they trust him, out of anyone and everyone they knew, to raise and look after him?
For whatever reason it was, holding Bruce in his arms has finally given Alfred a sense of clarity after these weeks of tantalising disbelief.
A son, he thinks, they've left me a son.