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The elevator doors opened, emitting Alfred into the cave. His walking cane was in his right hand, and in his left, Bruce’s dinner: a green smoothie. It was about the only thing Bruce managed to consume regularly, and that was mostly due to Alfred’s nagging insistence. As Alfred walked further into the cave, he looked to the news playing on the television screen. Bruce turned back to his own monitor. Naturally Alfred had impeccable timing, entering just as the reporters were pointing out the twenty year anniversary of Bruce’s parents.
“I assume you heard about this.”
“Yeah,” Bruce replied quietly, his eyes focused on the video fast-forwarding on his monitor.
Alfred came closer and stood at his left shoulder, breathing out, “Oh, I see,” as Bruce reached the point in the video he was looking for.
“All this blood is from his head? ” Gordon asked on the video.
“Dear God.”
Bruce ignored Alfred’s comments, scrubbing a bit further in the playback until he reached the letter with the cipher. He stopped the video there and rotated the image to print out a physical copy he could work with. On the paper, he wrote down the partial key: HE LIES STILL.
“The killer left this for the Batman?” Alfred asked.
Bruce glanced over. “Apparently.”
“You’re becoming quite a celebrity,” Alfred commented bleakly. “Why is he writing to you?”
“I don’t know yet.”
Whatever answer Alfred had been looking for, that hadn’t been it. Alfred set the glass on the work table with a bit more firmness than necessary.
Bruce ignored him, not sure why he was upset but not in the mood to deal with it either, and turned back to his work.
“Have a shower.” Alfred turned his back, his cane tapping lightly across the floor as he walked back to the elevator. “Our accounting friends at Wayne Enterprises are coming for breakfast.”
“Here?” Bruce demanded, craning his neck to shoot Alfred an incredulous look. “Why?”
“Because I couldn’t get you to go there,” Alfred said pointedly.
Bruce rolled his eyes and turned away. “I haven’t got time for this.”
“It’s getting serious, Bruce. If this continues, it won’t be long before you’ve nothing left.”
“I don’t care about that,” Bruce said tonelessly to his monitor. “Any of that.”
“You don’t care about your family’s legacy?”
That hit a nerve. Bruce turned aboutface, meeting Alfred’s gaze directly, defiantly. “What I’m doing is my family’s legacy. If I can’t change things here, if I can’t have an effect, then I don’t care what happens to me.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.”
“Alfred, stop,” Bruce snapped. “You’re not my father.”
He glared a direct challenge at Alfred, daring him to say anything to the contrary. He couldn’t. Bruce’s father had been dead for twenty years.
Alfred’s lips thinned. “I’m well aware.”
This conversation was leading nowhere, and frankly neither was the research. Bruce left the computer running and took his leave from the Batcave, leaving the smoothie untouched on the work table and Alfred standing alone.
A shower did sound good. And despite his feelings about it, Bruce knew Alfred well enough to know that there would be no escaping this particular morning meeting, save perhaps a national crisis. Alfred would ensure it.
He didn’t understand why Alfred was so concerned about it. Your family’s legacy. What family? They were dead, and for all he cared, Bruce Wayne was dead along with them. What mattered now was the Batman. He could do good, he could make a difference in ways Bruce Wayne never could. Parts of Bruce Wayne were handy to have around in a pinch, but that wasn’t the person he saw himself as.
Bruce Wayne was much more of a mask than the Batman cowl ever would be.
In his ensuite, he turned the water spray on as hot as it would go, never minding the boiling heat, and undressed. He felt stiff, and if he cared enough to document his bruises he was sure he’d have plenty new ones to add to the list. He avoided the eyes of the shell of the man in the mirror, not particularly interested in seeing just how ragged and run-down the face of the all great Bruce Wayne looked in reflection.
No sound escaped his lips as he stepped underneath the boiling water; he barely even flinched as it scorched his skin. Physical pain was something the Batman had gotten used to in the past two years.
Logically, there was very little else he could do tonight that would serve any purpose. Could he spend all evening attempting to decipher the riddled letter? Certainly, but that was what the computer was for. He could just as easily run the deciphering program as spend hours wracking his brain over it, and the computer would do it more efficiently than he could. He knew what Alfred expected him to do, but would he? That was still to be determined.
