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Like most men his age, Alfred Pennyworth had an intimate relationship with death. It was a constant companion, ever present at his side, under his skin, behind every aching joint and muscle when he woke. He and Death were quite old friends, starting from his time with the Royal Marines, then MI6, and continuing on into his service to the Wayne family.
But such intimacies and knowledge did little to make certain losses – and the anniversary of those losses – any easier to bear. Some wounds continued to fester, no matter how long the passage of time. And losing a grandchild...
Well, Alfred was sure no one could blame him for choosing to take the evening off.
Master Bruce, predictably, had still elected to go out on patrol. But that was part of his method of coping with Jason's death, and the gaping void his absence had left in their family. Alfred only hoped Master Bruce would go easy on Clark tonight – and that Clark would be able to provide some solace, even if Master Bruce still hadn't seen fit to tell anyone on the team, save Miss Prince, about Jason.
Not that Master Bruce would even admit to needing comfort, of course. Or admitting how much he'd changed and grown since he and Clark had started getting closer. But, whether Master Bruce admitted it or not, even a blind fool could see he and Clark were perfect for each other. It did Alfred's ancient heart a world of good to see Master Bruce allowing himself to finally find some measure of happiness.
His personal cell rang, jarring him out of his thoughts, and he hit accept without looking at the screen. He already knew who it was calling him.
"If you're answering, then Bruce must not be on too much of a rampage tonight," Dick greeted, the lightness of his tone belying the concern underneath. "He didn't pick up when I rang him on comms."
"Nor would I expect him to," Alfred replied. He pushed himself out of his chair, and headed towards the bar cart in his study. "You, of all people, know how he gets on this date."
"I do, but one day I'm going to beat it into that thick skull of his that he's not the only person who lost Jason." Dick sighed, a heavy sound laced with old, old grief. "How are you holding up, Alfred?"
Alfred intellectually knew Dick was an adult, of course, but the urge to shield and project was a strong one. He supposed he'd never outgrow the need to be the island of calm in the insanity that was Master Bruce's and Dick's lives. "Carrying on, as always, sir. Don't worry about me."
Dick tsked, the disappointment clear. "I swear, you're as bad as Bruce."
"I did take the evening off, if that eases your mind," Alfred replied. The whisky was a pale clear gold when he poured it into the heavy crystal tumbler. The color of Jason's eyes when he'd been particularly tickled about something. "Master Kent is keeping an eye on the monitors tonight."
"Wow, it must be serious if Bruce is trusting Clark to be on comms," Dick said. "I wonder if I'll get an invite to the wedding."
Alfred heard the rebuke – and the hurt – under the teasing. The fact that Master Bruce had yet to introduce Dick to Clark was something of a sore point. One of many, despite the affection and respect Alfred knew they both had for each other.
"I'm certain an introduction will happen soon," Alfred said, tactfully. "You know Master Bruce is more cautious than most."
"If by cautious, you mean paranoid and controlling, yeah, I'm well aware," Dick chuckled, ruefully. "Although I gotta admit, he's looked a lot happier the last few months. And like he's been getting some sleep. That already makes me want to put a statue up in Clark's honor."
Alfred laughed. "Indeed."
The study door opened and Diana stepped inside, still dressed in her armor. She smiled at Alfred, soft and warm, the sight a balm for his weary bones. "You're on the phone," she said, apologetically. "I'll leave you to it."
"No, it's alright." He gestured at the chairs. "Please stay."
"Sounds like you have company." Alfred could practically see the curious tilt to Dick's head.
"Miss Prince is checking in," he said.
"Good for you." Dick sounded more than a little amused. It was hard to fault him for it, even if it was at Alfred's expense. But, before Alfred could huff out a denial, Dick softly added, "But, seriously, I'm glad you have someone keeping you company."
"I trust you're following your own advice." Alfred hated the thought of Dick being alone, tonight of all nights.
"I'm meeting with Barbara after my shift," Dick said. "I promise."
Alfred had to clear his voice twice before he could reply. "I'm glad to hear it."
