Fic: Perseverance (5/7) - Final Version
Title: Perseverance
Author: immertreu
Word count: ~26000 in total
Summary: When Alfred Pennyworth returns home after Bane's occupation of Gotham, his surrogate son is gone and his life in ruins. But Batman's friends remain - and therefore hope. - The story is finished. I will post one chapter out of seven every day.
List of chapters:
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
The day after the techs’ discovery that Bruce Wayne had indeed fixed the autopilot prior to his “death,” Lucius got a not-quite-panicky call from down below. When he entered the temporary R&D department, said technicians stood pointing at the Bat and whispering to each other. Lucius dismissed the two men and went to investigate.
He approached the vehicle slowly and hardly believed his eyes when he saw a yellow Post-it attached to its windscreen. He tore it off and read the note, which was written in handwriting he knew all too well. Back in the good old days, he’d seen it on business plans and sketches, and as doodles in the margins of dozens of reports. The words were short but to the point: Sorry I lied.
Lucius couldn’t help himself. He sat down where he stood and started laughing so hard that tears streaked down his face. After a minute of hysteric giggling, he slowly raised his fist, still clutching the tiny piece of paper, and yelled, “Apology accepted!” Lucius couldn’t be sure, but he thought he felt a slight displacement of air and a door falling shut behind him. He craned his neck to see, but there was no one there, of course.
Slightly embarrassed by his outburst and still giddy with excitement, he picked himself up from the floor, dusted off his old-fashioned suit - one of the few the mob hadn’t taken or destroyed - and went upstairs and back to work. He took the note with him and hid it in his safe. Just in case he ever started doubting himself again.
Bruce Wayne was alive. Lucius Fox had all the proof he needed.
Question was: Should he tell Alfred and the others?
Lucius lost a lot of sleep over the dilemma, but finally he decided that he would not tell Alfred, Commissioner Gordon and John Blake. Bruce Wayne had had a reason for disappearing, and it wasn’t Lucius’s place to contradict his plan, whatever it may be.
He had always trusted the young billionaire, however hair-raising his shenanigans had been. Lucius wouldn’t betray that trust now, not after everything they had been through. He kept quiet, focusing his energy on reinstating the Wayne family’s name and wealth instead. Loyalty demanded it of him. And the money would be put to good use. Alfred and he would see to that.
So when the day came for Lucius to go the office where Bruce Wayne’s will would be read, he went with a guilty conscience and a heavy heart. Staying silent in front of a shocked Alfred who was the main beneficiary was the real challenge, so he left the proceedings as soon as he could. He was still furious with himself that he hadn’t yet managed to prove the fraud that had cost Bruce his money and his reputation, but he wouldn’t give up. It had to be there. He just needed more time.
On his way out the front door, the CEO bumped into a very preoccupied Blake and regarded him curiously.
The former cop simply shrugged. “Don’t look at me,” he said. “I’m as surprised as you are. I have no idea what they want with me.”
Lucius smiled inwardly. Oh, he suddenly had a very good idea what or rather who had brought the younger man here, but he didn’t voice his thoughts out loud and replied, “Well then, good luck.” Seeing Blake’s inquisitive gaze, he added, “Maybe he left you one of those awful statues that adorned the sitting room downstairs.” I would really like to know how he changed his will after his “death”, though…
Chuckling to himself, he sent the bewildered young man on his way and fled. When he was out of earshot of any passersby, he murmured under his breath, “Bruce, what are you up to now, hm?” He didn’t get a reply, of course.
Later in the day, John stood in awe when the previously hidden platform rose out of the underground river and carried him into the air. He slowly turned and looked around, trying to detect any more wonders hidden in this cave that had been Batman’s lair. The gloom made it hard to see, and the platform stopped. Nothing else happened. He groaned.
“Oh, come on, you didn’t just bring me here to find a lookout, did you?” He cursed and took an additional step - and the sole of his boot hit a tiny irregularity in the surface of the platform.
He knelt and held his flare close to the floor. It was hidden very well, making it almost invisible, but there was definitely a rectangle etched into the smooth stone slab. John was still crouching over the indentation, looking for any hidden buttons or levers, when a brittle voice, rough with age and sorrow, rang out behind him.
“I can’t let you do it.”
John spun around, realizing too late that he wasn’t a cop anymore and didn’t have a weapon to defend himself. Then he recognized Alfred Pennyworth standing on a ledge a couple of meters away from him, on the other side of a man-made chasm. It separated the platform Blake himself was standing on from the butler’s vantage point.
“What?” John stood and squinted into the semi-darkness, trying to make out the other man’s expression, but the light of his flare didn’t reach far enough.
“I can’t let you do it!” the old man replied, more forcefully this time. “I will not watch another fine young man slip into this darkness, this madness Master Wayne created.” A slight quiver in his voice betrayed the still raw pain over his charge’s death. “Enough is enough. It cost one man his life. It will not take another.”
“But…” John tried to cut in but got interrupted immediately.
“There is no but, Detective Blake. Go home. And if you expect to sneak back in later and find anything useful here, you won’t. This was Batman’s home. Everything here is protected by a minimum of three layers of security. You will never be able to get any of his equipment working again, so you better give up now. I will not help you to throw your life away.” And with that harsh statement, he simply turned to leave.
John stared after his retreating back and finally yelled into the darkness, “But he brought me here!” He didn’t have to clarify who the “he” was. They both knew all too well that only Batman could have shown Blake the way.
Alfred didn’t stop or turn around. “Then you were a fool to follow him.”
One heartbeat later, he was gone, and John stood alone in oppressing darkness which had seemed welcoming only minutes before. He resisted the childish urge to throw his flare away in anger and swore heartfelt instead. “Dammit!”
The shadows didn’t reply.
John returned to the cave several times after that, but he never got any farther than on the very first day. The platform he’d stepped on then seemed to be pressure sensitive, that’s why it had risen - and continued to do so - each time he entered the batcave, but nothing else ever happened. Alfred caught him on the tenth day while he was snooping around the perimeter of the cavern with a powerful flashlight.
Before John could say anything, the old man shook his head. “The answer is still no.” And he left as quickly and silently as he’d come.
John never saw him go, and it unnerved him. The old man was more like Batman than he wanted to admit.
************************************************************
Jim had a sudden sense of déjà vu. But last time the commissioner had gone to bang on Alfred Pennyworth’s door - more than six weeks ago - said door had been an actual double-set and probably cost more than a simple cop earned in five years. The notion was ridiculous but probably true.
“Commissioner?” Alfred regarded his nightly visitor suspiciously but finally let him in and led him into the living room of his new apartment he’d rented in one of the outer parts of the city - pretty close to Wayne Manor but inside the city’s boundaries.
