Chapter Text
Alfred rolls up his sleeves, folding the cuffs over themselves and carefully repeating the action until the fabric nearly reaches his elbows. The sink in front of him is filled with warm water, soap, and a rather rank pair of exercise pants. This particular garment has been sitting either in the bottom of Master Bruce’s gym bag or his locker on the watchtower for weeks, despite being worn multiple times and sweated through.
Just as he is about to plunge his hands into the water and begin scrubbing the sweat and oil from the tightly woven fabric, a small face peers around the doorway. His fine black hair is cut in a shaggy bowl cut, framing his chubby cheeks adorably. His bright blue eyes, wide and large, take in everything he is seeing. When he notices that the butler has seen him, the boy lets out a high-pitched panicked squeak, ducking back into the hallway.
“Master Tim?” Alfred calls, hoping the boy hasn’t run too far already. “I did not mean to startle you. Do you require additional sustenance?”
A quiet giggle, close by, escapes the child. Alfred relaxes a little. They’ve been working on this with their neighbor. The boy stays with them whenever his parents are traveling, and seems frightened to take up any space in their home. It is Alfed and Bruce’s goal to assure Timothy that Wayne Manor is his home, even if he only lives here in the summer while his parents are busy.
“I’m okay.” Tim answers softly. “I was just curious about what you’re doing?”
Alfred looks around. The laundry is running, a load in the washer and the dryer. The scrub sink holds several offending garments which require deep cleaning. There is also a pot of potatoes on the range, heating to later be made into potato salad for Saturday’s lunch with the Kents.
“I am doing a few things at the moment.” Alfred responds. “Would you like to see?” No sooner than the words leave his lips, Tim’s face reappears. He looks up at the older man, stars in his eyes, and hands tucked close to his chest.
“I would like to see.” Tim enunciates carefully. “Can you tell me what you are doing?”
“Of course I can, my boy.” Alfred agrees easily. Narrating his chores does not provide any inconvenience. In fact, he wagers that he might even enjoy it. He does so for Master Jason, although only while cooking or baking. Master Dick enjoys the sewing and first aid lessons. Master Bruce was fascinated by his explanations of the intricacies of a proper cup of tea, many years ago. Each time, Alfred took great joy in sharing a part of his life with his family.
He supposes that he must have enjoyed it once, as a young lad. He learned it somewhere. Certainly not whilst he was in his majesty’s service. Perhaps his parents taught him? He can hardly remember those days. He was as small as Master Tim once, as everyone was at some point, not that there is any evidence remaining of his past.
Shaking his head to free himself from his memories, or lack thereof, Alfred grabs a folding step stool for Tim to climb up. Even with the boost, the six year old can barely see above the edge of the sink. Teetering on his tip-toes, Tim clutches the sink, sniffing its contents and wrinkling his nose.
“These trousers need to be thoroughly cleaned. They have absorbed a great amount of sweat. I soaked them in warm water, with soap, for an hour while I did other things. Now I will scrub them with a brush and a little bit of dish soap.” Alfred explains, pausing to see if Tim had any questions. When the boy stays silent, looking between the butler and the trousers, Alfred continues.
“I am breaking the bonds of the oils and sweat with the fabric. Because the trousers were repeatedly soaked and dried without being washed, it will take multiple washes to thoroughly clean them.”
Tim watches closely as Alfred begins scrubbing with the brush. The older man starts with the waistband and the crotch, two areas that sweat gathers. Then he works his way down each leg. Periodically, he stops to dunk the fabric in the water to clear away some of the suds.
“Are you gonna wash’em after?” Tim pipes up, interrupting Alfred’s train of thought.
“Yes.” He answers, glad the child is paying apt attention. “I will add them to a load of other clothes and launder them again. This will get rid of any additional soap and ensure that the trousers are completely clean.”
The boy hums thoughtfully, nodding to himself. His quiet analysis might make a lesser man feel quite on display. Alfred is used to the unflinching attention brought by the Wayne Family name. A six year old’s sole attention is unsettlingly similar, nonetheless. Perhaps it is because said six year old is Master Tim.
