Archive of Our Own

Joker's patched up face peered up from the front page, his hands cuffed, and Alfred resisted the urge to crumple the paper. Not a day went by that didn't include a reminder of all the things lurking on the streets of Gotham. As he turned the page, the headlines declared a gang of street muggers had been caught, an elderly lady had been saved from getting hit by a truck, and a little boy had been found unharmed and hungry after having gone missing for two days. Only one drunk driver had crashed and died, and he hadn't taken anyone with him. On the whole, this was almost a good day, he thought, and let the paper fall on the table.

He looked at the opposite side of the table, the empty seat, and sighed. It had been four months and he still struggled with the fact that he was all alone in the Wayne Manor, keeping the place up until his young master would return from his newest escapades. Learning valuable crime fighting skills, Bruce had called it, but Alfred wasn't so sure. Running off to who knows where by himself and dealing with criminals weren't Alfred's idea of learning imporant life skills. Reckless and immature, more like, but he had seen the look on Bruce's face and known immediately that this would be an argument he would lose, so he had merely agreed to hold the fort. There were few instances where he could say no to his young master and this had been one of those. It was a weakness he had learned to accept.

He felt the pocket of his vest, the hard edges of a postcard, and took a deep breath. One postcard and two phone calls in four months. It wasn't much but it was something. Without taking the card out of the pocket, he pictured the two hastily written lines and a solid capital B, all of it lightly smeared by now due to his repeated handling of the poor, beloved card.

Settling into my new place. Don't worry.

B

In all these four months Alfred hadn't figured out where Bruce's new home away from home was. The postcard had come from London, but the two phone calls he had received had been made early in the morning and late in the evening, and he hadn't heard any distinctive background noises indicating Bruce's location. He could be in England or he could be elsewhere in Europe, or Asia, or the bloody Antarctica. He could even be in Gotham and Alfred wouldn't know about it.

The wind had turned unexpectedly chilly, Alfred thought, as he stepped inside the fishmonger's and listened to the jingling of the bell behind him. He rubbed his hands together, wishing he hadn't forgotten his gloves. They sat nicely beside the phone he had also forgotten. Was he getting old? With his luck, he would return home and see one missing phone call from Bruce. At least he had remembered to take the keys with him.

"Good morning, ma'am," he said to Mrs Jin, and she greeted him back with a smile.

"Any news on Mr Wayne?" she asked, just like she had asked every week he came by, and like most weeks so far, Alfred shook his head.

"Not yet," he said. "But the week is young."

Mrs Jin gave him a sympathetic look, and he focused on the selection of fish and crabs on their icy bed. He pointed at a nice-coloured salmon fillet, which Mrs Jin then packed for him. As he paid her, the doorbell jingled again, and by the doorway a young mother knelt down to fix her daughter's hat. A small boy rushed to Alfred, gave him a quick glance, and then focused on the crabs, his palms against the glass.

"Don't do that, Johnny," the mother said and rushed by to pull him aside. While she was gently scolding him, the little girl pressed her finger against the glass and pointed at scallops.

"I want a pearl, mommy," she said. "Let's buy a pearl."

With the boy already in one hand, the mother took a hold of the girl with the other hand, and gave Alfred and Mrs Jin a sheepish smile.

"Don't worry, ma'am," Alfred said to her, amused. "They'll grow out of it eventually. Most of them, anyway."

"He's right," Mrs Jin said with a glint in her eyes. "Our boys were the same but they turned out fine."

Alfred turned to say his goodbyes to Mrs Jin, telling her he'd be back next week, and then nodded at the young mother before leaving. As he stepped outside on the street, a gust of icy wind crept in from his open collar. He readjusted his scarf and continued on his way to a greengrocer's.

At first, Alfred couldn't figure out what the sound was. He had been crossing the street, and for a brief moment he thought a truck had hit another one right next to him, but after the initial jolt and confusion he looked around and there was no truck in sight. Instead, there were screams and shouts, and he saw people rushing one way, as if running away from something. He looked at what it was and saw smoke. There was a huge gaping hole where the bank's doors used to be, and debris all around it, on the stairs and the street.

A bomb. It had to be a bomb. Without thinking, working on instinct alone, he started running towards the bank. He saw three yellow-clad figures with helmets in the middle of the smoke, holding onto a big bag as they ran towards a white van, yelling something at each other. There was no licence plate Alfred could see, but the side was decorated with rubber ducks swimming in a pool. Hardly inconspicuous, he thought, but it was all they needed. There was nothing else he could do but look at the tail lights as it sped away.