They settled into the sitting area, each man equipped with a glass of their favorite drink in hand. Silence descended.
Jim was still thinking about how to broach the subject for his visit when Alfred spoke up. “It was my idea, actually,” he said, almost smugly, setting down his glass of bourbon on a coaster that matched the color of the mahogany coffee table perfectly.
Jim gaped at him, almost dropping his glass of beer. “How did you know…?” he spluttered in surprise. Recovering, he added, “Never mind. Your idea?”
Alfred nodded, looking unperturbed. “Yes. People needed to be distracted from the truth. No one was allowed to even suspect that there was a connection between Batman and Bruce Wayne. They needed to see him as nothing more than a pretty face with a lot of dollars in his pocket.”
He sighed and continued, “Master Wayne wasn’t very happy about playing this particular part, but he knew it was necessary. And it obviously worked because no one ever guessed. Well, almost. You remember Coleman Reese, I presume?”
Jim snorted. “How could I forget?” He grew still for a moment, pondering the question. “So that’s what that weird look between them was all about. Bruce crashed his Lamborghini and saved Reese’s life who finally understood what his employer was really doing: protecting the people of his city, no matter who they were. Once a hero - always a hero, I guess.”
“Indeed, Commissioner.”
They raised their glasses in tribute to a very special young man.
Relaxing in the older man’s presence, Jim couldn’t stop himself. He had to ask. “How did he do it?” Not looking at Alfred but sensing the other man’s questioning gaze, he added, “Who taught him to become such an incredible fighter? A figure every criminal in the city would fear? To sneak around, clinging to buildings and flying through the air unseen?”
When he did look up, Alfred’s expression had become unreadable, carefully controlled. It was obvious the topic hurt more than he had originally let on. Jim cursed himself for his insensitivity. “I’m sorry. It’s too soon. I shouldn’t have…”
Alfred waved him off with a raised hand. “No, Commissioner, it is quite all right. You deserve to know.”
Jim fell silent and waited for the other man to order his thoughts. Finally, Alfred spoke up, his all-too-knowing eyes fixed on Jim.
“Most of what I am about to tell you are stories Master Bruce or Rachel Dawes related to me. Neither of them would ever have lied to me, so I can only ask you to accept them as the truth and try to understand what drove Bruce to leave Gotham for seven years.”
The commissioner nodded in silence, grasping the gravity of the moment and the importance of what he was about to hear.
“I am sure you don’t know about this, but Master Bruce once plotted to kill the man who murdered his parents.”
Jim’s glass slipped in his grip, and he set it down heavily. He bit his tongue so as not to ask the obvious question: What happened? Alfred would tell him soon enough, in his own way.
As if reading his thoughts, the old butler smiled sadly and nodded in confirmation. “Oh, yes. He bought a gun - I don’t know how or where - and went to the trial to avenge his parents, but someone else killed Mr. Chill before he could get to him.” He swallowed. “For that I will eternally be grateful because if he had pulled the trigger that day, you know as well as I do, that he would have been lost to us forever.”
Jim didn’t trust his voice after this revelation, so he simply waited for Alfred to continue.
“Rachel found out about Bruce’s intentions right after the shooting. She told me she slapped him and yelled at him, and then she basically threw him out of her car. That was the last time she saw him before he vanished.”
Finally finding his voice, Jim asked, “That never was in any of the police reports. You always said Bruce simply vanished after the trial, that he never came home. When did Rachel tell you about all this?”
Alfred looked at him with deep sorrow and replied, “She told me many years later, when Bruce was already back and fighting for his city. I guess she had not wanted me to worry any more than I already had. Maybe she had feared he had taken his own life with the gun. I don’t know. But I do know that Master Bruce did not become a murderer that night or on any after.”
Jim drew a deep breath in relief, and Alfred continued, “He ran from his old life because he could not cope with it. His parents’ killer was dead, so the only one left alive to shoulder the responsibility for the dreadful night they died was Bruce himself. I always knew he blamed himself because he had asked Mr. and Mrs. Wayne to leave the theater early. I failed in convincing him of the truth, that it was not his fault. You know how stubborn he could be.”
Silent understanding passed between them.
“He never told me about all his travels, but I know that he crossed many countries and many continents to become a criminal.” Seeing Jim’s eyebrows rise, he added, “Not in the usual sense. He lived among the underworld to understand the thugs and thieves, to study how they thought and why they did what they did, but not to become one of them. He wanted to learn everything about them, so that one day he would be able to fight them. But he never reached his goal until he met Henri Ducard, also known as Ra’s al Ghul, in Tibet.”
“Tibet?” Jim asked, taking a sip from his forgotten drink and making a face because his beer had long gone stale.
“Indeed,” Alfred confirmed. “Ducard knew who Bruce was - however he found out - and sprung him from prison.”
“Prison?!”
Alfred looked amused. “Master Bruce got caught stealing materials from Wayne Enterprises. I guess he thought ending up in jail was just another way of learning about the lives of the criminal.”
“Huh.” Jim shook his head. “He sure never did anything the easy way, did he?”
“Never.” The old butler smiled fondly at the familiar joke. “Anyway, Ducard gave him a new reason to live, to learn, to conquer his fears and master his body, to become the perfect spy and soldier. Yet there was one thing Ducard could never teach him: to kill. Bruce had learned his lesson, the difference between justice and revenge, long ago.”
Jim’s sigh was heartfelt. “I guess I know where this is leading,” he said, and Alfred nodded in confirmation.
“Ducard eventually tried to force Bruce to murder a man - he refused and a fight erupted. Fire broke out, and the monastery where they lived was destroyed. Master Bruce finally returned home because he had learned everything he needed to know. A few months later, Ducard came to Gotham.”
Startled, Jim looked up. “They met again?”
“Oh, indeed. Ducard burnt down Wayne Manor.”
The commissioner flinched, remembering the scandalous news reports in the days after a “drunk Bruce Wayne” had managed to throw out his guests and lay fire to his own family’s house. Alfred added, “The madman wasn’t done, though. I am sure you remember the incident in the Narrows all too well.”
Shuddering, Jim raised his glass, only to put it down again at the sight of the washed out yellow liquid that had once been a sparkling beverage. “Of course, I remember. Batman let me drive his black monster of a car.” With a wistful note to his voice, he added, “I always wanted one of those.” Catching himself, he asked, “What happened to Ducard?”
The old butler calmly looked him in the eye. “He died in the wreckage of the monorail train.”
