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Alfred always kept a respectful distance between himself and the Waynes. Never overstepping, not straightening Thomas’s tie before an important meeting, leaving the room when Martha’s eyes began to water at the sight of Bruce’s baby photos, ever line he was strict to never cross. It was expected of him, the picture perfect butler.
Until the day Thomas and Martha died. The day it went from a family and a butler to a boy and a butler.
The first few years were hard. Alfred tried so desperately to maintain his carefully constructed person of a perfect butler, but it was clear that Bruce needed more than a butler. He needed something more, something Alfred surely couldn’t be without overstepping. Bruce and Alfred often got into fights, yelling, Alfred unsure of how to handle this new responsibility, Bruce who couldn’t bear to make this transition easier, screaming that he wasn’t his caretaker and to leave him alone. On nights like those, when the manor shook with the childish anger of boy and the frustration of a man, when all was settled and the manors foundations settled, Alfred was still there to bring up the tea, and Bruce was still there to mutter out thanks, and just maybe, mumble out an apology.
But as all nights do, it grew into days. Days where Alfred dropped Bruce off at school and pretended he couldn’t see the tabloids of Bruce’s teenage exploits. As long as Bruce returned to take dinner and snuck in quietly during the wee hours of the morning, that was enough for the Butler. He reminded himself shan’t not need anything more from his charge, even though it was hard not to glance at Bruce’s baby photos, just as Martha had done years earlier. The boy was growing up.
When Alfred’s role shifted from ‘Butler’ to ‘vigilante assistant’, the Butler and his charge argued. Argued it was too dangerous to don the mask, the mask argued to not don the mask would be worse. When the Bat brought home the cuts and scrapes that looked far too painful for a young man to have, Alfred was there to stitch him up. The anxiety went straight to the wrinkles on the aging man’s face.
Robin only caused Alfred to doubt his ability to stay in his butler role all the more. His charge had taken on a charge of his own, holding Dick the same way Thomas had held him, everything from the way Bruce ruffled Dick’s hair to the bunny ear shoe tying he taught Dick, it was all to familiar. Something in Alfred’s slowing body was especially unsure of what to make of it when Bruce began to mimic himself, the pep talks, Alfred’s old catchphrases and bits of advice rolling off Bruce’s tongue, but not before Bruce instinctively glanced towards Alfred for confirmation. That was his boy, he realized. Just as much as Bruce was a product of Martha and Thomas, Alfred had grown to see the young boy as his own son, and as a man who was a strict professional, he was… surprised.
It happened one day. Bruce’s children had somehow all gathered in the manor, whether by pure coincidence or someone’s pushing hand, Alfred wasn’t going to question it. They all sat in the Manor’s living room, sprawled over couches with sandwiches and bowls of chips being passed haphazardly. The remnants of a large sheet cake sat on a nearby table. Alfred watched Jason out of the corner of his eye, approaching the Butler with a slice of cake.
“Happy Birthday Gramps.”
Alfred paused before smiling, “the same to you, Jason.” He looked out to his little boy, who was really not so little.
Bruce sat in the middle of the room on the floor, his face deeply set with smile lines and years of scars and vigilantism. He was narrowly avoiding a mayonnaise packet to the face before turning back to talk to Cassandra. Alfred watched, he watched idly as Dick took wiping frosting off Wally’s face as an excuse to scooted a little bit closer to Wally, he watched the way Damian didn’t frown as much when talking to Timothy anymore, the way Clark was trying to make an effort to engage with each and every one of Bruce’s kids, even though they all adored him.
Somewhere along the way, sometime before Alfred’s hips had begun to give out and Bruce didn’t look like someone’s father, someone’s husband, Alfred has crossed the line. Somewhere he had started to adjust Bruce’s ties before important meetings, quietly pouring tea for Dick and Bruce after Dick’s nightmares, instead of leaving the room as a butler should.
The frosting coated his mouth, a cake clearly baked with love as the main ingredient in leu of a recipe. It was pleasant. This time with his son and his grandchildren, this was pleasant. Martha would be so proud.