The air was thick with smoke and dust, and Alfred had a cough fit the moment he stepped inside the bank hall. He covered his mouth with his scarf and blinked, hoping his eyes would stop watering. Behind him, he could hear a growing sea of sirens as various vehicles began arriving at the scene. It took him a while to see if there was anyone in the bank hall, dead, alive or injured, but then he heard low moans and sobs. He followed the voices.

There was a young man whose face was covered in blood. There was an older man holding tightly at a suitcase, sitting on the floor with a bloodied leg. A woman was crying close by, begging someone to help her friend. Alfred could see at least three people lying still on the floor, not moving or making a sound. He hoped they were simply unconscious, but he knew things didn't always go as he hoped, so he braced himself as he went to check on each one of them. One had a pulse but the other two weren't as lucky.

Assessing the situation, he decided to focus on the man with a leg injury. There was too much blood on the floor, and the amount of torn up flesh looked unpleasantly familiar. He'd seen his share of such injuries, but they still made him cringe.

He took off his belt and tried wrapping it around the man's leg, when he heard a shout from behind him.

"Sir! Sir, are you a doctor?"

He turned to look around and noticed the sir in question was him.

"No, I'm not, but I can help."

The officer gave him a nod, and soon the bank hall was flooded with police officers and medics. One of them was Jim Gordon.

"Were you here when it happened?" Jim asked him, eyeing the place.

"I wasn't, but I saw them leaving," he said as he tightened the makeshift tourniquet he'd made for the elderly gentleman. "They wore some kind of yellow suits or overalls with helmets and drove a white van with rubber ducks."

Jim gave him a look of slight disbelief, and he couldn't blame the man.

A medic interrupted them with a soft touch on Alfred's shoulder.

"Thank you, sir. We'll take it from here," she said, kneeling down next to the hurt man, her moves efficient and professional.

Alfred's job here was done. Jim's was just beginning.

As Alfred left the greengrocer's place, he was still upset. He didn't feel like going home yet. Instead, he made his way toward the nearby cafe. There he sat for a whole hour, listening to people's speculations about the perpetrators and watching the local news. All he could think was that at least Bruce was safe. Wherever he was right now, at least he wasn't here.

"You didn't pick up your phone!"

Bruce's voice broke. He sounded angry. Angry and scared.

"Don't ever do that again! I didn't know if you'd gotten hurt or died!"

"I'm talking to you now, aren't I? I'm fine. Just a dusty coat, is all."

Alfred's heart was racing. After weeks of silence, he was finally talking to Bruce. The boy was unharmed, or at least alive, and that was a lot more than what Alfred's nightmare scenarios had led him to believe.

"How do I know you're not lying in some hospital bed without your legs?" Bruce asked with stern voice.

"I guess you don't."

With his free hand, he stirred the mushrooms and added the cream, closing the lid and letting it simmer.

"Alfred! I'm being serious," Bruce insisted.

"As am I," Alfred said. "I said I'm fine and I am not lying to you. I only forgot my phone."

There was a long silence, and Alfred looked at the phone, making sure the call hadn't ended.

"Everything all right with you?" he asked, hoping Bruce would give even the faintest of hints as to his current location.

"Yes," was all Bruce said.

Then the question Alfred had wanted to ask the moment he had seen the familiar name on an incoming call.

"When are you coming home?"

Another long pause. Alfred closed his eyes, waiting for the answer.

"I have to go," Bruce said, sounding serious, and Alfred panicked. He shouldn't have asked that, he shouldn't press the boy, he shouldn't...

The call was cut. He resisted the urge to throw the phone against the wall, instead letting out a choice selection of curses. He looked at the pot, pulled it aside and turned off the stove. His stomach was churning and he'd lost his appetite.

"DUCK DUCK BOOM" the headline screamed at Alfred, and he scanned the news piece. There wasn't much there he didn't already know. Two had died, several had been injured, and the gang of robbers was still on the loose. One of them was very likely a small time criminal who'd worked with explosions before turning to a life of petty crime. He was doing community service cleaning toy stores and had disappeared during a shift, only hours before the robbery. He hadn't returned to work since. The people working with him described him as 'a shifty guy looking for an easy buck', so even when he hadn't been confirmed as one of the gang members, it seemed very likely.

Alfred tried to read the rest of the newspaper, but he found his focus wandering from the paper to other matters, so he put it aside. He had tried calling back to Bruce five times during the evening and night, even when knew he'd only hear the disembodied voice telling him the phone number was currently unreachable.

Once again he wished he had organized a phone tracking with Jim Gordon who had the right equipment at his disposal. It would have gone against Alfred's principles, because he trusted Bruce and wanted to keep on trusting him, but sometimes the temptation to be a stern dad instead of a loyal friend was very strong. This was one of those moments. Although he suspected that Bruce had prepared for possible tracking, so any deal with Jim would have been in vain anyway.