“Ah.” Nothing more had to be said, so Jim forcefully switched the topic, indicating his half-filled glass. “I don’t mean to be rude, but would you happen to have anything else to drink? I’m afraid this has long passed the state where it could be called potable.”
Alfred sent a knowing smile his way and stood up to get the commissioner another drink. “Of course.” When he returned with a fresh glass and another bottle, he asked, “Did you know John Blake has taken a position as sports coach and teacher at Father Reilly’s new orphanage?”
Jim looked at him in surprise. He hadn’t seen Blake in quite a while, assuming the other man was simply busy finding a new purpose in life. He should have guessed that the former cop wouldn’t abandon his old mentor and the children, though.
“No, I didn’t,” he replied, a question in his voice.
Alfred sat down again, leaning back against his comfortable pillows. “Yes. They moved in last week, right after the city council approved it. They had to make sure everything was child-safe and properly outfitted to house three dozen rowdy teenagers.” There was no malice in his voice, only a wistful tone betraying his thoughts. He was obviously remembering another child who had grown up in the house the old butler had called home for more than four decades.
They spent the rest of the evening in companionable silence, remembering a troubled boy who had turned into an unhappy young man, trying not to think of what could have been. And what should have been.
************************************************************
Early on the following morning, Alfred drove out to Wayne Manor to visit “his” family’s tiny graveyard and to lay down fresh flowers. The old butler knew that his charge wasn’t really resting in the grave that was marked as his, but where else was he supposed to go to grieve and remember?
The old man entered the fenced-in patch of grass mottled with headstones with a feeling of dread, but he shouldn’t have worried. Blake or Father Reilly would never allow any of the orphaned boys to disturb the graves. Besides, they might be troubled and sad, yes, but they were good kids, trying very hard to help the priest and the people of Gotham to reclaim their city.
Everything was peaceful and quiet. Alfred stood with his head bowed for a while, thinking - as he had done so many times before - that he should be the one resting in this earth and not young Bruce Wayne’s memory. As usual, he stopped these depressing thoughts before they could really take hold in his soul.
Finally, the faithful butler turned away from Master Bruce’s grave and went over to solemnly regard Thomas and Martha’s headstone. He brushed away some imaginary dirt from the engravings and suddenly noticed two white roses resting at the base of the marker. The blooms were fresh, the stalks cut even more recent than the one of the single flower Alfred had placed on Bruce’s patch only a few minutes ago. Whoever had put them there must have left right before Alfred himself arrived.
Startled, he looked up, but there was no one there. Suddenly nervous, Alfred took one last gaze around and started back toward his car, chiding himself for his skittishness. Maybe Blake or Lucius or even the commissioner had placed the flowers there; or some very old friend of the Waynes who had heard of their son’s untimely demise had decided to pay his respects. No use in getting paranoid, Alfred firmly told himself. The days of hunting mobsters are long past, you lead a normal life now. He slowly brought his old sedan to life and drove toward the city.
Alfred could have bought a better car with the money Master Bruce had left him, of course, because even his diminished heritage was a lot of money for someone who had lived on a butler’s salary - a very generous butler’s salary - for decades; yet it hadn’t felt right to buy himself a fancy car no one else would ever use. And the memory of Bruce’s beloved Lamborghini was still too fresh in Alfred’s mind.
Even when he had returned home and closed the apartment door behind him, Alfred still felt on edge. He debated whether to pour himself a stiff drink but decided against it. Instead, he put on the old kettle he had rescued from Mrs. Wayne’s ancient kitchen after the fire a few years ago, and set about making tea.
The rest of the day passed without any unusual occurrence. Alfred met with Lucius for lunch as they did on most days, but other than that, he simply stayed at home and read several papers from out of town. The Gotham Times had taken up reporting about important world events a few weeks ago, but most of the pages were still filled with pictures of missing people, obituary notices and requests for help or offers of assistance in exchange for rare goods or other services. In short: It was depressing.
Alfred went to bed still feeling restless and not knowing why.
Late that night, after maybe two or three hours of sleep, Alfred jerked awake. He didn’t know where the notion had come from, but he got out of bed, dragged down an old suitcase from the closet and starting packing for a few days or even weeks abroad. At six in the morning, he called Lucius and asked his old friend to pick him up and drive him to the airport. The now reinstated CEO of Wayne Enterprises didn’t ask any questions about the odd request, he simply confirmed he would be there half an hour later, and hung up. Another quick phone call to the airfield closest to Gotham City made sure that there was indeed a plane going to Florence that day - and that Alfred would be on it. Having money to spare did have its advantages.
Fifteen hours later, nervous, properly jet-lagged but as sure as he would ever be that his former employer was still alive, Alfred sat in a beautiful spot in his favorite café in Florence, drinking cappuccino and observing his surroundings, waiting for a miracle. He still didn’t know when he had made the connection, but reading all those newspapers must have had something to do with it. His subconscious had connected the date to the fact that every year he was in Gotham, Bruce Wayne had placed two beautiful white roses on his parents’ grave on the anniversary of their deaths - roses like the ones Alfred had found there only one day ago.
So he sat and waited, consuming unhealthy amounts of coffee and the best the Italian restaurant had to offer. On the fifth day, one of the waiters who had been there every day since Alfred arrived approached him a little timidly.
“Scusi, signore!”
“Sì?” Alfred looked at him in surprise, abandoning his paper.
The younger man shifted his weight, arguing with himself, and finally dared to ask in slightly accented English, “Are you waiting for someone?”
Alfred nodded, and the waiter inquired, “Whom?”
They regarded each other for a moment, and when the older man detected no malice but pure kindness in the other man’s face, Alfred answered with finality: “My son.”
“Ah!” With a nod and a smile, the waiter disappeared and left the old butler to wonder about their short exchange. Two minutes later, the server returned and placed a glass of Alfred’s favorite Italian wine in front of him. “On the house,” he confirmed, and vanished as quickly as he had appeared before Alfred could think of a reply.
Alfred never met him again, but he made sure to leave a generous tip and precise instructions for its delivery with the head waiter before he went back to his hotel room that night, thinking of the man who had seen more than just an old Englishman on vacation but one who was in need of an act of kindness and encouragement.
He returned the next morning, idly looking around the restaurant, hoping against hope that his dearest wish would come true. When it finally did and he laid eyes on a sight he had never dreamed of seeing again, it sent a violent jolt through him. The old man froze for a moment, not believing his eyes, but when young Master Bruce raised his gaze to meet his, his world started turning again.
Alfred wanted to jump up and scream in joy, run over to where his surrogate son sat, alive and well, but he stopped himself and simply returned the shy smile directed at him with a nod.