A part of him hated sleep. It was a waste of countless hours that could be spent more productively elsewhere. He often forwent sleep, as long as he could manage it anyway without putting himself at more risk while he was out as the Batman, but there were times he had to succumb to his own wretched humanity and give in to the base need. Caffeine and adrenaline injections could only get one so far, but unfortunately, even the Batman had limits.
He stood under the spray long enough it turned from searing to tepid to cold, and only then did Bruce gather himself enough from his thoughts to wash. When he shut the spray off and stepped out onto the plush bathroom rug, he noticed that a neatly-folded pile of clothes sat on the counter by the sink—whether they had been there before his shower or whether Alfred had snuck in during, he honestly couldn’t say he knew. He’d been more distracted than he’d thought. He could not afford distractions now, not with this maniac on the loose baiting the Batman specifically. Bruce mechanically dressed himself in the basic black t-shirt and the pair of loose sweatpants, the fresh scent of Alfred’s preferred laundry detergent permeating Bruce’s nostrils. Yes, it was all very nice, very clean and fresh. How lovely. How fucking quaint.
Apparently, he was to play the part of Bruce Wayne earlier than the morning accounting meeting. He rolled his eyes and left his dirty clothes abandoned on the bathroom tile, stepping out into the hall with every intention of heading back down to the cave, clearly in need of resetting his focus, but he was forced to pause as his butler stepped directly into his path.
“I am not your father.” Alfred’s tone was slow and measured. “However, I’m as good as.”
Bruce quirked his brow. “Excuse me?”
“I raised you.” Alfred met Bruce’s darkest glare unflinchingly. That dark glare struck fear in the hardest of criminals, but not in Alfred. “I was there the day you were born. I changed your diapers, I tended to your scraped knees, I helped you with your homework—I have been here every day, tending to you, caring for you, loving you as one of my own. My employment here, my service to this family, has never just been a job. If it was, I very well could have sought other employment after your parents died, but I chose to become your legal guardian. The Wayne family has always been my family. And I know you know as well as you do, Bruce Wayne, even if you’re too tired to think straight, that if your father were still alive and had heard the way you spoke to me downstairs, he’d have no objections about what I am about to do.”
“What are you blathering on about?”
“Fetch me my slipper, Master Wayne.”
Alfred’s expression held no trace of amusement, no hint of a joke. He meant it. Bruce hadn’t heard that order in years—about five to be exact, when Bruce returned to Gotham after his travels abroad, and he climbed to the top of Wayne Tower and base-jumped off the top to formally end his training. He’d received a dislocated shoulder and elbow, a concussion, road rash, and quite the spectacular application of Alfred’s blasted slipper once he’d healed enough in Alfred’s eyes to be disciplined for his actions.
The slipper. What a childish, meaningless idea of a punishment—did Alfred truly think his slipper would make an impression on the Batman? Twenty-five year old Bruce Wayne who had just finished his crusader training around the globe, learning all he could from the experts he’d met, was a much different man to the Batman he was today.
“Don’t be absurd, Alfred,” he dismissed. He took a step down the hall, but made it no more than that as Alfred’s cane swiftly moved to block his path. Bruce looked from the end of the cane resting on the opposite wall to the hand holding it to Alfred himself, brows raising. “The absurdity continues… have you lost several brain cells or did you truly forget who you’re dealing with?”
“Do keep sassing me, Master Wayne,” Alfred invited and though his tone was polite, his jaw was tight and his eyes narrowed. He was irritated. Good. So was Bruce. “You’re only making it worse on yourself.”
“Making what worse on myself? Your delusion?” Rolling his eyes, Bruce knocked the cane out of his path, walking swiftly past Alfred—and jumped as Alfred’s cane unexpectedly cracked across the center of his backside. Hard. A line of fire blossomed and Bruce spun around, shocked not only that the old man had managed to move so fast but that it had actually hurt.
The Batman could take punch after punch without flinching, but Alfred’s damn cane lit a line of fire across his backside that actually, ferociously stung. And Alfred stood there unwavering, with the same firm resolution in his demeanor as when Bruce had been a child, the same tone in his voice that used to tell him to eat his vegetables and pick up his room and do his homework.
Alfred wasn’t about to back down.
Fine. If Alfred wanted to waste his time with a meaningless show of authority, then fine. Bruce would humor him. If only because he truly cared for Alfred, and it would get him off his case. All Bruce truly wanted was just to be left alone. If that meant Alfred had to wear his shoulder out attempting to apply that damn slipper to his backside, then fine. So be it.