If only he knew where Bruce was and that he was safe. Knowing he was alive was a good start but not enough.

Once again, he touched at the postcard in his pocket. He pulled it out and looked at the handwriting. It hadn't changed.

Settling into my new place. Don't worry.

B

He caressed the letter B with his thumb. There were no new clues to be found, no new details he hadn't already noticed. Yet he tried to look for them, both in the writing, the wording, the stamps and the picture itself. Big Ben. Was it a code for something? Probably not. Bruce had very likely picked the card because it was so generic, much like sending a picture of the Eiffel tower while visiting France. Something every card shop sold, so there was no way Alfred could try tracing it back to a certain vendor.

It was partly Alfred's own fault, he thought, and not for the first time. Bruce was already smart to begin with, and Alfred had taught him how to fight, how to defend himself, and how to go unnoticed when needed. All things considered, he should feel pride.

He picked up the phone, looked up Bruce's number and tried calling it. No use. All he could do was to wait for Bruce to call him. Just like he had done for four months, every day of the week, every hour of the day.

Letting out a sigh, he walked to the library where he had piled up several books on mechanics, including manuals for repairing and enhancing cars, computers and other electronic equipment. He had found his days empty and rather dull without a ward to guide, so he had decided to look for a hobby. Knowing how to build a car might be interesting.

On top of the pile, there was a book on phone technology; the history, the basics, the anatomy of everything involved in making a phone call. He had seen it in a book store on his latest visit and without thinking much about it he had bought it. Now he picked it up, sat in the arm chair, and opened the first page.

It was only late in the afternoon that he noticed he was hungry. By then, he had an idea of how to try and locate an unsuspecting Bruce when he made his next phone call to Alfred. He would need equipment. He would need a workshop. For the rest of the day, he worked like a man with a plan, and it was almost midnight by the time he finally decided it was time to go to bed. He fell asleep in minutes.

Something was wrong, and Alfred could sense it. Something had stirred him from his sleep. He lay in his bed, his eyes still closed, and tried to listen to the sounds from around him, then estimated how long it would take for him to get his gun from between the mattresses.

For a long while he couldn't hear anything, but then came a little rustling sound of fabric against fabric, and a sensation of warmth close to his face. He snapped his eyes open and, even when he'd prepared himself for an intruder, he startled.

"Now there's a sight for sore eyes," he said at Bruce's retreating figure. "Might I inquire what you're doing in my bedroom at this hour?"

Bruce seemed flushed, then gave an awkward smile, and straightened up. Had he gotten taller? It seemed like it. Stronger, too, Alfred suspected. His shoulders were a few good inches wider now. For a brief moment he saw Thomas Wayne in front of him, except this one was dressed in a black jumper.

"I see you didn't lie about your legs," Bruce said.

"Is that it? You came to see my legs? If I'd known that's all it takes to get you back from your insane crusade I would've gotten blown up months ago."

Now Bruce laughed earnestly, the awkwardness from a moment ago fading away quickly. Alfred sat up and reached out a hand, and before he had steeled himself against it, Bruce was in his arms, solid and warm, his hands tight around Alfred's back, his face against Alfred's shoulder.

"I missed you," Bruce mumbled, his breath tickling Alfred's skin. Like when he was a little boy, only a lot bigger now, but still just as loved.

"Missed you, too," Alfred said, closing his eyes and taking it all in, stroking Bruce's hair like he had always done, feeling that everything was right in the world again.

Bruce stiffened slightly, then pulled away.

"I should go," he began.

"Nonsense," Alfred said, getting up from the bed and looking at Bruce, now the same height he was, and put his hand on Bruce's arm. "Come on, I'll make us some breakfast."

"At three?"

"Has to be breakfast time somewhere," Alfred shrugged, and motioned Bruce towards the door.

As Bruce walked out of Alfred's bedroom, Alfred looked at his back, then the back of his head, and chuckled.

"You need a haircut, young man," he said.

"At least I have hair," Bruce said.

"Oi. Manners. My hair's fine."

Getting a little greyer, maybe, but some of that was definitely Bruce's fault.

"I know, Alfred. I was just teasing you."

"Let's just get ourselves to the kitchen, shall we?"

It was only three in the morning, Alfred had only gotten a couple hours of sleep and his eyes felt tired, but there was a new spring in his step that made him feel like this was going to be the best day in his life. He felt like laughing out loud from the sheer happiness bubbling inside him.

Alfred tried repeatedly to ask where Bruce had been, but Bruce never answered the question. He said Alfred didn't need to know the details, only that it had helped Bruce on his path and he was different now. Better. Wiser. Stronger.

Older, too, Alfred thought. Four months wasn't a long time, but Alfred had remembered Bruce looking younger than he did now. Or was it the way he moved and carried himself? Something had changed but Alfred couldn't put his finger on it. It wasn't just looks, it was something else as well.