Bruce looked different. More relaxed than Alfred had ever seen him since he was a boy. His hair was longer, but maybe that was simply his imagination. The most startling change was in his eyes, though. There were so many emotions there that Alfred didn’t know what to make of it. Pride. Gratefulness. Sorrow. Happiness. Love. All the things Master Wayne had never allowed himself to express openly.
Bruce broke the eye-contact first. Realizing this was the goodbye Alfred had always wished for but never thought possible, he took one last glance toward the boy he’d raised - and wasn’t that Selina, the light-fingered maid he’d hired a few months ago, sitting opposite Bruce? - paid his bill and left, sadness and overflowing joy battling in his heart. He thought he heard a soft voice behind his back saying “Goodbye, old friend,” but he couldn’t be sure. He didn’t look back.
The last of the Waynes was alive and free. Maybe now Alfred could finally find peace as well, once his mind stopped reeling. He left the restaurant in a daze, without really seeing anything or anyone.
The journey back to Gotham passed in a blur.
Alfred knew he must have called Lucius while packing his suitcase at the hotel because his loyal friend was waiting for him when his plane landed at the airfield. Yet the rest of the way back to the States was simply gone from his memory. His mind was fixated on that last long look and the face he thought he’d never see again.
Lucius immediately sensed his friend’s confusion and atypical detachment. Not knowing the reason and not yet daring to ask - Alfred had retreated behind a wall of silence the moment he entered the car - he simply drove him home. An hour later, he followed a dazed looking Alfred to his apartment, took the key from his unresisting hands, and almost shoved his unmoving friend through the open door.
The old butler slightly came to his senses afterwards, puttering around the familiar surroundings, opening windows and letting in air - or rather what passed for a “fresh” breeze in Gotham these days - but he still didn’t speak or offer any explanation for his trip and his sudden return.
Lucius, somewhat amused but also worried by Alfred’s unusual behavior and continued silence, busied himself with making tea and preparing a snack. He kept up a running commentary of the past few days in Gotham, the weather and other idle news, but Alfred clearly wasn’t listening. It was as if he’d had a sudden relapse into the crushing grief that had followed Batman’s death.
After half an hour of this, he had enough: Lucius sat down at the kitchen table and curtly announced, “Alfred! Sit!”
“Hm?” Alfred turned around from the window where he’d been busy watering the plants that didn’t look like they needed any fussing over, and focused on Lucius with difficulty. “Oh, right.” He dried his hands on a towel and sat down at the other end of the table, but he didn’t make any move to pick up his mug or try the biscuits Lucius had laid out.
“Alfred?” Lucius tried again, and only got an answering bob of the head in return. “What happened?”
The older man finally looked up, but the usual sparkle in his expressive eyes was gone, and he quickly lowered his empty gaze again. He looked as if he’d seen a ghost, and a sudden suspicion started to form at the back of Lucius’s mind. Before he could debate the wisdom of what he was about to say, he blurted out, “You saw him, didn’t you?”
Lucius had expected a variety of reactions to his statement, ranging from disbelief to anger - even fury - for keeping this secret from his friend. Instead he got…nothing. No raised eyebrow, no questioning glance, not even a twitch of a finger. Lucius frowned, deeply concerned now. Was the other man in shock?
“Did you hear me?” he tried once more. Again, no reaction.
Nervously, he slid from his chair and carefully knelt down by Alfred’s side to look up into his friend’s face.
That was when the tears started to fall. One second Alfred was staring at the hands folded in his lap, the next his eyes simply overflowed. He made no sound, just sat and cried in absolute, heart wrenching silence.
Lucius was lost. Not even the hours he had spent sitting next to a stony Alfred on the day after his return to the manor or his friend’s open display of grief in the Waynes’ tiny graveyard had been this unsettling. Not knowing what to do or how to console the old man, he simply stayed on the floor, waiting for anything other than this raw, unfiltered release of pain.
Eventually, the tears stopped. Lucius got up to fetch a box of tissues and winced when his steps made the old floorboards squeak, interrupting the stillness in the kitchen. He returned to Alfred within seconds and set the box on the table in front of him.
“Come, now,” Lucius said, not really noticing his words. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”
Automatically, Alfred reached for a tissue and blew his nose, still not looking at Lucius. Then he abruptly stood and vanished down the hallway leading further into the apartment.
Lucius gazed after him in worry but relaxed slightly when he heard water running in the bathroom. He teetered nervously for a minute, debating whether to follow his friend or let him be. In the end, he settled for brewing fresh tea and nibbling on a cookie to calm his frayed nerves.
Lucius was contemplating his fourth cookie of the night when Alfred reappeared in the doorway. He looked calmer, more composed - and definitely ashamed. He opened his mouth to speak, but Lucius cut him off to spare him the embarrassment. “Don’t worry about it. Sit down. I made fresh tea. You look like you could use it.”
His no-nonsense approach seemed to work. Alfred sat down and picked up a hot mug of tea, cradling it in his hands. Lucius noted their bluish tint with worry, but he guessed it was to be expected. The emotional outburst combined with a stressful week and the repeated jetlag had to have wreaked havoc on his friend’s system. Not to mention the after-effects of the hard, seemingly never-ending winter Alfred had endured on the other side of the bay while waiting for any news from Bruce or Batman and his friends.
They sat together in silence for a while until Alfred’s skin returned to its normal, healthier color, and he started nibbling on one of the cookies as well.
Lucius wasn’t sure whether to mention Alfred’s unexpected breakdown when the other man spoke up. “I saw him in Florence.”
Startled, Lucius glanced at him but found his friend’s eyes clear and - while still filled with sadness and worry - animated and aware.
“He knew where to find me because I had told him about the café before...” He swallowed and continued, “Before...everything between us went wrong.”
Lucius didn’t know the whole story, but over the past few months he had guessed enough of it from Alfred’s rarely offered comments about his time away from Gotham.
Alfred and Bruce were two of the most stubborn people Lucius had ever met and, once set on his path, neither man would ever back down. On principle, of course. Oh, the irony of it all. These two were more alike than they would ever know. How wonderful it was to think of Bruce still being alive!
Alfred was still speaking. “I know I should be glad he came to say goodbye - although we didn’t talk - but it is difficult to grasp. I always wanted him to leave this city and his self-appointed task, but I never thought I would not be part of his future. It was…different…when I thought him dead.”
He regarded Lucius guiltily. “I should be happy - he was with a friend, Selina Kyle, you remember her? - but…”
Lucius broke in. “But it’s hard to let a son go?” he offered, and Alfred finally smiled the ghost of a smile.
“Yes, it is,” he said, returning his attention to his biscuit.
