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Martha is fairly bursting with excitement as she steps through the door to her home, sparing only a second to give her Alfred a kiss on the cheek as she steps past him. "Good evening, Alfred!" She says as she pulls her gloves off and hands him her hat, her grin about as wide as it will go.
Alfred raises an eyebrow at her cheer but doesn't ask about it, no doubt knowing he will hear about it whether he does or not. "Good evening, my Lady," he says. "And to you as well, Captain."
"Lieutenant," Thomas greets, placing his own small kiss on the opposite cheek that Martha did. "Our Lady picked something up on her lunch break today but has yet to share what it is with me."
"Has she now?" Alfred helps Martha out of her coat and then takes Thomas's so he can go hang them together. Martha blushes gently, still unused to and delighted by the sound of her loves claiming her so bluntly. They have been doing it more often since she and her Thomas were married, and Martha feels as though she will never be used to it.
"And I will continue to refuse until after we have had a proper dinner," she lays one hand on Tom's arm as they wait for Alfred to join them for the journey to the private dining room. "Otherwise I fear we would miss the meal entirely."
Alfred's smile is soft as he returns and offers his elbow. She tucks her hand into it as Tom says, "How was your day, then, Alfred? Is it getting lonely out here yet?"
"Hardly," Alfred responds promptly, "I dare say it's nice, even, to have a little reprieve from what trouble you two manage to drag along behind you when you come home."
Tom makes an offended noise the same time Martha laughs delightedly.
Alfred already has dinner on the table when they arrive at the smallest of the dining rooms in the manor and they settle easily at their places as the conversation continues. The meal passes the same as most things do now: quickly and easily. Their relationship hasn't always been this easy and Martha quite expects to run into many issues by the time they're all old and grey, but tonight... tonight is easy.
Once they're done with the food and she and Tom have showered Alfred in the appropriate compliments to go with his cooking, she shoos the boys to the kitchen and goes to prepare their favorite sitting room. It's still the one in Alfred's suite, as it has been since he and Tom returned and Tom's parents insisted they would stay at the manor until Tom and she were married.
It's technically Alfred's living room, the one his bedroom, bathroom, and office attach to. 'Servant's Quarters', or technically, 'Head of Staff's Quarters'. It was Alfred's Father's at some point, but it's long since transitioned to being Alfred's. To being theirs.
It's got her record player and the bookshelf dedicated to her (and Alfred's) record collection. It's quite extensive, but has been missing one of her favorites for years-one of her mother's favorites.
True, upon her marriage to her Tom she could have spent any amount of money to have it found and delivered to them, but she's always believed that it's better to find these things as they come.
She pulls the record player out and sets it up on the console. With that done, she starts pushing the furniture back to create the kind of room she wants. By the time her boys join her, there's enough space in front of the fireplace for all three of them to dance.
"A new record then, I take it?" Alfred announces their presence with his customary ease, stepping forward to place a hand on her hip and a kiss on her cheek.
She leans into him, long since used to how he seems to appear out of nowhere. "Not just any new record," she turns her head to give him a kiss on the cheek in return before stepping away to grab the bag she brought home. "It was my mother's favorite! She listened to her old one until it was unusable; I've been looking for it since she died."
"I'm glad you were able to find it," Thomas says from his spot by the door. "Which one is it?"
Martha sets the needle on the record and pulls the closest of her boys into her arms, giggling as she takes the lead from Alfred.
"You go to my head and you linger like a haunting refrain," Martha sings along with Ella Fitzgerald, eyes locked on Alfred as she sings to him. There's something soft and melting in his eyes as he smiles and allows her to lead him in slow circles around the room.
'Hello, Love' has been one of Martha's favorites since she was little. By the end of the night, all three of them out of breath and laughing as they spin around the room, she's pretty sure it's all of their favorite.
#
It's a rare, peaceful evening in the manor. Tim had been injured on last night's patrol-just a sprain, thankfully-and is stretched out on the couch in his and Alfred's living room. Bruce is out in his civilian guise tonight, some party that he wouldn't have gone to even as recently as a few months ago. Brucie is finally reemerging slowly. He's quieter and more serious then he was before Jason's death, but he’s emerging all the same.
Tim is both proud and relieved, usually in equal measure.
At this exact moment, he is more relieved than anything else.
The sprain from last night isn't bad, but he has been feeling sick for a few days before it and appreciates the night off. Not just the night off, but the night off with Alfred.
It's been almost three months since Tim agreed to stay with Alfred and just about two since it went from unofficial and unnamed to Alfred being his official Foster Father. Alfred's his dad now, even if Jack is still technically alive. The transition has been easier then Tim ever would have guessed, though with all of the changes followed by the Clench, they haven't had much time to just sit and exist together like this.
Alfred has been trying not to hover too badly since he recovered, but Tim knows the whole thing hit him harder then he is showing, so they both needed this.
