Work Text:
It was a damp and rainy day in Bristol, and the elegant coffee shop was full of Gothamites trying to escape the rain and warm themselves with a cup of the brown caffeinated beverage that Master Tim so favored.
Alfred sniffed, inhaling the scent of petrichor and roasted beans. Outsiders to Gotham complained of the city’s constantly gloomy weather. Alfred found it rather endearing. The rain reminded him of England—which, while certainly not deserving of the stereotype of being all smog and rain, certainly got more than its fair share of precipitation. Though Alfred did suppose the rain in dear old England was a good bit cleaner than that of Gotham. Ah well. That was Gotham for you. The years of Joker Venom and Fear Toxin and Ivy’s Pollen and whatnot had wreaked havoc on the city’s atmosphere.
Alfred closed his umbrella and shook the rain off of it, carefully wiping his feet on the mat by the door as he did so. Then he hooked the umbrella over his arm and glanced around for his rendezvous, scanning the buzzing crowd. Afred sniffed indulgently. He would never understand the American craze for coffee. Give him the good old British cuppa anytime.
Ah. He spotted his dear old friend at a table in a more secluded, quiet corner of the coffee house. Alfred glided through the crowd, customers parting like the waters of the Red Seas before his dignified manner. Master Jason had once compared it to that of “an emperor making his way through the imperial court, surrounded by the aura of his royal ancestors, his very presence permeating the room with austere nobility.” Master Tim had called it “unfairly majestic.”
Dear boys, both of them.
Alfred reached the table and warmly clasped hands with the man waiting there.
James Baker was a tall man, a few years younger than Alfred, with dark brown hair that was putting up a stubborn fight against the invading salt-and-pepper hairs. The lines of his angular face were softened by a neat beard. He had a sprightly smile and a soldierly frankness to his manner. And indeed, he was a soldier—he had been in Alfred’s unit in the British armed forces, before they’d both been recruited to join MI6.
The last time Alfred had seen him had been nearly twenty years ago, but one never forgot a brother in arms.
“Alfred Pennyworth!” James said heartily, springing up. “It’s been ages since I’ve seen you, man!”
“Indeed, James. How has life been treating you? You retired some years ago, did you not?” Alfred said, returning the handshake warmly. Both men settled down in their seats.
“That I did, Alfred, that I did. Stuck it out in the field ‘til I was around forty-five or so, but that’s young men’s work, you know. I was getting old, so they shunted me off to a desk job for about a good fifteen years, and then I finally decided I had enough money to set myself up in a nice little place somewhere in the country, so I chucked it. Been training racing horses in a place in Essex. It’s a good life.”
James chewed on his lip meditatively. “Fresh air, peace and quiet, all that. I’ve had enough stress and risk in my time. But I also get a flutter in from time to time on the races, and it’s physically active. Enough to keep me from craving the activity and excitement. Once a man gets a taste for danger in him it never quite goes away, if you know what I mean.”
Alfred sighed, and a thought of a crowd of reckless children with hearts too big for their bodies. “Indeed, I do, James, rather far more than I wish I did.”
James cocked an eye at him and chuckled. “Don’t tell me you still have a hankering for the wild life, Alfred?”
“Certainly not, James. Whatever made you think that?” Alfred raised an eyebrow.
“Don’t give me that innocent face,” James grinned at him. “You may have been the strictest, most responsible captain in the British armed forces, but you always were a bit of a magnet for trouble. I remember how the boys used to say that Death himself could come in the door and you’d do no more than blink an eye and offer him tea. Had a flair for excitement, you could say. Never thought you’d turn into a staid old butler, but here we are, I suppose.”
“And I never thought you, Lieutenant James “Eyebrows” Baker, would end up the typical country gentleman. How the times do astound us.”
James waggled his eyebrows mischievously. “Living on borrowed time, Alfred, living on borrowed time. My eyebrows were not cut out for the quiet life, not so long as I still have my strength and a concerning number of flammables in the garden shed.”
Alfred smirked. Or at least, he raised an eyebrow and permitted his lip to twitch, which was the closest he came to the daredevil grins of his grandchildren. There was a pause as a pretty ginger-haired waitress approached and set down two cups of black tea, then left. Alfred noted with approval that James had not forgotten his favorite blend.
James took a deep draught of hot tea and leaned back in his chair with a sigh of contentment.
“Well, enough yapping about me. What about you, Alfred? Last I heard your employer had just adopted one child, but now the media says he has seven! How do you manage them all?”
“It is quite a challenge,” Alfred replied, stirring his tea. If only James knew the half of it, he thought wryly.