They never spoke of this night again. There simply was no need.
Author: immertreu
Word count: ~26000 in total
Summary: When Alfred Pennyworth returns home after Bane's occupation of Gotham, his surrogate son is gone and his life in ruins. But Batman's friends remain - and therefore hope. - The story is finished. I will post one chapter out of seven every day.
List of chapters:
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
The day after the techs’ discovery that Bruce Wayne had indeed fixed the autopilot prior to his “death,” Lucius got a not-quite-panicky call from down below. When he entered the temporary R&D department, said technicians stood pointing at the Bat and whispering to each other. Lucius dismissed the two men and went to investigate.
He approached the vehicle slowly and hardly believed his eyes when he saw a yellow Post-it attached to its windscreen. He tore it off and read the note, which was written in handwriting he knew all too well. Back in the good old days, he’d seen it on business plans and sketches, and as doodles in the margins of dozens of reports. The words were short but to the point: Sorry I lied.
Lucius couldn’t help himself. He sat down where he stood and started laughing so hard that tears streaked down his face. After a minute of hysteric giggling, he slowly raised his fist, still clutching the tiny piece of paper, and yelled, “Apology accepted!” Lucius couldn’t be sure, but he thought he felt a slight displacement of air and a door falling shut behind him. He craned his neck to see, but there was no one there, of course.
Slightly embarrassed by his outburst and still giddy with excitement, he picked himself up from the floor, dusted off his old-fashioned suit - one of the few the mob hadn’t taken or destroyed - and went upstairs and back to work. He took the note with him and hid it in his safe. Just in case he ever started doubting himself again.
Bruce Wayne was alive. Lucius Fox had all the proof he needed.
Question was: Should he tell Alfred and the others?
Lucius lost a lot of sleep over the dilemma, but finally he decided that he would not tell Alfred, Commissioner Gordon and John Blake. Bruce Wayne had had a reason for disappearing, and it wasn’t Lucius’s place to contradict his plan, whatever it may be.
He had always trusted the young billionaire, however hair-raising his shenanigans had been. Lucius wouldn’t betray that trust now, not after everything they had been through. He kept quiet, focusing his energy on reinstating the Wayne family’s name and wealth instead. Loyalty demanded it of him. And the money would be put to good use. Alfred and he would see to that.
So when the day came for Lucius to go the office where Bruce Wayne’s will would be read, he went with a guilty conscience and a heavy heart. Staying silent in front of a shocked Alfred who was the main beneficiary was the real challenge, so he left the proceedings as soon as he could. He was still furious with himself that he hadn’t yet managed to prove the fraud that had cost Bruce his money and his reputation, but he wouldn’t give up. It had to be there. He just needed more time.
On his way out the front door, the CEO bumped into a very preoccupied Blake and regarded him curiously.
The former cop simply shrugged. “Don’t look at me,” he said. “I’m as surprised as you are. I have no idea what they want with me.”
Lucius smiled inwardly. Oh, he suddenly had a very good idea what or rather who had brought the younger man here, but he didn’t voice his thoughts out loud and replied, “Well then, good luck.” Seeing Blake’s inquisitive gaze, he added, “Maybe he left you one of those awful statues that adorned the sitting room downstairs.” I would really like to know how he changed his will after his “death”, though…
Chuckling to himself, he sent the bewildered young man on his way and fled. When he was out of earshot of any passersby, he murmured under his breath, “Bruce, what are you up to now, hm?” He didn’t get a reply, of course.
Later in the day, John stood in awe when the previously hidden platform rose out of the underground river and carried him into the air. He slowly turned and looked around, trying to detect any more wonders hidden in this cave that had been Batman’s lair. The gloom made it hard to see, and the platform stopped. Nothing else happened. He groaned.
“Oh, come on, you didn’t just bring me here to find a lookout, did you?” He cursed and took an additional step - and the sole of his boot hit a tiny irregularity in the surface of the platform.
He knelt and held his flare close to the floor. It was hidden very well, making it almost invisible, but there was definitely a rectangle etched into the smooth stone slab. John was still crouching over the indentation, looking for any hidden buttons or levers, when a brittle voice, rough with age and sorrow, rang out behind him.
“I can’t let you do it.”
John spun around, realizing too late that he wasn’t a cop anymore and didn’t have a weapon to defend himself. Then he recognized Alfred Pennyworth standing on a ledge a couple of meters away from him, on the other side of a man-made chasm. It separated the platform Blake himself was standing on from the butler’s vantage point.
“What?” John stood and squinted into the semi-darkness, trying to make out the other man’s expression, but the light of his flare didn’t reach far enough.
“I can’t let you do it!” the old man replied, more forcefully this time. “I will not watch another fine young man slip into this darkness, this madness Master Wayne created.” A slight quiver in his voice betrayed the still raw pain over his charge’s death. “Enough is enough. It cost one man his life. It will not take another.”
“But…” John tried to cut in but got interrupted immediately.
“There is no but, Detective Blake. Go home. And if you expect to sneak back in later and find anything useful here, you won’t. This was Batman’s home. Everything here is protected by a minimum of three layers of security. You will never be able to get any of his equipment working again, so you better give up now. I will not help you to throw your life away.” And with that harsh statement, he simply turned to leave.
John stared after his retreating back and finally yelled into the darkness, “But he brought me here!” He didn’t have to clarify who the “he” was. They both knew all too well that only Batman could have shown Blake the way.
Alfred didn’t stop or turn around. “Then you were a fool to follow him.”
One heartbeat later, he was gone, and John stood alone in oppressing darkness which had seemed welcoming only minutes before. He resisted the childish urge to throw his flare away in anger and swore heartfelt instead. “Dammit!”
The shadows didn’t reply.
John returned to the cave several times after that, but he never got any farther than on the very first day. The platform he’d stepped on then seemed to be pressure sensitive, that’s why it had risen - and continued to do so - each time he entered the batcave, but nothing else ever happened. Alfred caught him on the tenth day while he was snooping around the perimeter of the cavern with a powerful flashlight.
Before John could say anything, the old man shook his head. “The answer is still no.” And he left as quickly and silently as he’d come.
John never saw him go, and it unnerved him. The old man was more like Batman than he wanted to admit.
************************************************************
Jim had a sudden sense of déjà vu. But last time the commissioner had gone to bang on Alfred Pennyworth’s door - more than six weeks ago - said door had been an actual double-set and probably cost more than a simple cop earned in five years. The notion was ridiculous but probably true.
“Commissioner?” Alfred regarded his nightly visitor suspiciously but finally let him in and led him into the living room of his new apartment he’d rented in one of the outer parts of the city - pretty close to Wayne Manor but inside the city’s boundaries.