With Bruce out of the house, Alfred is able to sit with him in comfortable quiet as they relax. Tim has a book on his lap (the French translation of the one they're studying in English right now), and Alfred is knitting what appears to be a hat. There's a fire in the fireplace, Tim's got an old knitted blanket that smells of warm lavender and jasmine wrapped around him, and Ella Fitzgerald is playing softly from the vintage record player tucked in the corner of the room.
He hasn't had the courage to ask about the player or the collection of records to go along with it yet, but he knows they're special to Alfred. The man is always so careful when he sets it up to play, handling each record with gentle hands and making sure they are always put away properly. The one playing now even more so then the rest of them.
He hasn't had the courage to ask before, but the warmth and safety of the quiet evening makes him bold. "How long have you been collecting records?"
Alfred doesn't startle at the sudden question, but something in him softens with an emotion Tim can't quite name. "The majority of the collection wasn't always mine," he says. "Miss Martha was the real collector, I was simply lucky enough to inherit hers after she passed."
There's more to it than Alfred is saying, but Tim doesn't push. Not when he recognizes the heavy weight of grief on the old man's shoulders. He pulls the blanket further around himself and buries his face in the softness of it.
"That blanket was hers as well," Alfred offers after a moment. "And the perfume on it was her favorite."
Tim takes another deep breath of the soothing florals, trying to picture the austere woman from the family portrait in the main living room sitting with the blanket across her lap. He pictures her long, curly black hair pulled back in a loose ponytail and wonders what she would have worn instead of the burgundy dress and pearls. He tries to imagine what she looked like in motion, in the moments he's always preferred to capture with his camera. "Did she-" he stops, opens his eyes again so he can watch Alfred's response to the questions. "What was she like?"
Alfred's hands are still as he watches the record spin. "Wonderful," he says quietly. "She was... M-Martha was always so full of life. Much like Master Dick, she was never really able to sit still-constantly humming or laughing or moving."
Tim's heart squeezes as he watches memory pass through Alfred's eyes. "You love her." It's not a question, and Tim almost regrets saying it out loud when Alfred blinks and clarity returns to his eyes.
Alfred turns to look at Tim and for several weary seconds he says nothing. Finally, he huffs in wry amusement. "We called her 'our Lady'."
Tim sits back to think about that for a moment. 'We' he'd said.
Tim's parents weren't old enough to really remember Mr. And Mrs. Wayne. Jack is a few years older then Bruce, but his parents weren't in their social circles when they died. He was the one to marry into the Drake family, contrary to popular belief.
Janet might have known Bruce when they were younger, but it's not like she shared much about the dead. She was far more concerned with the current gossip then any speculation about people they would never meet.
Tim knows the big things; Martha Kane and Thomas Wayne were childhood friends separated by war who found each other again when he finally came home. Their marriage was the event of the century and they were considered the King and Queen of Gotham for a variety of high society reasons until their untimely death. A fairy tale turned tragedy.
The only mention of the butler left behind was the scandal when their wills named the man as Bruce's guardian.
Tim knows there were probably all kinds of rumors when it happened but he hasn't looked into them.
Our Lady.
Tim looks at the shelf of well maintained and well loved records as Ella Fitzgerald croons "I've grown accustomed to his face" from the record player and his throat tightens.
"You still can," he finally manages, quiet and timid despite the way he tried to make it come out casual. "At least, around me. If you want."
He fiddles with edges of his book instead of looking up to see what Alfred's face is doing. He keeps picking until he feels the old man's gaze move from him.
Tim chances a look up at him and has to swallow at the mix of affection and relief in his eyes. Alfred opens his mouth to respond.
"There's such an ache-never be the same," the record skips.
The record skips and Tim watches in real time as Alfred's heart breaks.
Tim looks away again, unsure what could cause that level of heartbreak and wanting to respect Alfred enough to let him collect himself in relative privacy. He wants to know, but he won't ask.
They sit quietly as "I'll never be the same" finishes and the record transitions into the next song.
Alfred takes a deep breath, audible in a way Tim has never heard before, then says "I suppose I shouldn't be surprised this one needs retirement. It was our favorite."
Tim has been at a loss for ways to thank Alfred for everything he's done for him, but as they listen to the end of the record (and it's only now that Tim is realizing the muffled effect might not just be the old player), Tim finds himself with the beginning of a plan.
It won't be enough. Tim doesn't think he can even begin to approach "enough" for how much he appreciates all that Alfred has done, but it's a start.
#
It's with no small amount of relief that Alfred closes the door to his suite behind him on the third Sunday in June. It's been a long day. Between the vacant spaces that Timothy left when his father woke, the still echoing loss of Jason, and Bruce's own grief, Father's Day was always going to be a long day this year.
Alfred allows himself a moment to rest his forehead against the door and just breathe, the sturdy wood a pillar of support he can't bring himself to abandon just yet.
He wishes, selfishly, that Timothy were still his to foster. The manor felt so much brighter when he was staying here.
It's been two months already since Jack Drake woke, and Alfred is glad that Timothy has his biological father back if only because he seems to be glad for it. He still makes time for Alfred, and is just as dedicated to his Robin duties as before, so not much has changed in the grand scheme of things. He just. Returns to a home that isn't Alfred's now.