Never say I never did anything for you, old man.
Eyes rolling back, Bruce presented Alfred with a mocking bow and the scathing remark, “As you wish, your great excellency.” Alfred said nothing, his mouth a thin line on his face, and Bruce turned back, heading towards the butler suite opposite of his own wing of the manor.
Alfred had a pair of slippers he wore around the house with his dressing gown and proper pajamas, the picture of a gentleman even ruffled in the middle of the night. The slipper he was referring to for Bruce to fetch, however, had only ever had one purpose in this house, and that was its application against Bruce’s behind. It was far older and more worn; exactly how long Alfred had had that specific slipper was hard to say, although Bruce first became acquainted with it at the age of twelve, two years after his parents’ murder, when Alfred had discovered he’d taken up smoking cigarettes.
He remembered the slipper hurting so much he’d been reduced to tears almost immediately over Alfred’s knee, but he’d been just a boy then. Now not only was he much older, he had been through so much that the idea of the slipper was honestly comical. There was a time in his life he’d have been furiously trying to hold back the sniffles as he fetched this particular implement, well-aware of what was about to happen, but not now. That young boy was long gone.
The slipper. It was where Bruce expected to find it, on the floor of Alfred’s closet. He had to laugh as he picked it up.
It seemed as if Alfred had finally reached the age of senility. Perhaps in the morning after the accounting meeting, he’d have to research nursing homes for the old man.
Bruce returned to his bedroom with the slipper in hand. Alfred was already there, sitting on the edge of his bed with his walking cane lying on the mattress behind him. Why, if Alfred was insisting on doing this, he didn’t take the cane to Bruce’s backside, Bruce didn’t know. Surely it would hurt more than a little slipper. Perhaps because he knew deep down the entire thing was futile, merely a gesture than anything effective. It didn’t matter what implement Alfred chose; nothing would truly work.
Bruce tossed the slipper across the room to him; it landed softly in Alfred’s lap. Alfred slowly lifted his gaze from the slipper to meet Bruce’s eyes, his brow raised in a way that once would have made Bruce’s spine shiver. As it was, Bruce smirked.
Problem, old man?
Alfred picked up the slipper and tapped his knee. “Come here at once, young master.”
“And what? Bend over?” Bruce barked out a humorless laugh. “You really are going to be ridiculous until the end, aren’t you?”
Alfred’s eyes met his in a way that reminded Bruce of his younger days, of times when Alfred would catch him with his hand in the cookie jar in the middle of the night when he was meant to be asleep, or when he was climbing the bannister of the stairs to slide down them again; things Bruce was not meant to be doing by any means, and Alfred never missed them. He’d always had the most watchful eyes in the Wayne household. “Make no mistake of it, Master Wayne.” Though the volume was soft, Alfred’s voice was both clear and unrelenting. “This evening, you will be going over my lap for a strong and long overdue application of the slipper to your bare bottom. Afterwards, you will be put to bed for some much needed sleep. The only matter left up to debate is how much harder you intend to make this on yourself with both your flippant attitude and smart mouth.”
Bruce couldn’t help it. He swallowed. Not out of fear; being afraid of Alfred was an absurd concept to say the least. His stomach squirmed hard at the words Alfred was choosing to use, though, and for some ridiculous reason, he felt about twelve years old again. How could this man continue to have this effect on him, even now, at the age of thirty?
“Now, I’ll not tell you again. Here at once.”
Ridiculous. Utterly, stupidly ridiculous, the entire thing, all of it. And Alfred sat there, one brow arched, hands flat on his knees, waiting. His patience was ticking away by the second—Bruce could practically hear it like a timer.
Irritation was starting to give way to mortification.
“You can’t be serious,” Bruce muttered. “Do you truly believe it’ll make any difference?”
“I know it will. If I have to come get you, young master, I will take you over my knee every night this week. You can fight crime with a burning bottom for all I’m concerned.”
Jesus Christ . How could he just say things like that out loud without even blinking? Or flinching? Despite himself, Bruce’s cheekbones heated. What a ridiculous, absurd, stupid butler.
He didn’t quite feel courageous enough to say that to Alfred’s face. There was a fine line between bravery and stupidity, and that just might be crossing it.