They settled into the sitting area, each man equipped with a glass of their favorite drink in hand. Silence descended.
Jim was still thinking about how to broach the subject for his visit when Alfred spoke up. “It was my idea, actually,” he said, almost smugly, setting down his glass of bourbon on a coaster that matched the color of the mahogany coffee table perfectly.
Jim gaped at him, almost dropping his glass of beer. “How did you know…?” he spluttered in surprise. Recovering, he added, “Never mind. Your idea?”
Alfred nodded, looking unperturbed. “Yes. People needed to be distracted from the truth. No one was allowed to even suspect that there was a connection between Batman and Bruce Wayne. They needed to see him as nothing more than a pretty face with a lot of dollars in his pocket.”
He sighed and continued, “Master Wayne wasn’t very happy about playing this particular part, but he knew it was necessary. And it obviously worked because no one ever guessed. Well, almost. You remember Coleman Reese, I presume?”
Jim snorted. “How could I forget?” He grew still for a moment, pondering the question. “So that’s what that weird look between them was all about. Bruce crashed his Lamborghini and saved Reese’s life who finally understood what his employer was really doing: protecting the people of his city, no matter who they were. Once a hero - always a hero, I guess.”
“Indeed, Commissioner.”
They raised their glasses in tribute to a very special young man.
Relaxing in the older man’s presence, Jim couldn’t stop himself. He had to ask. “How did he do it?” Not looking at Alfred but sensing the other man’s questioning gaze, he added, “Who taught him to become such an incredible fighter? A figure every criminal in the city would fear? To sneak around, clinging to buildings and flying through the air unseen?”
When he did look up, Alfred’s expression had become unreadable, carefully controlled. It was obvious the topic hurt more than he had originally let on. Jim cursed himself for his insensitivity. “I’m sorry. It’s too soon. I shouldn’t have…”
Alfred waved him off with a raised hand. “No, Commissioner, it is quite all right. You deserve to know.”
Jim fell silent and waited for the other man to order his thoughts. Finally, Alfred spoke up, his all-too-knowing eyes fixed on Jim.
“Most of what I am about to tell you are stories Master Bruce or Rachel Dawes related to me. Neither of them would ever have lied to me, so I can only ask you to accept them as the truth and try to understand what drove Bruce to leave Gotham for seven years.”
The commissioner nodded in silence, grasping the gravity of the moment and the importance of what he was about to hear.
“I am sure you don’t know about this, but Master Bruce once plotted to kill the man who murdered his parents.”
Jim’s glass slipped in his grip, and he set it down heavily. He bit his tongue so as not to ask the obvious question: What happened? Alfred would tell him soon enough, in his own way.
As if reading his thoughts, the old butler smiled sadly and nodded in confirmation. “Oh, yes. He bought a gun - I don’t know how or where - and went to the trial to avenge his parents, but someone else killed Mr. Chill before he could get to him.” He swallowed. “For that I will eternally be grateful because if he had pulled the trigger that day, you know as well as I do, that he would have been lost to us forever.”
Jim didn’t trust his voice after this revelation, so he simply waited for Alfred to continue.
“Rachel found out about Bruce’s intentions right after the shooting. She told me she slapped him and yelled at him, and then she basically threw him out of her car. That was the last time she saw him before he vanished.”
Finally finding his voice, Jim asked, “That never was in any of the police reports. You always said Bruce simply vanished after the trial, that he never came home. When did Rachel tell you about all this?”
Alfred looked at him with deep sorrow and replied, “She told me many years later, when Bruce was already back and fighting for his city. I guess she had not wanted me to worry any more than I already had. Maybe she had feared he had taken his own life with the gun. I don’t know. But I do know that Master Bruce did not become a murderer that night or on any after.”
Jim drew a deep breath in relief, and Alfred continued, “He ran from his old life because he could not cope with it. His parents’ killer was dead, so the only one left alive to shoulder the responsibility for the dreadful night they died was Bruce himself. I always knew he blamed himself because he had asked Mr. and Mrs. Wayne to leave the theater early. I failed in convincing him of the truth, that it was not his fault. You know how stubborn he could be.”
Silent understanding passed between them.
“He never told me about all his travels, but I know that he crossed many countries and many continents to become a criminal.” Seeing Jim’s eyebrows rise, he added, “Not in the usual sense. He lived among the underworld to understand the thugs and thieves, to study how they thought and why they did what they did, but not to become one of them. He wanted to learn everything about them, so that one day he would be able to fight them. But he never reached his goal until he met Henri Ducard, also known as Ra’s al Ghul, in Tibet.”
“Tibet?” Jim asked, taking a sip from his forgotten drink and making a face because his beer had long gone stale.
“Indeed,” Alfred confirmed. “Ducard knew who Bruce was - however he found out - and sprung him from prison.”
“Prison?!”
Alfred looked amused. “Master Bruce got caught stealing materials from Wayne Enterprises. I guess he thought ending up in jail was just another way of learning about the lives of the criminal.”
“Huh.” Jim shook his head. “He sure never did anything the easy way, did he?”
“Never.” The old butler smiled fondly at the familiar joke. “Anyway, Ducard gave him a new reason to live, to learn, to conquer his fears and master his body, to become the perfect spy and soldier. Yet there was one thing Ducard could never teach him: to kill. Bruce had learned his lesson, the difference between justice and revenge, long ago.”
Jim’s sigh was heartfelt. “I guess I know where this is leading,” he said, and Alfred nodded in confirmation.
“Ducard eventually tried to force Bruce to murder a man - he refused and a fight erupted. Fire broke out, and the monastery where they lived was destroyed. Master Bruce finally returned home because he had learned everything he needed to know. A few months later, Ducard came to Gotham.”
Startled, Jim looked up. “They met again?”
“Oh, indeed. Ducard burnt down Wayne Manor.”
The commissioner flinched, remembering the scandalous news reports in the days after a “drunk Bruce Wayne” had managed to throw out his guests and lay fire to his own family’s house. Alfred added, “The madman wasn’t done, though. I am sure you remember the incident in the Narrows all too well.”
Shuddering, Jim raised his glass, only to put it down again at the sight of the washed out yellow liquid that had once been a sparkling beverage. “Of course, I remember. Batman let me drive his black monster of a car.” With a wistful note to his voice, he added, “I always wanted one of those.” Catching himself, he asked, “What happened to Ducard?”
The old butler calmly looked him in the eye. “He died in the wreckage of the monorail train.”