In his weakest moments, Alfred allows himself to wish that Jack Drake had never woken.
Alfred takes a deep breath and stands up straight. No use in wallowing in maudlin wishes any longer, he's got a good book and a nightcap to end his day. He's almost finished with the one Timothy is supposed to be reading for class, and goodness knows the boy will need all the help he can get with translating his thoughts into English for his assignments.
(And if Alfred allows himself to stoop so low as to be spitefully proud that it is him who Timothy turns to for advice and help with his academics instead of Jack, then no one short of a telepath will ever know it.)
He pulls away from the door finally and takes a deep breath as he turns on his heel.
He almost doesn't notice it as first, his eyes skipping over the record player the same way he's let them since Timothy half moved out. He doesn't have the heart to put it away, but he hasn't been able to bring himself to listen to anything either. Reminded as he is each time he reaches for it that his Lady's favorite is no longer fit to play.
He comes back to it after a moment though, to the note sitting neatly on the front of it with his name in a familiar, messy scrawl on the front.
He wasn't aware Timothy was visiting today, and he knows the note couldn't have been left when the boy was home at the manor earlier in the week so it had to have been left today. He pulls out his phone to double check but their most recent message still states that his boy is en route to the Opera after a delicious restaurant dinner at an old favorite of Jack's.
Between sleeping in after an especially long patrol last night, the homework Alfred knows he hasn't finished, and the plans the two of them had, there was precious little time for Tim to have stopped by to drop something off, but no one else has keys to the manor or knows any of the side entrances that would have allowed them to avoid both himself and Master Bruce.
He doesn't doubt for a second that Tim would have made it work if he wanted to though, so he approaches the player.
The note is short.
If you want to change anything in your gift then I won't be upset. I tried to make sure it would match the rest of the decor in the room, but I know how particular you can be.
Thank you for everything you have done for me so far.
I love you, end of.
Timothy
ps. Happy Father's Day!
Alfred looks back down at the Record player, then down further to the brown paper parcel leaned against the table below it. There's a peculiar emotion building in his chest as he reaches out to pick it up. He has a suspicion about what he's going to find, but he isn't sure he knows what form it's going to take.
He wishes his boy were here to give it to him in person instead of leaving it as a surprise.
He turns the package over to find the tape and carefully peels it. the package is too long and deep to be a record, but Alfred honestly isn't sure what else it could be.
Underneath the brown paper wrapping is a frame. he's still looking at the back of it, but he can already tell that it's custom, and the wood he can see of it is the perfect shade. The feeling in his chest builds as he reveals more of it, certain he knows what he will find when he finally finishes opening it and turns it over.
He's not expecting to find anything before he does, so he almost drops the square jacket when he pulls the paper a little too fast. It's stiff, clearly somewhat new, and too heavy to be empty when he catches it. His breath freezes in his chest at the sight of the crisp smile of Ella Fitzgerald, her eyes crinkled in mirth and looking away from the looping script of the album name.
Alfred doesn't know where or even how Timothy found the vinyl in such pristine condition.
His hands shake as he sets the still partially wrapped and upside down frame on the table next to the player and carefully extracts the disk from its housing. He can't see any flaws in it, so he sets it on the player and wills his hand steady enough to set the needle up.
When he hits play, the sound is even crisper then he imagined.
He presses one hand to his chest and the other over his mouth. He closes his eyes against the gathering moisture in them as he hears his Lady's voice right alongside Ella's, "You go to my head and you linger like a haunting refrain." He hasn't heard Dearest Martha's voice so clearly in years.
He sways as he listens, just basking in the bittersweet memory of a night he thought was doomed to fade alongside the rest of the things he loved about his Captain and Lady as the first song transitions to the second. It isn't that he couldn't have gotten a new copy of the vinyl. Truthfully, he could have probably found one easily and had it delivered post haste, could have had it again within days of the original finally wearing down.
He didn't for the same reason his Lady had waited to find it organically despite it being her late Mother's favorite. The love and the memories made with the discovery are just as important as the record itself.
He wipes his eyes as the second song transitions to the third and finally turns back to the other half of his gift. He still wishes his second son could be here, but he is also glad his boy didn't have to witness his tears. He has a feeling Timothy might have taken them as a bad reaction instead of the overwhelming joy they actually were.
He pulls the paper off of the frame the rest of the way and finds his eyes misting over again when he turns it to reveal a pristine white mat keeping the well worn jacket he knows and loves safe with the record itself about halfway out. Underneath it are two small cards with an empty hole in the mat the perfect size for the kind of photograph that would be kept in a wallet. One of the cards identifies the album, artist, and year it was made. It takes a moment (and another pass of his hand over his eyes to clear the tears) for him to read what the other one says.
Ours is a Love so Rare, So Rare
He doesn't know what he did to deserve Timothy, but but he doesn't dwell on the thought for long. Instead, he goes to grab his tools. It was time to rearrange the art on the walls anyway-he was beginning to tire of the landscape currently in place of pride.