He reluctantly stepped forward, each step feeling like he was taking a walking down into his past. He could remember several occasions of being turned across Alfred’s knee in his youth, and all of which had not been pleasant. It was silly to believe it’d have the same effect on him now, but a part of him worried what if it would?
It was a damn slipper, for Christ’s sake. Of course it wouldn’t.
Rolling his eyes, Bruce began to bend over, but for Alfred putting a hand out to stop him. “Trousers and pants.”
Bare?
He would have been indignant if he thought it made any difference. Bare. Whatever, old man. Fine. He deftly undressed his lower half and bent over, hating the absolute stupidity of this position. And Alfred truly believed this would change things?
How long would it take him to realize his attempts were futile and to give up? In all actuality, Bruce had been waiting for Alfred to give up on him for a long time now. For some stupid reason, he hadn’t yet, but perhaps finally this would be the instance. The last straw.
So be it. The Batman didn’t need anyone. People we’re liabilities, weaknesses, and the Batman couldn’t afford those.
And he certainly didn’t need the kind of attention Alfred insisted on giving him.
Stiff in his position, muscles taut and back rigid, Bruce was less bracing himself for what was about to happen than just plain uncomfortable. It wouldn’t hurt, but the position was… something nonetheless. He defied anyone to be comfortable in an over the knee position.
He balanced himself with his elbows on the bed. The room was silent, the tension in the air palpable, and then with very little warning, the sole of the slipper smacked loudly against the bare skin of his backside.
The sound was like a thunderclap, but what was worse was the sheer sting. Bruce drew in a sharp breath, his eyes widening despite himself. The slipper descended a second and a third time in quick succession, giving him no time at all to think: holy hell that actually hurt!
But it did. It actually, seriously stung in a way that Bruce had not been expecting, a pain he hadn’t felt in years. Why did it hurt? It was a damned slipper! He was a grown man! More than that, he was the Batman! He didn’t understand. He could take punch after punch without flinching; his Kevlar suit withstood bullets for Christ’s sake, the force of them often leaving him deeply bruised. He had broken more bones than he could recall, he often relocated his own limbs when necessary, he would stitch himself up without flinching! And yet somehow this—this child’s punishment hurt worse than anything Bruce had felt in some time.
This stupid fucking slipper was actually managing to sting, and the sting was building unforgivingly. Alfred was applying it hard and fast, with no time for thought in between each swat, and all Bruce could focus on was the damning smart that kept increasing. When did Alfred become so lightning fast with his aim? He was like a machine gun, his onslaught fully automatic, fierce and brutal, leaving Bruce with no way to avoid the inevitable. There was just no stopping him.
Bruce bit down on the inside of his cheeks, determined he would not make a sound or a move, that he’d give no indication at all that this was in any way affecting him, even as his skin started to catch flame. He almost felt like his backside had been doused in gasoline and Alfred was holding the match, and it still didn’t stop. It just burned.
But he was the Batman. He could take it. He had to.
“The way you spoke to me is not on, and you know it.” The slipper fell in sharp cadence with Alfred’s words, and stupidly Bruce found himself sucking in sharp breaths through his nose, trying to breathe through the sear of both the slipper and Alfred’s voice. “I know there’s a lot on your mind right now, but that’s still no excuse. I deserve better from you than that .”
This would be the moment when, as a child, Bruce would have sputtered out, I’m sorry! As it was, he fixed his mouth tightly shut. He was the Batman. He could withstand this. He could withstand anything.
“I would never wish to replace your father, but that does not mean I am not also someone to you. Whether that’s just your butler or something else, the fact remains I deserve far more respect than what you gave me in that cave.”
Something cracked in Bruce’s resolve at that, and he couldn’t stop himself from swallowing hard.
Alfred had a point.
This was the man that could have given up on him thousands of times before, but deliberately chose not to. Alfred had always stuck by Bruce’s side through everything, even through his crusade. A lesser man would have walked away from Bruce the moment his parents died, but that wasn’t Alfred.
Perhaps it was the burning fire across his backside or the events of a very long few days (when had he slept last?) finally catching up to him, but Bruce was starting to feel like shit.
Alfred, stop. You're not my father.
He'd said it with such confidence too, such brazen conviction, but that hadn't made it any more true. No, there wasn't a drop of blood shared between him, but this man had been there through everything. Everything . Even when he had every right to walk away and not look back, he’d always chosen to stay.