“Ah.” Nothing more had to be said, so Jim forcefully switched the topic, indicating his half-filled glass. “I don’t mean to be rude, but would you happen to have anything else to drink? I’m afraid this has long passed the state where it could be called potable.”
Alfred sent a knowing smile his way and stood up to get the commissioner another drink. “Of course.” When he returned with a fresh glass and another bottle, he asked, “Did you know John Blake has taken a position as sports coach and teacher at Father Reilly’s new orphanage?”
Jim looked at him in surprise. He hadn’t seen Blake in quite a while, assuming the other man was simply busy finding a new purpose in life. He should have guessed that the former cop wouldn’t abandon his old mentor and the children, though.
“No, I didn’t,” he replied, a question in his voice.
Alfred sat down again, leaning back against his comfortable pillows. “Yes. They moved in last week, right after the city council approved it. They had to make sure everything was child-safe and properly outfitted to house three dozen rowdy teenagers.” There was no malice in his voice, only a wistful tone betraying his thoughts. He was obviously remembering another child who had grown up in the house the old butler had called home for more than four decades.
They spent the rest of the evening in companionable silence, remembering a troubled boy who had turned into an unhappy young man, trying not to think of what could have been. And what should have been.
************************************************************
Early on the following morning, Alfred drove out to Wayne Manor to visit “his” family’s tiny graveyard and to lay down fresh flowers. The old butler knew that his charge wasn’t really resting in the grave that was marked as his, but where else was he supposed to go to grieve and remember?
The old man entered the fenced-in patch of grass mottled with headstones with a feeling of dread, but he shouldn’t have worried. Blake or Father Reilly would never allow any of the orphaned boys to disturb the graves. Besides, they might be troubled and sad, yes, but they were good kids, trying very hard to help the priest and the people of Gotham to reclaim their city.
Everything was peaceful and quiet. Alfred stood with his head bowed for a while, thinking - as he had done so many times before - that he should be the one resting in this earth and not young Bruce Wayne’s memory. As usual, he stopped these depressing thoughts before they could really take hold in his soul.
Finally, the faithful butler turned away from Master Bruce’s grave and went over to solemnly regard Thomas and Martha’s headstone. He brushed away some imaginary dirt from the engravings and suddenly noticed two white roses resting at the base of the marker. The blooms were fresh, the stalks cut even more recent than the one of the single flower Alfred had placed on Bruce’s patch only a few minutes ago. Whoever had put them there must have left right before Alfred himself arrived.
Startled, he looked up, but there was no one there. Suddenly nervous, Alfred took one last gaze around and started back toward his car, chiding himself for his skittishness. Maybe Blake or Lucius or even the commissioner had placed the flowers there; or some very old friend of the Waynes who had heard of their son’s untimely demise had decided to pay his respects. No use in getting paranoid, Alfred firmly told himself. The days of hunting mobsters are long past, you lead a normal life now. He slowly brought his old sedan to life and drove toward the city.
Alfred could have bought a better car with the money Master Bruce had left him, of course, because even his diminished heritage was a lot of money for someone who had lived on a butler’s salary - a very generous butler’s salary - for decades; yet it hadn’t felt right to buy himself a fancy car no one else would ever use. And the memory of Bruce’s beloved Lamborghini was still too fresh in Alfred’s mind.
Even when he had returned home and closed the apartment door behind him, Alfred still felt on edge. He debated whether to pour himself a stiff drink but decided against it. Instead, he put on the old kettle he had rescued from Mrs. Wayne’s ancient kitchen after the fire a few years ago, and set about making tea.
The rest of the day passed without any unusual occurrence. Alfred met with Lucius for lunch as they did on most days, but other than that, he simply stayed at home and read several papers from out of town. The Gotham Times had taken up reporting about important world events a few weeks ago, but most of the pages were still filled with pictures of missing people, obituary notices and requests for help or offers of assistance in exchange for rare goods or other services. In short: It was depressing.
Alfred went to bed still feeling restless and not knowing why.
Late that night, after maybe two or three hours of sleep, Alfred jerked awake. He didn’t know where the notion had come from, but he got out of bed, dragged down an old suitcase from the closet and starting packing for a few days or even weeks abroad. At six in the morning, he called Lucius and asked his old friend to pick him up and drive him to the airport. The now reinstated CEO of Wayne Enterprises didn’t ask any questions about the odd request, he simply confirmed he would be there half an hour later, and hung up. Another quick phone call to the airfield closest to Gotham City made sure that there was indeed a plane going to Florence that day - and that Alfred would be on it. Having money to spare did have its advantages.
Fifteen hours later, nervous, properly jet-lagged but as sure as he would ever be that his former employer was still alive, Alfred sat in a beautiful spot in his favorite café in Florence, drinking cappuccino and observing his surroundings, waiting for a miracle. He still didn’t know when he had made the connection, but reading all those newspapers must have had something to do with it. His subconscious had connected the date to the fact that every year he was in Gotham, Bruce Wayne had placed two beautiful white roses on his parents’ grave on the anniversary of their deaths - roses like the ones Alfred had found there only one day ago.
So he sat and waited, consuming unhealthy amounts of coffee and the best the Italian restaurant had to offer. On the fifth day, one of the waiters who had been there every day since Alfred arrived approached him a little timidly.
“Scusi, signore!”
“Sì?” Alfred looked at him in surprise, abandoning his paper.
The younger man shifted his weight, arguing with himself, and finally dared to ask in slightly accented English, “Are you waiting for someone?”
Alfred nodded, and the waiter inquired, “Whom?”
They regarded each other for a moment, and when the older man detected no malice but pure kindness in the other man’s face, Alfred answered with finality: “My son.”
“Ah!” With a nod and a smile, the waiter disappeared and left the old butler to wonder about their short exchange. Two minutes later, the server returned and placed a glass of Alfred’s favorite Italian wine in front of him. “On the house,” he confirmed, and vanished as quickly as he had appeared before Alfred could think of a reply.
Alfred never met him again, but he made sure to leave a generous tip and precise instructions for its delivery with the head waiter before he went back to his hotel room that night, thinking of the man who had seen more than just an old Englishman on vacation but one who was in need of an act of kindness and encouragement.
He returned the next morning, idly looking around the restaurant, hoping against hope that his dearest wish would come true. When it finally did and he laid eyes on a sight he had never dreamed of seeing again, it sent a violent jolt through him. The old man froze for a moment, not believing his eyes, but when young Master Bruce raised his gaze to meet his, his world started turning again.
Alfred wanted to jump up and scream in joy, run over to where his surrogate son sat, alive and well, but he stopped himself and simply returned the shy smile directed at him with a nod.
