Work Text:
In the end, Martha Kent lives.
And, the world is short one singular symbol of salvation.
There is a lesson in learning to start from scratch but Bruce has to think if that isn’t the one Alfred is trying to teach at all when he finds him in the Cave, elbow deep inside the engine of Batman’s pitch black ride. Alfred is salvaging what can be salvaged in the damaged, dented junk looking just about ready to be scrapped altogether. It may have been more armour than car before Doomsday, but after. Well, Bruce has to wonder about the worth in Alfred doing all this when even the spare parts are looking worse for wear.
The man must have been here since Bruce left for Smallville.
There is grease on his hands, more smeared across his coveralls.
He has his glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose and a deep-set crease between his brows as he worked.
Bruce finds him, like he always does.
With Alfred looking like the best damn thing he has seen all day.
For every good deed you do, the bad never does quite leave you to your own device. But neither does he. It comes to be the only thing you count on.
"Were you worried about me?"
Alfred thinks it goes unsaid but it is best to remind Master Bruce about things like these. You do not watch Superman being put into the ground and think that you didn't have a direct hand in putting him there.
"I always do."
In the outskirts of Gotham where the wreckage of Wayne Manor still stands, it is not a promise or even obligation that makes them stay rooted in place. There is too much history between them to put a word to it. Whether it is complete trust, age-old comfort, or a kind of second nature that comes reflexive at this point, even Bruce knows better than to think he can hide this from him when Alfred straightens up at the very sound of his footsteps coming down to the Cave.
When Bruce goes to him, it takes Alfred one look.
In place of the head of Wayne Corporations or the vigilante alter ego he’s spent the last two decades of his life making a name for.
To Alfred, stepping into the workspace is just Bruce Wayne.
And that name holds a very different meaning to Alfred Pennyworth.
Alfred stifles a sigh and Bruce figures he must be looking quite the sight to have Alfred biting his tongue back on a couple of choice comments. Instead, Alfred just puts down the wrench to swipe a rag from off to the side to clean his hands, rubbing at the stains of black that isn't about to fade. It really is an invitation as any other. When Bruce stops behind him, Alfred leans back to accommodate him.
Second nature sounds about right when Alfred is reacting to him in reflex just the same.
Bruce comes to him, seeks him out and it is like gravitational pull when he tips his head down to breathe him in.
He finds familiarity in place of the onslaught of black suits and black ties. Composition in the face of condolences murmured among the scent of fresh turned earth that still leaves his stomach turning. Alfred might have been the one in the Cave all day working his finger down to the bone but he isn’t the one looking like he needs a break.
“How are you holding up, sir?”
Alfred places a hand atop the ones around his waist.
Bruce tightens his grip to pull the other that much closer to himself and tells the truth. Because the answer is that there has always been resilience if nothing else.
“I'll live, Alfred.”
You can do all you can.
The bad still happens. The scatter of pearls across the wet sidewalk is still louder than any gunshots fired.
The man has come back far too many times reeking of that tangy heavy smell of blood that Alfred had really thought he could leave behind. Dropping mask and cape and that suit of armour one by one by one until it is Bruce who is stepping out from this carcass of Batman.
It really is no reassurance. But it is better than nothing at all.
Alfred turns, not saying a thing and lets Bruce fill in the rest of the spaces.
If promises are made and kept, here is what one would be worth.
In the aftermath, even now, he isn’t about to go anywhere.
In the end. You, Bruce Wayne, become a symbol for what has to be some kind of justice.
But to start, Martha Wayne dies.