"Stronger, you say?" he asked. "So if I suggest a sparring match, you wouldn't turn me down?"

"Have I ever turned you down?" Bruce asked.

"Plenty of times."

"All right, then," Bruce said, wiping his hands in a napkin. "I'll try not to break you, but don't tell me I didn't warn you."

Alfred laughed at Bruce's cockiness. He had missed it, even when there was a hint of something more in it now. It no longer sounded so much cocky as confident.

The punches felt stronger than before, but they were nothing Alfred couldn't handle. He said so, insisting Bruce try a little harder, but they kept on landing the same way. There was a look on Bruce's face that Alfred hadn't seen before. He looked hesitant, almost concerned, like his mind was focused elsewhere.

"Everything all right?" he asked, and Bruce pulled away, panting lightly. There wasn't a drop of sweat on his forehead or his overgrown hair.

"I'm fine," Bruce said, shaking his head like he was trying to shake off something. "Just a little tired."

"Jetlag, sir?" Alfred asked, knowing that whatever the answer was, it would tell Alfred a little more about where he'd been all these months.

"I don't want to do this," Bruce said, starting to take off one of his gloves.

"What? After all those promises of breaking me?"

"I could do that," Bruce said, and Alfred had a little trouble keeping up with him. "I just don't want to."

"Now listen," Alfred said, trying to lock his eyes with Bruce's but failing. The young man was determined to look at the floor instead. "You said you've become better and stronger. Show me. I can handle it."

Finally Bruce looked at him. Alfred gave him a silent nod.

If he had thought the earlier punches had been strong, he was soon proven wrong. Bruce attacked him with such force Alfred had a hard time keeping upright. He felt pain in his jaw, another hit landed on his right side, another one must have cut his lip because he tasted blood, and unlike before, there was no way for him to predict where the next hit would land. Bruce had developed a pattern of his own, and it was one Alfred couldn't follow.

He only landed a few punches himself, mainly because he spent most of his time trying to cover himself. There was anger on Bruce's face now, and his hits were sharp. It didn't feel like sports anymore, it felt like a fight, and Alfred was the enemy. He tried his best, but Bruce overpowered him, punching against Alfred's hands that were trying to cover his stomach. Alfred tried to speak up but he had no air in his lungs, and Bruce kept on punching him like he was in a rage.

Finally Alfred fell on the floor and lay on his back, trying to gasp for air while feeling like he would throw up. Bruce stumbled onto him, landing on top of him. His body felt warm and heavy, and for a brief moment Alfred didn't feel pain.

Quickly, Bruce rolled off him onto the floor and stood up. He was panting, his hair clinging to his forehead, and he was frowning. But the fight in him was gone now. Alfred climbed up onto his feet, feeling woozy, resting his ungloved hands against his thighs while the world settled around him.

"I said I don't want to do this," Bruce said, and he looked pained.

Alfred took a hold of his arm and gave it a squeeze, but Bruce pulled away like he'd been burned and threw his gloves on the floor.

By the time Alfred gained the ability to speak a single word, Bruce was already gone.

Bruce didn't join Alfred for dinner, and when Alfred tried to bring a tray up to his room, Bruce wouldn't let him in. He left the tray behind the door, but when he went to pick it up a couple hours later, it was still untouched.

It was only when Alfred had retreated to the library to read another book, this one on car repair, that he heard Bruce's steps getting closer. He was standing by the doorway, in a white t-shirt and grey trousers, his hair damp from a shower.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I said I'm stronger. You didn't believe me."

Alfred tried to smile but it came out wrong because it hurt too much, and his lip was swollen.

"Nothing to be sorry for, Master Bruce," he said, putting the book aside. "You want something before bed? A snack?"

"I already had something to eat," Bruce said. "I just wanted to say I'm sorry. And good night."

"Goodnight. Sleep tight."

The next morning, when Alfred went to wake Bruce up, he had already left. There was no note, no indication as to where he had gone or when he would be back, and Alfred got a bad feeling. He had just gotten his family back together the day before. He wasn't ready for it to break up again.

Bruce's clothes were neatly folded on the back of a chair. There was the shirt he'd worn during their sparring turned fighting. Alfred picked it up. It had a few spots of spattered blood on it. Alfred's. He hoped the stain would still come off.

He picked up the rest of the laundry and left the room.

After several hours of dread, Alfred let out a sigh of relief as he heard Bruce's voice. Then he heard another voice he recognized. Jim Gordon. He stood up and rushed to the hallway.

"Good afternoon," he said to the two figures, trying not to show just how glad he was to see Bruce again. "Any news?"