Bruce looked different. More relaxed than Alfred had ever seen him since he was a boy. His hair was longer, but maybe that was simply his imagination. The most startling change was in his eyes, though. There were so many emotions there that Alfred didn’t know what to make of it. Pride. Gratefulness. Sorrow. Happiness. Love. All the things Master Wayne had never allowed himself to express openly.
Bruce broke the eye-contact first. Realizing this was the goodbye Alfred had always wished for but never thought possible, he took one last glance toward the boy he’d raised - and wasn’t that Selina, the light-fingered maid he’d hired a few months ago, sitting opposite Bruce? - paid his bill and left, sadness and overflowing joy battling in his heart. He thought he heard a soft voice behind his back saying “Goodbye, old friend,” but he couldn’t be sure. He didn’t look back.
The last of the Waynes was alive and free. Maybe now Alfred could finally find peace as well, once his mind stopped reeling. He left the restaurant in a daze, without really seeing anything or anyone.
The journey back to Gotham passed in a blur.
Alfred knew he must have called Lucius while packing his suitcase at the hotel because his loyal friend was waiting for him when his plane landed at the airfield. Yet the rest of the way back to the States was simply gone from his memory. His mind was fixated on that last long look and the face he thought he’d never see again.
Lucius immediately sensed his friend’s confusion and atypical detachment. Not knowing the reason and not yet daring to ask - Alfred had retreated behind a wall of silence the moment he entered the car - he simply drove him home. An hour later, he followed a dazed looking Alfred to his apartment, took the key from his unresisting hands, and almost shoved his unmoving friend through the open door.
The old butler slightly came to his senses afterwards, puttering around the familiar surroundings, opening windows and letting in air - or rather what passed for a “fresh” breeze in Gotham these days - but he still didn’t speak or offer any explanation for his trip and his sudden return.
Lucius, somewhat amused but also worried by Alfred’s unusual behavior and continued silence, busied himself with making tea and preparing a snack. He kept up a running commentary of the past few days in Gotham, the weather and other idle news, but Alfred clearly wasn’t listening. It was as if he’d had a sudden relapse into the crushing grief that had followed Batman’s death.
After half an hour of this, he had enough: Lucius sat down at the kitchen table and curtly announced, “Alfred! Sit!”
“Hm?” Alfred turned around from the window where he’d been busy watering the plants that didn’t look like they needed any fussing over, and focused on Lucius with difficulty. “Oh, right.” He dried his hands on a towel and sat down at the other end of the table, but he didn’t make any move to pick up his mug or try the biscuits Lucius had laid out.
“Alfred?” Lucius tried again, and only got an answering bob of the head in return. “What happened?”
The older man finally looked up, but the usual sparkle in his expressive eyes was gone, and he quickly lowered his empty gaze again. He looked as if he’d seen a ghost, and a sudden suspicion started to form at the back of Lucius’s mind. Before he could debate the wisdom of what he was about to say, he blurted out, “You saw him, didn’t you?”
Lucius had expected a variety of reactions to his statement, ranging from disbelief to anger - even fury - for keeping this secret from his friend. Instead he got…nothing. No raised eyebrow, no questioning glance, not even a twitch of a finger. Lucius frowned, deeply concerned now. Was the other man in shock?
“Did you hear me?” he tried once more. Again, no reaction.
Nervously, he slid from his chair and carefully knelt down by Alfred’s side to look up into his friend’s face.
That was when the tears started to fall. One second Alfred was staring at the hands folded in his lap, the next his eyes simply overflowed. He made no sound, just sat and cried in absolute, heart wrenching silence.
Lucius was lost. Not even the hours he had spent sitting next to a stony Alfred on the day after his return to the manor or his friend’s open display of grief in the Waynes’ tiny graveyard had been this unsettling. Not knowing what to do or how to console the old man, he simply stayed on the floor, waiting for anything other than this raw, unfiltered release of pain.
Eventually, the tears stopped. Lucius got up to fetch a box of tissues and winced when his steps made the old floorboards squeak, interrupting the stillness in the kitchen. He returned to Alfred within seconds and set the box on the table in front of him.
“Come, now,” Lucius said, not really noticing his words. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”
Automatically, Alfred reached for a tissue and blew his nose, still not looking at Lucius. Then he abruptly stood and vanished down the hallway leading further into the apartment.
Lucius gazed after him in worry but relaxed slightly when he heard water running in the bathroom. He teetered nervously for a minute, debating whether to follow his friend or let him be. In the end, he settled for brewing fresh tea and nibbling on a cookie to calm his frayed nerves.
Lucius was contemplating his fourth cookie of the night when Alfred reappeared in the doorway. He looked calmer, more composed - and definitely ashamed. He opened his mouth to speak, but Lucius cut him off to spare him the embarrassment. “Don’t worry about it. Sit down. I made fresh tea. You look like you could use it.”
His no-nonsense approach seemed to work. Alfred sat down and picked up a hot mug of tea, cradling it in his hands. Lucius noted their bluish tint with worry, but he guessed it was to be expected. The emotional outburst combined with a stressful week and the repeated jetlag had to have wreaked havoc on his friend’s system. Not to mention the after-effects of the hard, seemingly never-ending winter Alfred had endured on the other side of the bay while waiting for any news from Bruce or Batman and his friends.
They sat together in silence for a while until Alfred’s skin returned to its normal, healthier color, and he started nibbling on one of the cookies as well.
Lucius wasn’t sure whether to mention Alfred’s unexpected breakdown when the other man spoke up. “I saw him in Florence.”
Startled, Lucius glanced at him but found his friend’s eyes clear and - while still filled with sadness and worry - animated and aware.
“He knew where to find me because I had told him about the café before...” He swallowed and continued, “Before...everything between us went wrong.”
Lucius didn’t know the whole story, but over the past few months he had guessed enough of it from Alfred’s rarely offered comments about his time away from Gotham.
Alfred and Bruce were two of the most stubborn people Lucius had ever met and, once set on his path, neither man would ever back down. On principle, of course. Oh, the irony of it all. These two were more alike than they would ever know. How wonderful it was to think of Bruce still being alive!
Alfred was still speaking. “I know I should be glad he came to say goodbye - although we didn’t talk - but it is difficult to grasp. I always wanted him to leave this city and his self-appointed task, but I never thought I would not be part of his future. It was…different…when I thought him dead.”
He regarded Lucius guiltily. “I should be happy - he was with a friend, Selina Kyle, you remember her? - but…”
Lucius broke in. “But it’s hard to let a son go?” he offered, and Alfred finally smiled the ghost of a smile.
“Yes, it is,” he said, returning his attention to his biscuit.
They never spoke of this night again. There simply was no need.