Chapter Text
When I was young, I loved superheroes. Still do, really, but as a kid, I dreamed of one day being one of them. Flying through the air, using my powers to help the people of the world.
To me, being a hero was all about the special abilities, about fighting crime and saving people and bringing justice by defeating the villains that we all face.
It was being recognized and loved by everyone.
.
Alfred wiped the sweat from his forehead as he looked up at the house, grinning madly in the summer sun. It was on the smaller side, sure, but it was his, and he loved it.
He'd moved for the promotion from narcotics to homicide, changing stations, leaving behind the bustling inner city for a more suburban area. The new neighborhood was quiet, with trim yards and large trees that provided perfect amounts of shade. Little old ladies puttered about in their gardens, and there was a family of six down the way, the kids shouting and running around on their summer vacation. A few cars were parked along the street, and the community even had a pool. It was great.
Turning back to the moving truck sitting in his new driveway, Alfred went back to pulling box after box out of it, stacking them up to carry in. His large furniture had arrived a couple days before and was already set up, but he had buttloads of knickknacks and books and other stuff that was going to make the house his home.
His arms strained as he grabbed one of the larger boxes, definitely full of textbook-sized bricks, grunting as he pulled it out of the truck. Swinging around, he bumped into the towering boxes that were his shelves to be put back together, and he yelped as they began falling over on top of him, unable to hold out a hand to stop them without dropping his books on his foot.
"AH!"
"Shit—"
The one right above him stopped just inches from his face, while a couple of the others crashed to the ground. Alfred looked up, catching sight of an arm holding onto the box above him, and a face leaned around the side, frowning down at him with eyes the color of freshly mown grass. He had a splash of freckles across his nose, which was pinched up adorably as he struggled with the boxed shelves.
"Are you alright?" The voice was accented, English, and Alfred shook himself out of his slight trance.
"Oh, thanks, man," he said, moving away from his boxes and helping the man to right the boxes. "I thought I was a goner there. What a sad way to go, huh?"
The man looked over at him, large (like, dude those are big) eyebrow raised in skepticism. "I suppose," he finally said, slowly, as if unsure whether he should humor Alfred or not. He cleared his throat, straightening his — is that a sweater vest? Oh, god, he's so cute — and running a hand through the mop of messily done blond hair. "Well, if you're alright, then I shall take my leave. You should be more careful, though. Good day."
Alfred blinked as he began walking to the house next to his, eventually shaking himself out of the abrupt shock of the departure long enough to shout, "Hey! I'm Alfred, by the way! Alfred Jones!"
The Englishman looked back at him, pausing for a moment before calling back "Arthur Kirkland, pleasure" and closing his door behind him.
.
For years, that's all I believed made a hero: how many people knew your name, knew who you were. I wanted to be known, to be a crime-fighter, someone that protected the innocent.
That's why I became a detective. Batman's a detective and a superhero, so why not me, right? I wanted to be that cop that chased the bad guys all over town, living the epic, adrenaline-fueled dream of knocking 'em to the ground and cuffing 'em, reading 'em their rights.
And I am one hell of a detective, don't get me wrong. But I've learned that being a hero… it's not all about fame and fortune.
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"Shit, shit, shit," Alfred cursed, scowling at the steering wheel of his car as he turned the key. The engine wasn't turning over properly, his car wasn't starting, and he had a case to be at like yesterday. Groaning in frustration, he hit the wheel petulantly, flopping back in his seat and running a hand through his hair.
The sky was in the transitioning phase between too-early morning and dawn, a deep blue with hints of the crystal morning light blue on the eastern horizon. The buses had come to get the kids for school, and the baker that lived down the street who loved to annoy his neighbor had dropped off fresh bread on Alfred's porch as he went in to work, like he did every day.
And Alfred was still sitting in his car, slumped over the steering wheel and not at work.
"Car troubles?" a voice asked, and Alfred's lip twitched as he looked up into green eyes looking into the window on the passenger's side.
"How'd you guess?" he asked mockingly, leaning back. He sighed despondently. "Yeah, it won't start."
"Hm." Arthur turned on his heel, walking back toward his house. Alfred watched him, in his white robe and plaid pajamas and green bunny slippers that Alfred had made fun of the first few times while secret melting into goo on the inside because they were seriously the cutest things ever. He almost didn't register it when his neighbor came back, holding a pair of cables in his hands.