"Ouch," Jim said with a cringe. "Who mugged you?"

Alfred had forgotten about the lip and the jaw, even when it still hurt to speak. Not to mention his sides ached every time he tried to breathe too deep. He'd started at the sight of himself in the mirror so he knew how bad it looked.

"Work related accident," he said with a painful smile.

"I never realized butlers had such a hazardous job," Jim said, still a little concerned.

"You'd be surprised."

While the two of them talked, Alfred noticed that Bruce had been looking at him in silence, with a faint crease between his brows. Now the crease disappeared and he spoke up.

"We have some business to discuss," he began. "Maybe you could get us some refreshments?"

Wondering what sort of business Bruce might have with Jim, now when his parents' case was no longer an issue, Alfred merely nodded. After all, he was a butler, and this was what butlers do.

"Is there a reason you're avoiding me?" Alfred asked after a five-minute silence during dinner. Bruce had disappeared somewhere with Jim after their 'business discussion' and only reappeared for dinner. He had barely spoken two words to Alfred.

Bruce looked at him, guilty.

"No," he said, taking a big bite of chicken to chew on. Probably to avoid talking.

"Now you're lying," Alfred said. "I can tell when you're lying and when you're merely not telling all of the truth. That there is your lying face."

"There's nothing to tell," Bruce said. "You can't force me."

"All right."

That was the extent of their conversation. Alfred was concerned. He had been worried sick for four months, hoping to see the young man come back unharmed, but instead of getting his Bruce back he had gotten this moody teenager. He had thought that that particular phase had passed quite some time ago, but maybe he had been wrong.

The fire crackled in the fireplace as the flames swayed calmly, casting their warmth around the room. It hadn't been used in months, not since the previous winter, but the chilly winds had made Alfred miss the soothing warmth and he had set it up. It had been burning for only an hour and already the room had turned warmer than when he'd left it.

He saw Bruce sitting in one of the armchairs, staring at the flames. He didn't even seem to notice Alfred had entered the room.

"Mind if I join you?" he asked, and Bruce turned to look at him, unstartled, so he had probably noticed after all.

"No. Go ahead."

He turned one of the chairs a little sideways so he would be half faced with the fire. He was almost face to face with Bruce now, a few feet of warm air separating them. There was a bronze glow on his face, and his hair created curvy shadows that danced on his cheek. Alfred resisted the urge to touch those curls.

"I've missed this," he said, wanting to ask so many questions about the past months, the reasons, the plans, but fearing he'd scare Bruce off by his endless questioning.

"Me, too," Bruce said, shifting his eyes from Alfred to the flames. "So many times I just wished I could come back. But I couldn't. I didn't have permission."

Permission? Why would Bruce need anyone's permission to come back to his own home? Alfred wanted to ask but restrained himself.

"There's still so much to do," Bruce said, focused on the flames. "But I can't do it alone."

"You have me," Alfred said, and Bruce looked at him. His eyes were serious.

"I know."

"Do you?" Alfred asked, biting his tongue so he wouldn't continue with the question screaming inside his mind. Then why do you keep me in the dark?

"I'm sorry. For everything. For the past months, for the past days. For that, Bruce said, his eyes on Alfred's lips. "Is it very painful?"

"Only a little. It'll heal."

He had survived a lethal stabbing, he thought. One he had volunteered for. He would survive a few more cuts and bruises.

"I will tell you everything," Bruce said, looking Alfred straight in the eye. "But not yet."

Alfred nodded. If Bruce needed him to be patient, he would be.

For a long while they stayed silent, only looking at the crackling fire. Bruce got up to add more wood, kneeling down next to the fire. He shifted the embers with a poker. He looked relaxed, Alfred thought. The tension from earlier was gone now, and his moves were soft as he slid a few stray curls behind his ear.

From Bruce's face, Alfred's gaze shifted further down to his shoulders and the curve of his back. His thighs. The free hand resting on a knee. The fingers and the way they slid up against his thigh as he stood up and casually adjusted the hem of his shirt while looking down at the fire.

Alfred let out a breath, feeling his shoulders sink. His thoughts were heading for a dangerous path again. He had learned a lot in his life, but he had yet to learn how to master his thoughts and feelings.

The leather of the chair creaked lightly under him as he changed position, and Bruce looked at him.

"Alfred," he then said, still standing with the poker in his hand.

"Yes?" Alfred said, trying to sound more casual than what he felt.

"I think you might be right," Bruce continued.

"About what, sir?"

"My hair."

"Your hair?" Alfred asked, confused. "What about your hair?"

"It's too long. I need a haircut. Before I look like... him."

Ah. All right.

"Shall I make an appointment with a barber tomorrow?" Alfred asked, turning on his butler mode. Safe and familiar.

