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“For the last bloody time,” Alfred Pennyworth sighs as he shifts uncomfortably against the ropes binding him to a very hard and splinter-infested dining-room chair, “if I knew why I was here, I would’ve said as much so we could get on with the proceedings. Now would you like to tell me why I’m lashed to a damned chair in a warehouse in the middle of nowhere?”
(Normally he would be a bit embarrassed to be heard using such language, but, well. Desperate times and desperate measures, and all that.)
The Riddler, looking every inch a super-villain in his skintight green-and-black jumpsuit (which, as much as Alfred hates to admit it, makes his backside and his…male anatomy…look far nicer than they have any right to) paces back and forth in front of Alfred’s chair. He’s visibly agitated, which is not a good sign. “No, no, no. Ugh, what does that man see in you? I thought you were smart! Then again, you do work for Bruce Wayne, so I shouldn’t be shocked I guess…”
“Could we kindly skip to the part where you attempt to beat me to death with a carpet tool so we can get to the part where I’m rescued by a formidable force?”
The Riddler rolls his eyes heavily. “You’ve no imagination, Mr. Pennyworth, do you realize that?”
“Forgive me for not sparing more ingenuity for the man who’s strapped me to a chair with intent to remove my internal organs.”
“No, no, no, no,” Edward Nashton sighs impatiently. “I’d never kill a fellow working man.”
“I wasn’t under the impression you were employed.”
Ed gives him a dirty look. “Cleansing Gotham is a full-time job. But that’s not the point. You’re a hostage, not a murder victim.”
“Ah. Forgive my confusion,” Alfred says dryly.
“I will, this time.” Ed paces back and forth. “So, when does the cop get here?”
“The…I beg your pardon?”
“Don’t act like an idiot, Mr. Pennyworth, it’ll only annoy me. Lt. Jim Gordon. Where is he?”
Alfred nearly laughs at the realization. So, the Riddler has figured out what Bruce has yet to understand, and now thinks he can kidnap Alfred to get Gordon to do what he wants. Oh, if only he knew. “I rather think Batman will arrive before the GCPD,” is all he says, fighting the urge to smile.
“I hope the hell not,” Ed replies sharply. He taps his foot impatiently, then blurts out, “Fine, while we wait, suppose you tell me…how do you do it?” At Alfred’s blank look, he rolls his eyes and puffs out an impatient breath. “I mean, how the hell am I supposed to get a guy’s attention? I figured maybe he just didn’t know I was around, ya know, figured maybe he thought I was still stuck in Arkham. But I killed the guy who was giving him a hard time and I did it wearing this,” Ed twirls around in his flashy green unitard, “and the stupid Penguin still doesn’t know I’m alive.”
This is not real. Surely I’m dreaming. There is no way on God’s green earth I’m tied to a chair, held as bait for the GCPD, while the next Zodiac killer presses me for courtship advice. Alfred supposes he ought to be afraid. Frankly, however, he’s got a tracking device in his shoe that says Riddler won’t do jack to him before Batman gets here, so…might as well indulge the psycho. “Forgive me if I overstep,” he says dryly, “but have you perhaps considered asking the gentleman to dinner, Mr. Nashton?”
Ed frowns. “You can just…do that?”
“Assuming one is a grownup, yes.”
“It’s not too…obvious? You mean I can just. You know. Ask him out?”
“Yes, that’s exactly what I’m saying.”
“Shouldn’t I play hard to get?”
“Not if you’re older than fourteen, no.” Come on Bruce, do your business, get me out of here…
Riddler frowns again and taps his sheathed knife against his palm. “So I could just. Go up to him and say hey, Ozzie, donut shop, one hour, you and me? And he’ll…know what that means?”
“Assuming he has the brains that the good lord gifted to a slice of cheesecake, Mr. Nashton, I believe yes, he will.”
“Oh…” Suddenly Ed looks every bit the confused young thing he is, and not the intimidating monster most of Gotham believes him to be. “Oh. Well, then. I mean. Is that how you did it?”
“Is that how I di—”
Before he can finish his sentence, the roof has crashed in and Batman has rappelled down from the helicopter. Ed just barely dodges a batarang, and shouts indignantly as Batman lunges at him. “I wasn’t done, Batsy! Can you just give me two minutes!”
“Let him go,” Batman growls.
Ed pouts. “Now Batman, just hear me out—”
He’s interrupted, once again, by a tremendous crash. The door of the warehouse splinters as a motorcycle bursts through it, and suddenly the big room is illuminated by flashing police lights. Alfred can’t hold back a sigh of relief as Jim Gordon dismounts and, like a character in a movie, pulls off his helmet to reveal his lovely face. Moments later the man’s gun is unholstered and pointed at the still pouting Ed. “Take it easy, Riddler. No need for anyone to get hurt.”
“Fine,” Ed sighs, seeming more inconvenienced than threatened. “I suppose I’ve got my answer anyway.”
Another flash, a bang, and the room is filled with green smoke. By the time it begins to clear Riddler is, of course, gone. Batman growls again. “Little bastard.”
Jim coughs and fans the smoke away from his face. “I miss the days when he was a threat rather than just a big damn nuisance.” He holsters his gun and kneels beside Alfred’s chair. “You all right?” he asks in a low voice.
At precisely the same time, Batman sternly says, “I’ll take it from here, Gordon.”
“Now, boys. No need to fight over me,” Alfred says dryly, leading to a snort from Jim and an impatient sigh from Batman. His wrists freed, Alfred sighs in relief and stretches his arms over his head. “Thank you. I must say your timing is delightful, he was interrogating me about how to improve one’s love life when you two arrived.”