I’m not your father. However, I’m as good as.
"You can be as upset as you want that I care about you, but I do. I will always care about you, even and especially," the slipper fell particularly hard with the emphasis of that word, making Bruce's leg jerk despite himself, "when you don't care about yourself. I won't have you throw yourself into a suicide mission. I don't care if that makes me selfish; the last thing I want is to bury another member of my family, so I won't."
Bruce ducked his head, furious to discover that hot tears stung at his eyes. Damn it. It was just a spanking—and a scolding—how could it affect him?
"I won't do it, young master."
The slipper snapped sharply against the top of each thigh, and then suddenly, without warning, it fell to the carpet and Alfred started applying his hand instead. Somehow, probably due to it being over already reddened ground, even just his hand still managed to incinerate the flesh of Bruce's behind, like Alfred's hands had been replaced with open flames. Bruce attempted to twist out of Alfred's grasp, but his butler's hold was strong, almost like his arm was made of steel instead of flesh.
"Alfred!" Bruce protested, reaching the unfortunate point of misery where he couldn't keep his silence anymore. This was just going on. And on. "Enough!"
"Your cheek is 'enough'," Alfred retorted. "You may be Master Wayne, but you are not in control of this particular conversation. I'll decide when it's 'enough'."
When the hell would they be done then?! The Batman could fight off men three times his size, but not an elderly butler giving him a spanking. Although he'd defy any criminal to remain stoic and unbothered on the receiving end of this particular punishment—it was seeming absolutely impossible from Bruce's perspective!
"I'm sorry!" Bruce exclaimed after some time. Partly in desperation as he was seriously beginning to wonder if he'd ever sit again, and partly in truth, the guilt of his own previous words clawing at his stomach. "I know! It was disrespectful! It was uncalled for! I shouldn't have said it, and I didn't mean it anyway!"
"Thank you. I accept your apology."
Yet Alfred's hand still continued to fall, and Bruce was certain his backside had to be a fierce, burning red. "Alfred!"
"I don't ever want a repeat of this conversation, young master, is that understood?"
Bruce grunted, the volley of hard swats against his backside truly never-ending. "Yes!"
"You will not speak to me like that again, like I am the one in the wrong for daring to care about you. I do care about you, and you're just going to have to accept that. It's not going to change."
"All right!" Bruce groaned. "Okay!"
"Good."
And just like that, with one final smack against the center of Bruce's behind, it was over. His backside throbbed. Bruce lay over Alfred's knee for a few minutes, catching his breath that he hadn't even really realized he'd lost, then he forced himself to get to his feet, ignoring the way he swayed as he reoriented himself. Alfred didn't, of course. Alfred's hands had reached out to steady him, and before Bruce really could make an effort to stop him, Alfred helped pull his pajamas back up, redressing him like he was eight years old again fresh out of the bath.
Then Alfred stood, and without any warning, he pulled Bruce firmly into his arms, hugging him tightly around the torso. Bruce blinked and would have pulled back, except he was too bewildered. What a bizarre day. First the spanking and now a hug? Exactly who did Alfred think he was?
But for some reason or another that perhaps had to do with his currently blazing backside, Bruce didn't necessarily feel like dismissing Alfred's attempt at comfort. It wasn't like anyone would know but the two of them, and Alfred clearly didn't mind—he was the one offering, after all. Bruce hugged him back.
"You're exhausted, practically asleep on your feet." Alfred let him go, collecting his walking cane off the bed and turning down the sheets. "Why don't you lie down?"
Bruce snorted, swiping his forearm across his face—it was ridiculously wet. “I'm fine. I have more work to do."
"Let me rephrase. Lay down now, young master."
"Crime doesn’t sleep, so vengeance doesn’t sleep.”
“Bruce Wayne does." Alfred quirked his brow. "Get to bed, unless you need another trip across my knee?”
Bruce swallowed. Earlier tonight he'd have laughed in Alfred's face at the very suggestion. As it was, with his backside burning, Bruce thought better of it. "Maybe a couple hours wouldn't hurt."
"Maybe," Alfred said dryly. "Get in. I'll bring you some water. I don't expect to see you out of this bed before sunrise. You'll need your rest for the breakfast accounting meeting."
"Can't wait," Bruce groaned.