“I remember the first boy—Dick, right? How is the lad?”
“He’s doing wonderfully,” Alfred said, his tone warm with the enthusiasm and affection that always rose in his chest whenever anyone talked about any of his boys. “Working very hard as a police officer in Bludhaven, though he comes back frequently to spend time with the family. Such a dear boy.”
James whistled appreciatively. “Police officer, huh? Wouldn’t have thought it of a billionaire’s kid. Good for him, I say. He must be a very down-to-earth lad.”
Alfred had a sudden, very strong mental image of Nightwing carelessly throwing himself off a seventy-story roof and grappling away at the last moment, an impish grin never leaving his face. He coughed on his tea, but eventually recovered enough to smile and accept the praise of his boy. Even if his mind did keep flashing back to certain incidents in Dick’s childhood. “Down-to-earth” was perhaps not the exact phrase Alfred would have used.
“Master Dick, get off of the chandelier this instant!”
“Master Dick, I understand we live in world where superhuman abilities are a possibility, but coating your hands with glue will not allow you to cling to the ceiling like Spiderman, so please don’t—"
“Master Dick, please stop walking on the banister in that precarious way.”
“Master Dick, please refrain from climbing up the chimney—”
“Master Dick, why do you have a seven-step plan to bribe the tooth fairy with your teeth into giving you pixie dust? I hate to disillusion you but, my dear boy, Peter Pan is a work of fiction and not to be taken seriously. Furthermore, the reckless way you have mortgaged your molars is frankly concerning. Are you even promising her your wisdom teeth??”
“Master Dick, you may not under any circumstances sling a rope across the upper gallery and use it as a tightrope.”
“Master Dick, how did you even get up there? …No, don’t tell me. I’ll get the ladder.”
“Determined to prove gravity and the laws of physics wrong” was perhaps more like it. Such a determined, ambitious lad Master Dick was.
“I’ve seen reports of one of the other boys, Timothy Drake, on the news, too,” James continued, oblivious to Alfred’s internal amusement. “You must be proud of him. I was gobsmacked when I learned the boy had taken over both Drake Industries and Wayne Enterprises like that. I was worried it’d be too much for the lad, but he proved both me and the rest of the world wrong. Agent material, that one. Cool as cucumber in a crisis. He must be a very exceptionally level-headed boy.”
“Indeed he is, my friend…” Alfred said, his attention drifting once more. Alfred was prouder than he could say of the young master. “Exceptional” was certainly the right word to describe Master Tim. As to what kind of exceptional, well. That varied. Sometimes he carried his genius a little too far.
“Alfred.”
Master Tim sat down at the table, fingers clutched tersely around an empty coffee mug, that he kept taking sips from in an absentminded manner that made Alfred concerned. The dear boy locked gazes with Alfred, his eyes eerily intense. Then he whispered:
“I know all, Alfred. I know the solution to the mystery that has been plaguing America for nigh on fifty years. I know what happened to Elvis.”
There followed a rather convoluted story, delivered at high speeds and punctuated by glances over shoulders and gulps of nonexistent coffee. Master Tim was practically vibrating with paranoia as he explained. Alfred had trouble following Master Tim’s thought processes, but he finally gathered that Master Tim was convinced that Elvis had died in a manner that was sufficiently magic-related that it had caused his ghost to linger on the earth, and then centuries later said ghost had temporarily possessed Nightwing, leading to the unspeakable crime against nature that was Discowing.
(Master Tim’s words, not Alfred’s.)
Master Tim also seemed to be very concerned whether said ghost of Elvis was still around and if so, if he was still influencing Master Dick.
“Alfred, Alfred, what if Dick is compromised. What if the ghost comes back and we get something even worse than Discowing. Discowing, Alfred.”
Tim shuddered, his wiry frame contorting as he glared at a particularly suspicious shadow with haunted eyes. Then he whipped his head around to stare at Alfred again.
“I vote we call a full-scale investigation into the matter. Not telling Dick, of course, as he might still be the host. Oh my gosh, what if he is still the host? What if Elvis catches on and decides to act? Dang it, I’m gonna have to pull out my contingency plans for Nightwing. Alfred, listen very closely, there is a list of items I will need you to procure. I need a length of twine, a live chicken, a pair of nunchucks, a tube of glitter, a leatherbound collection of Tennyson’s poetry, a pack of crayons, three ounces of paprika, a pair of purple socks, a construction hat, a—”
“…Master Tim, how many hours of sleep are you currently operating on?”
The answer was dismal.