For a moment Bruce shines through the Batman cowl. “Why the hell would he ask about that?” he murmurs, confusion radiating off him as he tilts his head like a confused pup.
Jim snorts again. “If that little shit has a love life it’s news to me.”
“Precisely why he felt the need to interrogate me on mine, I suppose.” Alfred stands, both Bruce and Jim leaping to “steady” him when he’s perfectly stable thank you very much. He tries not to laugh. “I’m perfectly all right, gentlemen. Now shall we get out of—”
“How did you know,” Bruce suddenly cuts him off in the Batman voice, but he’s not looking at Alfred, he’s looking at Jim. “How did you know where to find us? You shouldn’t have known. The GCPD doesn’t have access to the same technology I do.”
“Yeah, we should talk about that sometime,” Jim retorts. “Can we please move this along?”
“Not until you tell me exactly how you knew where to find a man kidnapped less than an hour ago!” Batman stands at his full height, one hand on his batarang pouch, one hand on Alfred. “If I find out you’re working with one of these psychos, Gordon, I swear to God! If you’re hiding something now’s the time to say it.”
Jim looks between the two of them for a moment and then it dawns on him. “You haven’t told him,” he guesses wearily.
“It…hasn’t come up.” When Jim shoots him a disappointed look, Alfred sighs and shakes his head. “Well honestly, Jim, do you tell your daughter about…your activities?”
“She’s twelve. She knows what a boyfriend is,” Jim says dryly.
“You just called him Jim.” Bruce is back, sounding more bewildered than ever, and the interrogation mode has fully dropped. “Why did you just…you don’t even call me by my first name…”
“I take it he doesn’t know I know his first name,” Jim breaks in, barely hiding a smile.
“He does now,” Alfred says. He wishes he’d never gotten out of bed this morning, quite frankly. “Master Wayne—”
Bruce yelps like a frightened chihuahua, and Jim hastily holds out his hands like no harm no foul. “Easy there. I’m a friend, I promise.”
“You told him!” Bruce says accusingly, glaring at Alfred in a manner more appropriate to a child who’s just been told he can’t have ice cream for dinner, than a dangerous vigilante with an identity crisis.
“He guessed,” Alfred corrects him gently, “because unlike most of the thugs on the GCPD—no offense, Jim—he’s rather more intelligent than a box of rocks. It’s not as if he can’t put two and two together. We spent a bit of time together and he made the connection.”
“How did you two spend enough time together for him to work out something like that!”
“Speaking of ‘dumb as a box of rocks,’” Jim mutters with a shake of his head, clearly at the end of his rope. “Wayne. I’m sorry, this has to be said, I’m sleeping with your assistant.”
For a moment, there’s dead silence. Then Bruce makes a noise like a strangled hamster. “You. What?” He looks at Jim with something akin to fear in his eyes. “Did I give you permission to do that?”
Clearly well aware that he’s not about to get his ass kicked with Alfred there, Jim gets a little bolder: “Given that we’re both grown-ass men, I wasn’t thinking I needed a signed letter of reference, no.”
“Alfred,” Bruce says pleadingly. “How’d this happen?”
“Well you see, Master Wayne, when there are two bees—”
“Oh for fuck’s sake Alfred!” Bruce drops his face into his gloved hands. “Okay. Okay, I don’t want to know.”
“Excellent. Then shall we wrap up this farce that would make Georges Feydeau quite proud and go home?” Alfred says sternly, in a tone he rarely uses lest it lose its effectiveness. It’s quiet, flat, and quite plainly says we are done here.
And it always works. Bruce tries one last time to affect the Batman Glare, fails, and sweeps off towards his helicopter in a swirl of capes and attitude. Alfred refrains from making eye contact with Jim because, well, it just seems like a rather inappropriate moment to laugh himself sick.
*
“So let me get this straight,” Jim sighs heavily an hour later, while he and Alfred are curled up on a loveseat together in front of a roaring fire. “Riddler did not kidnap you to negotiate a mass release from Arkham.”
“No.”
“Or for, I don’t know, twenty guns and a bunch of kevlar vests from the GCPD.”
“He did not,” Alfred confirms solemnly.
“He kidnapped you, to lure me there, to force us to tell him how to get Oswald Cobblepot to fuck his brains out.”
“Crude, but also accurate.”
Jim rubs the bridge of his nose with the hand that’s not holding Alfred’s. “I need a fucking drink.”
For the tenth time today, Alfred barely manages to hold back a chuckle. “Of course. Whiskey sour, extra ice?”
“I hate that you know my drink order,” Jim sighs, his statement of dislike somewhat tempered by the fact that he says it as he tucks his head into the crook of Alfred’s neck as tenderly as a lioness licking her cub.
Alfred wraps an arm around his well-built lover and kisses his forehead. “Is that a yes?”
There’s a long pause, then a very reluctant, “…It’s a yes. Damn you. You’re so perfect. It’s annoying. Stop it.”
Alfred knows damn well he doesn’t mean it. “I love you too.”
Jim gives a pointed, heavy sigh that only serves to make Alfred want to squeeze him tighter. Then, after a moment, he adds pensively, “Do you think Bruce’ll be okay?”
“Once he gets his head around the concept of his parents having intimate relations, I’m sure he’ll soldier on just fine.”
“Oh for God’s sake, don’t call us his parents.” Jim crinkles his nose. “I’ve already got a daughter, thanks. I don’t need any more kids.”
“Too late,” Alfred teases him. “You’ve adopted an ill-tempered vigilante, and I’m afraid there’s nothing you can do to save your sanity now.”
“Sure there is.”
“And what is that, may I ask?”
The answer comes not in words, but in the press of a warm mouth against his that is more than enough to make Alfred forget about his “parental duties” for quite some time.