"Okay, I better get going. See you and Dad on Sunday?"
"Of course."
Alfred hung up and turned to Diana, who'd already made herself comfortable in one of the chairs, her legs tucked under her, and one of the throws draped across her shoulders. She was relaxed, utterly at home among his books and papers, and yet, still managed to look elegant enough to have high tea with the Queen. Alfred had never met anyone in his life who was so at ease in their surroundings.
"Would you like a drink?" he asked. "Perhaps a glass of the 2010 Chateau Grillet?"
Her smile was full-lipped. "You spoil me."
"Nonsense," he said. "Merely being a good host." He opened the wine cooler. "I seem to remember stashing a bottle or two up here."
He didn't tell her he'd made sure that there was always a case in the wine cellar for her visits. Or that there was always a stash in the kitchen of the Red Vines Barry seemed to love, or that he kept at least three bottles of the 8 year-old Braunstein on hand for Arthur when he dropped by. He'd yet to discover Victor's preferences, but he had no doubt he'd prevail in due time.
"That's very kind of you." She waited, patient and quiet, watching him from under lowered lashes as he opened the bottle and poured her a glass. He also refilled his own tumbler, and brought both to the small table between the chairs.
Once he was seated, she raised her glass to him. "Shall we toast to Jason?" she asked. Her voice was unfailingly gentle.
Alfred swallowed, but nodded. "To Master Jason," he said, roughly. "May his memory continue to be a blessing."
They both took a small sip. Alfred's eyes burned, they were so dry. Tears had never felt like so much of a luxury as they did now. But, even under Diana's non-judgemental gaze, he couldn't seem to let his guard down enough to let them flow. Another curse of his stiff upper lip upbringing.
"How is he?" Alfred finally asked, after a few moments of weighted silence.
"Hurting." She sighed, long and deep. "And he still refuses to tell Clark the truth."
"Master Bruce has been very insistent on being allowed to tell him in his own time," Alfred said. "But I fear he may never be ready."
She nodded, considering. "I think you are underestimating Clark's stubbornness in getting to the truth."
Alfred huffed out a mirthless laugh. "They are well-matched in that regard."
"Yes, they are." Those lovely, kind eyes traced over his features. "And you, Alfred?" she asked. "How are you doing?"
It had been easy to deflect the question earlier with Dick. But Diana...well, even if he couldn't allow himself to be completely vulnerable in her presence, he'd never been able to dissemble with her. And he had no wish to start now.
"I feel very old and very tired," he confessed, meeting her compassionate gaze. "I'm certain it will pass by the morning, but..." He shrugged creaky shoulders, feeling the weight of his years pressing down on him.
She reached over and placed her free hand on top of his, the touch light, her skin supple and so very soft. "You are not alone."
The simplicity in the words was almost his undoing. "Thank you, Miss Prince," he said, his voice rougher than usual.
"It's Diana."
"Diana," he conceded softly. "But just for tonight."
Her lips curled upwards, the slant of them unbearably beautiful; she was, as always, a work of profoundly exquisite art. "Luckily for me, the night is still young," she said, with a mischievous lilt he couldn't fail to catch.
And perhaps he was a foolish old man, to imagine that her hand over his and the intimacy of her words meant something more than mere friendship – but he didn't think so. In her own way, she was as deliberate with her words as Master Bruce, and she wielded that power exceptionally well. And with exceptional truthfulness.
She seemed to sense the direction of his thoughts, because she raised one eyebrow in silent question. A generous offer of refusal, should he wish to take it. He had only to say the word – or not say the word, in this case – and they could go back to their quiet evening of friendly conversation and reminiscing over family long-since buried.
But a tiny, insistent voice inside him (and oh, that voice sounded painfully like Jason's) implored him to take a leap of faith.
Slowly, giving her every opportunity to pull away, he raised her hand, and pressed a light – but unmistakable – kiss to deceptively smooth knuckles. "Lucky me indeed," he murmured, and felt the breathless wonder of her answer when she leaned forward to capture his lips with her own.