Alfred beamed at his friend. “I am prouder than I can say of the boy. Though I do wish he would take better care of himself.”
Which reminded Alfred, Master Tim would probably appreciate a sample of the coffee-house’s wares, and he had gotten eight hours of sleep last night, so he deserved a reward. Alfred crooked a finger to call the waiter over.
“Indeed, all the children are very fine young people. They can be stubborn, of course, and are sometimes a bit colorful with their language, but I couldn’t have wished for better.”
James smiled, eyes crinkling. “They sound like great kids. Of course, you can’t blame them too much for their language. The culture these days is so vulgar. When I was a boy, my mother would have washed my mouth out with soap if I so much as thought of swearing. Nowadays,” he sighed, “it’s an entirely different story.”
“Oh, they do swear too. However, that’s not quite the kind of colorful I was talking about…”
“Jason.” Master Bruce looked at Master Jason reprovingly, then pointed to the news, where a feature was running on the sudden deaths of some of Gotham’s most prominent drug dealers.
“Do thou amend thy face and I’ll amend my life, Batman,” Jason snarled, cleaning his guns. “They were most notable cowards, infinite and endless liars, hourly promise breakers, the owners of no one good quality, and they deserved it. Suck it, Bruce.”
Bruce pinched his nose and turned to Tim. “Remind me again why you thought it was a good idea to get Jason a book of Shakespearian insults for Christmas.”
Tim shrugged his shoulders and grinned unrepentantly. “Alfie’s always saying Jason shouldn’t swear so much, so I thought some literary alternatives would make a great change of pace.”
“Your thoughtfulness is much appreciated, Master Tim,” Alfred said dryly.
Bruce spluttered.
“Thou luxurious goat,” Jason muttered darkly, rubbing at a particularly stubborn stain on his gun with a cleaning cloth. No one was quite sure if he was talking to Bruce, the stain, or perhaps one of the deceased crime lords.
Tim raised his hands placatingly. “There’s really no reason to continue talking about this, Bruce—” Alfred could see the gleam of mischief in Tim’s eyes—” though I must say that ‘I would challenge you to a battle of wits, but I see you have come unarmed.’”
Jason cackled and high-fived Tim.
Master Bruce turned to Alfred, a despairing look on his face. Alfred gave a sigh in which exasperation and fondness were mixed in equal measure.
Alfred smiled to himself. None of the parenting books Bruce had bought had prepared him for the torturous and euphoric rollercoaster that was raising a handful of stubborn, high-spirited children. Alfred had thought nothing could shake him after his time in the agency, but he was wrong. Bruce, he suspected, had thought that nothing could shake him after Batman, and then after Dick, but his kids kept cheerfully finding ways to prove him wrong.
Alfred would be lying if he said watching Bruce go through the same struggles raising his kids that Alfred had had raising Bruce wasn’t, on some level, illuminating. Alfred had promptly squashed the ignoble sentiment, of course, but the first time he’d seen Master Bruce fruitlessly endeavoring to get Master Tim to sleep, he’d experienced a deep, soul-level awe and appreciation for the inherent justice of the universe. Truly, the scales did balance themselves.
(“That which ye sow, so shall ye reap”, indeed.)
James took a sip of his tea and then placed the cup back on the saucer with a clink.
“So tell me about the other Wayne kids. It’s dreadful but I can never remember how many there are…”
Alfred obliged cheerfully. He would never pass up an opportunity to talk about how wonderful his grandchildren were. He reminisced about Damian’s fierce loyalty and love of animals. He described the way Master Duke lit up a room (sometimes literally, unbeknownst to James) with his cheerful attitude and common sense. He talked about Miss Cassandra’s caring sensitivity to those around her, her grace and elegance, and how happy the other kids had been for her when she got to dance the lead role in Gotham Ballet’s production of the Nutcracker.
“Ttt. While I am happy for you, Cassandra, I find the plot of the story fundamentally unsound. Admitting that it would be possible for a giant, three-headed rat to exist, how could he possibly be killed by a shoe? A shoe thrown by an untrained civilian, no less.” Master Damian crossed his arms, while Master Jason started ranting about how the fantastical elements of fairytale plots are really deep inherent metaphors that symbolize abstract concepts. Miss Cassandra patted Master Damian on the head.
“Is no normal shoe, baby brother. Is hard shoe. Look.”
She handed her pointe shoe to Master Damian and knocked on hits hard tip. “Would hurt,” she nodded knowingly.
Master Damian looked unconvinced. Master Tim grabbed the pointe shoe and whacked it against one of the workstations in the Batcave, testing its strength. “Hmm…” he said thoughtfully. “I wonder just how hard you would have to hit somebody with it for it to induce unconsciousness. It might be possible.”