"No, I--" Bruce began. "I was hoping you could do it. Like you always used to."

"Very well," Alfred said, feeling a jolt.

"Good," Bruce said, nodding. He bent down to return the poker in its place and stood up, making his way towards the door. "I'll be right back."

Now?

Looking at the dark locks, Alfred was grateful that Bruce couldn't see how uncertain he felt. He was no professional and had never claimed to be one, but he had always gotten the job done. That was not what worried him most now. Closing his eyes, he muttered a brief prayer under his breath, and touched the hair. Carefully at first, then with a firmer hand, gauging its length. It felt soft and supple against his fingers. Warm. He felt it slide between his fingers, and he resisted the urge to keep on stroking it. Gripping it. Breathing in the faint scent of shampoo. It wasn't proper and he knew it.

He started at the neck, slowly clipping away lock after lock. They fell on the covering on the floor between their chairs. Gently, he tilted Bruce's head forward, then sideways, and Bruce let him. As the hair became shorter, it exposed Bruce's neck above the neckline of the shirt.

There, just behind Bruce's right ear, Alfred saw a red marking, an inch and a half long. It looked like a scar that had healed only recently. He traced it with his thumb, feeling the slightly uneven skin. Bruce tensed up under his touch.

"What's this?" Alfred asked in a low voice.

"Nothing."

Hardly nothing, Alfred thought, but didn't press the matter.

Quietly, he continued his work. He could feel two more cuts under his fingertips as he brushed them along Bruce's scalp, but he didn't say a word.

The floor was covered in tufts of dark hair, and Bruce was beginning to look like his old self. But the hardest part was still left, Alfred thought. He felt his heart start to race, and he sent out another prayer as he stood up.

"All right, then," he said, trying to sound casual, as he pushed the chair so that he would be facing Bruce, and sat down, their left knees almost touching. "Look this way and close your eyes."

Bruce looked up, his eyes serious before he closed them. Alfred swallowed and pressed his fingers against Bruce's temple, digging them into the hair and clipping the excess with his scissors. The hairs fell on Bruce's lap, on the back of his hand, and Bruce wiped them off with his other hand.

Alfred tried to focus on the cutting, but he felt his focus waver every time he felt Bruce's warm, steady breath on his throat. He looked down at the boy's face, his closed eyes, his nose, and his lips. So close. Too close. He rolled his shoulders, tried to shake off his thoughts, tried to focus. He only had a few locks left.

Bruce opened his eyes and looked up, and Alfred tried to smile, but he wasn't sure it worked. He felt his right hand shake a little and he tried to steady it, hoping Bruce didn't notice. He tried to cover it by fussing the hair with his left hand, as if he was checking to see where to cut next.

But Bruce's focus was not on his hand, Alfred noticed. He was looking at Alfred's face. Before Alfred had braced himself for it, he felt a light touch on his lip. Bruce was tracing it with his fingertips, the cut in the corner, the slight swelling on the bottom lip.

Alfred tensed up, resisting the urge to pull away. He closed his eyes for a brief moment, certain that his face betrayed every feeling he had ever had and tried to hide. When he opened them, Bruce's gaze was still fixed on Alfred's mouth, like he didn't even notice Alfred was there.

Then, finally, Bruce turned his gaze up. His dark eyes looked straight at Alfred, and he let his fingers slide against the side of Alfred's bruised jaw.

"I can't believe I did this," Bruce said, and Alfred was thankful he broke the silence. "To you of all people."

Alfred swallowed.

"Like I said, I'll heal." His voice was a little shaky and he cursed himself for it.

Bruce's fingers were still brushing Alfred's jaw, and Alfred didn't have the willpower to push the hand away. Bruce bit his lower lip, then raised himself a little, reaching closer, and pressed his lips against Alfred's. Before Alfred could react in any way other than shock, Bruce had already rushed away, leaving behind a trail of hair and a towel.

Guilt. Happiness. Guilt. Alfred tried to explain the episode to himself, but he found he couldn't, and his emotions rushed between the two extremes. Something about his behaviour had led Bruce to act the way he had, and he knew it had to be wrong. But then he remembered the feel of Bruce's lips, and there was a brief rush of joy until his sense of decency took over again.

He hadn't seen Bruce again that evening, and he knew better than to try and go talk to him. There was no point in embarrassing him any further.

He stared at the ceiling, wide awake. He had no idea what he would do in the morning.

He closed his eyes and tried to calm his nerves. He felt the cut with his lip, then his finger. Despite the guilt, he felt happy, and he couldn't stop the smile or the laughter that followed it.