"Sounded like the battery," he said, walking to the front of the car. "Open the bonnet, would you?"
Luckily, Alfred had been living next to his very British neighbor for long enough to know that was Arthur-speak for "hood", and he pressed the button to release it. Looking out his window, he saw the other end of the cables connected to Arthur's modest little sedan, ready to charge him up. It took a couple times, but he finally got his car to start, and the sound of his running engine put a smile on his face.
"Thanks so much, Artie!" Alfred laughed, sliding back into his car after helping Arthur put the cables way. "Man, you're a life-saver."
Arthur gave a small quirk of his lips, crossing his arms. "No, you're the life-saver, Detective. I'm just a librarian." He started back toward his house with a small wave. "Have a good day, Alfred."
Alfred waved back, putting the car in reverse. "You too, Artie!"
.
I've come to realize that you don't have to fight crime, or bring justice, or have superpowers to be a hero. You don't have to be known all over the world, with people shouting your name in praise and rejoicing your very existence.
I've come to realize the real heroes are the ones we never even hear of at all.
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The sun beat down on his back as Alfred bent over his car's engine, wiping his oil-stained hands on a rag. Music played from the radio situated on a stool by his garage door, blaring classic rock hits and modern pop tunes into the summer afternoon. It was his day off, and he planned to spend it as lazily as he could get away with.
"I'm hot-blooded, check it and see," he sang along with the radio, smiling as he danced to the song. "I got a fever of a hundred and three! C'mon, baby, do ya do more than dance?"
"I do, in fact, do more than dance, yes."
Spinning on his heel, Alfred grinned widely at Arthur standing on the porch, in the shade. His fair skin was still red from their weekend at the lake, and he was being extra cautious not to worsen the sunburn. Alfred dropped the rag to the ground, panting in the heat as he jogged up to his boyfriend, who had a large pitcher of homemade lemonade and glasses sitting on the small glass table by the porch swing.
"Reading Shakespeare and embroidery don't count, Artie," he teased, leaning down to plant a sweaty kiss to the Englishman's lips.
Arthur grunted in annoyance, rolling his eyes. "Of course they do," he countered. "Because you'd count playing video games and seeing how man marshmallows you can stuff in that fat mouth of yours at once."
Alfred waggled his eyebrows. "You love my fat mouth, though."
Arthur snorted, a grin playing on his lips. "Yes, I do." He leaned up, proving his point by stealing another kiss. "You're burning up, love," he commented as he pulled back. "How long have you been out here?"
"Eh, few hours, now," Alfred replied, wiping sweat away. "I mowed earlier, and there was trash to be taken out." He fanned himself dramatically. "It is pretty hot, though. New record, I hear."
Humming in concern to himself, Arthur turned and grabbed a glass, filling it with the lemonade and handing it over to Alfred. "Well, don't overwork yourself. You need to stay hydrated."
"Thanks, sweetheart." Taking a large gulp of the just-this-side-of-perfect lemonade, Alfred sighed in content. "My hero, always watching out for me."
Arthur smiled for real that time, wide and soft, reaching up to pull Alfred's face to his for a kiss. "Anytime, love."
.
They're the ones that float through life just like we all do. They come in, unannounced, unassuming, just living day to day.
They're the ones that we bump into on the subway and don't apologize to because we're in a rush.
They're the ones that take our orders at the coffee shop with a smile that we don't even look at because we're wrapped up in ourselves.
They're the ones that we take for granted, because we expect their kindness to be the way things just are.
.
"Artie, we can't just leave him here!" Alfred was this close to pouting, staring down at the little ball of fur that was hunched up in his arms. He was a cute little guy, despite the matted fur; his eyes were an astounding green, wide and bright.
Arthur had his nose covered, looking torn. "Alfred, you know I'm allergic to cats," he said patiently. He paused, and a sneeze erupted. "We can't keep him, love. I'd love to, but—" Another sneeze interrupted.
Alfred looked down at the kitten, his lip trembling as the little ball of fluff looked up at him with sad eyes, as if he knew he'd be back on the streets any minute now. Alfred's heart was torn, wanting so bad to give him a home, yet unwilling to put Arthur through allergy-hell by keeping him. He knew, of course, that Arthur would always come first, but he had a weakness for cats, especially kittens, and especially for little Scottish Folds that looked like his boyfriend.