“The whole thing is foolish, Drake! Shoes are not acceptable projectiles! They are completely unaerodynamic!”
In the background, Master Jason was now sternly lecturing about how the fantastical nature of fairytales was part of their charm and had endured across centuries, listing several examples. He was also citing relevant authorities on the subject. Master Duke, being the only one polite enough to listen, was now trapped by Jason’s gimlet eye and seemed to be regretting his life choices.
“What are you guys talking about?” Master Dick asked, leaning his elbow on Master Tim’s head, courtesy of his older brother privileges. (Master Jason, to his immense satisfaction, was now too tall and thus exempt from this particular form of older brother teasing.)
“Arguing about pointe shoes as weapon,” Miss Cassandra shrugged, fondly rolling her eyes at her baby brothers as they continued to argue.
“True, they wouldn’t be a reliable throwing weapon. But with these ribbons, perhaps they could be a makeshift flail…?” Master Tim speculated.
“Hey, or you could tie the ribbons of two pointe shoes together and have them be nunchucks!” Master Dick added, peering over the top of Master Tim’s head. Master Damian pouted, disappointed at betrayal from one who he thought would be an ally, whereupon Master Dick cooed and tried to embrace him.
Master Jason was now putting the final touches to his impromptu speech, ending with an appeal to pathos, beseeching the audience to suspend their disbelief and revel in the magic of folktales. Master Jason’s delivery was masterful, but nobody paid him any attention except Alfred, who had been sitting in the corner, quietly knitting, this entire time. Alfred wished there was some way of declaring the boy legally alive again so he could attend debate club. Perhaps he could forge some paperwork.
Miss Cassandra later received a standing ovation for her performance in the Nutcracker.
Master Tim and Master Damian kept on arguing about the feasibility of pointe shoes as blunt force trauma weapons, finally escalating into a dare to use said pointe shoes on the next patrol, leading to the incident commonly dubbed by Gothamites as “The Night the Other Shoe Dropped.”
(To this day, stories of that night are still told in hushed undertones by the denizens of Gotham’s underworld, instilling fear and dread in the audience. Some hardened thugs still flinch at the sight of ballet shoes.)
By the time Alfred had finished, the coffeehouse was considerably emptier and quieter. The rain was a mellow drizzle outside, and James and Alfred leaned back in their chairs, nursing almost-empty tea cups.
“The Waynes sound like a wonderful family,” James agreed. “I’m happy for you. I suppose it’s a nice change of pace for you. Buttling for the Waynes must be a piece of cake after the Department. You get to spend your golden years in peace and quiet.”
Alfred considered that statement, for a moment. He thought about the Department, and his young days of being an agent for MI6. How he’d thought nothing could be more fraught or tense than going out in the field, where the stakes of the game were high and a single misstep had serious consequences.
Then Alfred thought about how he’d suddenly become the sole guardian of a stubborn little boy who decided that when he grew up he wanted to dress as a bat and punch criminals in the name of justice, and just how quickly Alfred’s frames of reference had become wildly skewed. He thought about another little boy, and another, and another, and how not one, not two, but all of the children he’d raised had grown up to be stubborn vigilantes who managed to be both brilliantly competent heroes and endearingly rowdy children.
He thought about Master Dick’s penchant for heights, and how his job as a policeman kept him in the line of fire by day as well as night. He thought of Master Jason, who held down a crime empire at the tender age of nineteen. He thought of Master Tim and Miss Barbara, so selfless and overworked, who thought hacking into the CIA was fun bonding activity. He thought of Miss Stephanie’s glitter bombs, of Miss Cassandra’s silent stealth, and of Master Damian’s extensive collection of knives.
He thought about how buttling for the Waynes had somehow come to encompass the responsibility of being the personal handler of the Batman and all his brood.
“Well,” Alfred said vaguely, “I wouldn’t say restful, but it’s certainly been a big change.”
He paused, his mind’s eye flashing over the faces of those he’d come to think of as his own, as his son and grandchildren. The fridge in the kitchen came to mind, plastered with Master Damian’s artwork, Master Tim’s photos, and pages from Master Jason’s best essays. He remembered the family pictures that lined the hallways of Wayne Manor just as their vigilante suits lined the walls of the Cave.
“They are the single loveliest family I have ever had the pleasure of knowing,” Alfred said, voice throaty. He used a napkin to dab at his eyes.
“But,” Alfred added, with a hint of mischief, “they do have their quirks.”