Alfred wasn't surprised when Bruce didn't show up for breakfast, so he ate by himself, reading the newspaper. One of the duck robbers had been caught due to his suspicious behaviour while scouting in another bank, but the others were still on the run. There was a quote from Jim Gordon stating that the police wouldn't stop until every one of them was found and brought to justice.

Seeing Jim's name, Alfred wondered again what the secret business between him and Bruce was. Since Bruce wasn't willing to talk, maybe Jim would. No, Alfred thought. That would be a mistake. He needed to trust Bruce more. The last thing Bruce would appreciate was Alfred being nosy. Patience was key.

The fismonger's doorbell jingled, and Alfred closed his umbrella. The wind hadn't turned any warmer, and today it had been joined by icy rain. Mrs Jin greeted him with a smile, and Alfred noticed her husband was serving another customer, a middle-aged woman. Mrs Jin's face changed when Alfred walked closer. She looked alarmed, saying something Alfred couldn't understand but judging by the tone was likely some form of "oh good heavens".

"What happened to you?" Mr Jin asked.

"Just a training accident, nothing to worry about," Alfred said, getting a little tired of all the shocked faces. Maybe he should invest in some make up.

"It looks like someone robbed you," Mrs Jin said. She shook her head.

"I assure you, I'm fine."

"These streets aren't safe anymore," the middle-aged woman joined the conversation while holding her purse in her hand. "Last week someone tried to nab this while I was buying flowers for my dead husband's grave."

There wasn't much Alfred could say to that, except nod in sympathetic agreement, and he turned to Mrs Jin.

"Would you happen to have any nice sea bass in today?" he asked, and Mrs Jin nodded.

He got his fish and paid for it, and was already about to step out of the door.

"Oh, I almost forgot," Mrs Jin said, and Alfred turned around with a half-opened umbrella. "Any news on Mr Wayne?"

"He's home now, ma'am," he said with a smile, and Mrs Jin looked delighted.

"Good day," he said, bowing a little, and the doorbell jingled again when he left.

With a pile of clean clothes in the crook of his left arm, Alfred knocked on Bruce's door, but there was no answer. He gave it another knock.

"Bruce. Are you there? I don't want to talk," he said with a raised voice. "I'm just bringing you clean clothes. I'm coming in now."

The door was unlocked and opened without a creak. The room was empty. Alfred wasn't sure if he was relieved or disappointed. He walked to the chair and set the clothes there. On the back of it, he saw the shirt that was still covered in stray hairs, and he picked it up.

Holding the shirt, he walked to the bed and sat down. On the bedside table, he saw photos, and he picked up one of them. It was an old photo of the late Waynes with their 5-year-old son holding a beach ball. Alfred had taken the picture and remembered the day well. An hour after the picture was taken, Bruce had broken a finger when he had run after the ball and tripped. Alfred had bought him the biggest ice cream they sold, saying that ice cream cured all pains, except maybe tummy pain. Bruce, teary-eyed and hurting, had looked at him in awe, like he was a doctor who knew how to fix everything.

Well, he didn't know how to fix this, he thought, putting the photo back in its place. He heard chatter from somewhere near, and when he turned to leave, he was stopped by Bruce standing in the doorway, with Selina right behind him.

"Ah, you're back," Alfred said, pretending everything was well and nothing unusual had happened. "I was just bringing you some clean clothes but you weren't here."

He looked at the crumpled shirt in his hand. "And I took this. Good evening, Miss Kyle."

"Hello, Alfred."

"Well, I'll leave you, then. Dinner's ready in an hour. Miss Kyle's free to join if she wants."

He left the two and closed the door behind him. Not a word. Bruce hadn't said a word to him.

They had had their share of awkward dinners, Alfred thought, but this was one that went to the top of the list. He tried to start a conversation, but Bruce clearly wasn't in the mood. He looked absent-minded, focusing more on Selina than Alfred, and Selina seemed to be completely unaware of anything being off between the two of them. If she noticed something, she didn't let it show.

When Selina thanked him for the dinner and Bruce led them to his room, Alfred was almost relieved. And angry. Mostly at himself, because who else was there to blame but him? He was the grown-up.

He gathered up the dishes and filled a sink with hot water, dipping his hands in there, feeling a warm rush go up his shoulders. He would need to pull Bruce aside next morning, to have a talk with him, he thought as he scrubbed a plate. He had no clue what he should say, but he was sure he'd think of something. He didn't want Bruce to feel guilty and he wanted to apologize.

"You forgot this," came a voice from behind Alfred's back.

"Jesus," Alfred hissed when the glass he had held in his hand fell into the sink. Luckily it didn't break. He looked around and saw Bruce who was holding something blue in his hand.

"I'll leave it here," Bruce said, placing it on the table. It was a towel.

Alfred returned to his dishes, scrubbing the glass he had just dropped.

"Will you be out long?" he asked.