It had been worth a try, though, and Alfred set the kitten back on the ground, letting his hand linger on the soft fur. "I'm sorry, buddy," he said softly. The kitten bowed its head, as if saying he understood. "But I'm not gonna make Artie suffer sneeze attacks all the time. I love him like that, you know?"
When he stood back up, Arthur wrapped him in a tight hug, and they made their way home from their trip to the store in silence.
For the next few days, Arthur was quiet, thoughtful, and if it weren't for the demand of the most recent case — they were tracking the motives of a suspected serial killer, one who hadn't been seen or heard from in nearly three years, which was why it was throwing them all off — he would've noticed the increase in pill bottles, the random legal papers lying around, and his boyfriend's new obsession with pet toys and the like.
And he didn't notice until a week or so later, when his birthday crept up out of nowhere, and Arthur came home with a carrier and a sack of things from a pet store.
"Whatcha got there, Artie?" he called from the porch, heading down to help his boyfriend carry it all in.
"It's a surprise, isn't it?" Arthur groused, huffing under the weight. "Let me get inside, and I'll let you see."
Deciding to go with the flow, Alfred helped get everything in the house, and then let his boyfriend sit him on the couch, staring up at him expectantly.
"So?"
Bringing the carrier into the room, Alfred kept his eyes on it as Arthur set it on the floor, opening the door. "It's alright, love," he cooed to it. "You can come out now."
Puzzled, Alfred looked between the carrier and Arthur until a small head popped out, orange and white fur surrounding big, green eyes.
"Oh my god!" Alfred fell to his knees with a smile on his face, immediately scooping up the kitten. "Oh, Artie! Wha— I don't— how?" he asked, looking at his boyfriend. Arthur sat back, smiling at the sight that was Alfred nuzzling a kitten that adored the attention.
"I talked to my doctor right after you found him," he started, "and he prescribed some allergy pills that will help the worst of my symptoms, which is really only bad sneezing and watery eyes." He looked down at his hands. "You just looked so miserable having to leave him there, so I found him a few days later and took him to a vet, got him all checked out and vaccinated, and I was working on adoption papers this past week."
Alfred's eyes were wide as he gazed fondly at the man sitting across from him. "He's ours?"
Arthur laughed. "Yes, love, he's ours. He still needs a name, though. I asked if I could hold off on that until you'd seen him."
Surging forward, Alfred ended up in Arthur's lap, pressing kisses to every patch of skin on his face he could find. "Thank you so much, sweetheart. You really didn't have to do this."
"I know," Arthur laughed again, cupping Alfred's face gently. "But I love you too much to ever say no again."
Alfred chuckled, stealing another kiss. "You say no plenty," he pointed out. "And I love you too." He looked down at the kitten, which was looking up at them with bright eyes, tail swinging lazily. "You know, he reminds me of you, which is why I wanted him. I think you should name him."
Arthur hummed, petting the kitten's head softly, eliciting quiet purrs. "Hm, yes, he is much like me, isn't he?" He paused, looking at the kitten for a long moment before answering. "Scone, I think. I'd like to name him Scone."
Scone purred louder, nuzzling against Arthur's wrist, and Alfred smiled again. "I think we have a winner." He pressed another kiss to Arthur's lips, then another to his forehead. "You saved him, Artie. Thank you."
Arthur returned the kisses, wrapping his arms around Alfred. "And I'd do it all again in a heartbeat. For you."
.
The real heroes don't dress in weird costumes, using cool gadgets to get around town, gunning down drug lords and terrorism activists every other day, chasing criminals to the ends of the earth to lock them up and serve justice on the silver platter.
Real heroes are the ones that give all of themselves without a word, who expect nothing in return; that do good things because that's what people should do, not because they'll be called a good person; that are there for you when everyone else leaves you behind.
So yeah, I'm a kickass detective, fighting crime and locking up the bad guys, saving the day one murder investigation at a time. But the real hero isn't me.
It's the librarian that works at the downtown library, who enjoys Shakespeare and embroidery, and who most people write off as just another face in the crowd, on the way to nowhere, who volunteers at the children's hospital on the weekends and has adopted two cats even though he's allergic because he knows it makes me happy.
He's my hero.
And I hope, one day, I can be his, too.