"Out?" Bruce asked.

"You and Selina."

"She left already," Bruce said. "She said she liked the fish. I liked it too."

"That's nice to hear," Alfred said. At least Bruce was talking to him again. Maybe things would fix themselves and all they needed was time. He took another glass, when suddenly he felt something on his shoulder and he lost his grip. The glass clanked against the bottom of the sink.

He turned around, his hands dripping water, and he saw Bruce standing right in front of him.

"Yes?" he asked, feeling his heart pounding in his throat.

Bruce placed his hands on either side of Alfred's face and kissed him. Not just a brief peck before rushing away, but a real kiss. Alfred didn't know what to do or how to respond, but when he felt Bruce's cool fingers slide against the side of his neck, he opened his mouth a little, and when he felt the tip of Bruce's tongue, something inside him broke.

He wrapped his arms around Bruce's waist and pulled him closer. Bruce pushed himself against Alfred's body with eagerness, fingers digging hard against his neck and shoulders, kissing him like he couldn't get enough. It was a little clumsy but Alfred didn#t care. It was Bruce.

Bruce was kissing him, he thought feverishly. He was kissing Bruce. It wasn't anything like he had thought it could be. It didn't feel wrong.

He could feel Bruce's lips curling up as he smiled and broke the kiss. Alfred looked at him, and his skin was flushed, his lips wet and red. He looked happy. Then he pressed a kiss on the side of Alfred's neck, gave it a lick, sucked at it gently, and it was all Alfred could do to stay on his feet. He leaned against the edge of the sink, and Bruce pushed against him, hips against hips, and Alfred became painfully aware of his erection. He slid his hands behind Bruce's back, lifting the shirt, letting his fingers slide under the waistband of the trousers, fingertips against hot skin.

He stopped. What was he doing? What the hell was he doing? This wasn't a date he'd met in a bar. This was his damn ward. He wasn't even legal.

Alfred pulled his hands away from the trousers, trying to grab at the edge of the sink, and a knife clinked on the floor. He turned his head away, grabbed Bruce's arms and tried to push him away, leaving the young man panting and confused. Looking at his half untucked shirt and tight trousers, it wasn't unclear he was in the same state as Alfred was.

"Shit," Alfred said. "Fuck." He rubbed his forehead with the bases of his palms.

"You should leave," he said, trying to think reasonably. "Go to your room and forget this. I'm so sorry I did this to you."

"Sorry?" Bruce said, his eye still hazy. "Sorry for what?"

"For taking advantage of your confusion. I'm the adult here. I should know better."

"You think this is just confusion?" Bruce said, the pitch of his voice rising. Now he sounded upset. "You think I don't know what I want? That kiss? I've wanted to do that for at least a year!"

"What?"

Bruce's words didn't make sense to him. Was he saying the two kisses weren't just a result of remorse for beating Alfred black and blue?

"A year, a year and a half, two, I don't know. It's not like I keep a journal for this. 'Dear diary, today I fell in love with my butler. He's old and treats me like a father but I don't care, he's hot. Dear diary, today I messed my sheets because I dreamt my butler took off my shirt and kissed my stomach. Dear diary, today I returned from South America and snuck into my butler's room to look at him sleep and nearly kissed him.' No, Alfred, I don't know how long. I just know that I wanted this, so don't tell me I don't. If you do, well, fuck you!"

A million thoughts rushed through Alfred's mind as he tried to patch together everything Bruce had said. A year. Or longer. Wait, South America?

"You were in South America?" he asked, frowning. "That postcard came from London."

"I was there for three weeks, then I moved on," Bruce said, still agitated but calming down.

"And what were you doing in South America?"

"Really, Alfred? That's what you want to talk about?"

"No, of course not," Alfred admitted, finally looking at Bruce. Really looking at him.

The side of Bruce's mouth quirked a little.

"Surprise," Bruce said.

"You could say that," Alfred said, chuckling and then brushing his hand through his short hair. As he did that, Bruce moved closer, taking a hold of Alfred's wrist, lifting the hand up and kissing the palm. It sent a warm tickle down Alfred's spine.

"You don't get to say who I want," Bruce said.

Alfred nodded. He didn't know how serious Bruce was or how long his infatuation would last, but he did know that there was no way he could resist the boy even if he tried. He had already failed once. And he didn't even want to try resisting him. Not anymore. He might get his heart broken, but he knew for a fact that he wouldn't break Bruce's heart. Not intentionally. The boy would always be safe with him.

"Very well, sir," he said.

"Bruce. Call me sir and I'll never kiss you again," Bruce said with a grin.

"Bruce it is," Alfred said, smirking, putting his hand behind Bruce's neck and pulling him closer. If this was the way to hell, he went there gladly.