“Would you be interested in accompanying me into the kitchen?” Alfred invites, wringing the excess water from the fabric. “I could use a sous chef for the potato salad.”
The boy smiles. It takes over the bottom half of his face entirely. Alfred finds himself unable to resist the upward quirk of his own lips. Tim nods eagerly.
“Excellent.” Alfred announces. He rotates the load in the washer to the dryer, the load in the dryer to a laundry bin, and the new load into the washer, along with the trousers. “Follow me please.”
He hears the boy hop off the step stool, tucking the tool back into its place, and pad after him. The careful motions remind him of Master Jason’s early days in the Manor, meant to keep all adults happy. It is worrying that Master Tim’s behavior is so similar. He makes himself smaller, despite taking up rather little space. He wants to observe, only joining in if invited. He stands there, staring, his wide eyes taking in all the information he can glean.
Unnerving, really, for most folks. Alfred isn’t bothered. He is more than happy to continue doing whatever is on his to do list while the small boy stares. He only worries that the child will not ask for what he needs, for fear of interrupting and upsetting an adult, and will go hungry or thirsty or neglect some other such need. Lord knows that Bruce neglects such needs at the mildest of distraction.
Of course, this behavior begs the question of how he learned to behave this way. Timothy spends the academic term at boarding school, according to their investigation into the Drakes. He spends holidays in Gotham, at home with his parents and their live-in housekeeper, Ms. Mac. Until this summer, when Janet Drake suggested that Timothy intern with Wayne Enterprises. Six years old is rather young to begin working, in Alfred’s opinion, but Bruce took the suggestion in stride. He chuckled good-naturedly, not revealing any cracks in his gala persona, and agreed to make arrangements.
The next day Timothy Drake stood on their doorstep, his parents on a plane to Peru. Alfred is still unsure what to make of the situation. He is sure that he does not wish to return his youngest grandson, and is fairly certain that Masters Dick and Jason are of the same position. Master Bruce will simply have to get on board. He cannot out vote them all.
Since his arrival, Master Tim has made quite the reputation for himself. He peers into your very soul, with his pale blue eyes, unblinkingly. He watches, whether from a distance or up close, and takes it all in. He forgets nothing, cataloguing and analyzing every detail. His memory is truly impressive.
Alfred takes Tim’s hand as they walk to the kitchen. The laundry is located at the far end of the main floor, still a part of the initial body rather than the wings that split off. The butler slows his steps to accommodate the child’s pace, and relishes the smile on the boy’s face when he squeezes his hand in reassurance.
“Have you tried potato salad before?” Alfred asks, lifting Tim onto his hip easily. The boy weighs next to nothing. An overwhelming urge to feed Tim until he is closer to an appropriate weight nearly overtakes him. Alfred fends it off, but only just. Perhaps an endeavor for a later time.
Tim shakes his head. Alfred sets the boy down on the edge of the counter, checking the pot on the stove. The potatoes should be finished soon. Adding another onto the burners, he fills it partially with water and a dozen eggs.
“I am hard boiling the eggs now.” Alfred narrates. “We will add them later.” Pulling out several large metal mixing bowls, the mayonnaise, jar of sweet relish, yellow mustard, a peeled onion, and the cleaned celery. A cutting board and a knife joins the pile of tools on the counter.
“To begin our sauce, I am mixing vinegar and sugar.” He explains. Tim nods along, watching carefully. Alfred measures out about a cup of white vinegar and a half cup of cane sugar. Mixing them together quickly, he dumps them into the smaller of the two mixing bowls.
“Feel free to stop me to ask any questions, Master Tim. I am more than happy to explain.”
Dumping the entire jar of mayonnaise, jar of sweet relish, and half the bottle of yellow mustard, he mixes it into the vinegar and sugar. Soon, the slurry evens out into a sauce. Setting that bowl aside, he prompts Tim to take a quick taste with a spoon. The boy’s eyes widen even further, which should be impossible.
“Do you like it?” Alfred asks. “If not, we can add more of certain ingredients.” Tim doesn’t answer, instead shrugging. The butler takes the lack of response in stride, potato salad is not everyone’s cup of tea.
Chopping the large white onion into finely diced bits, he adds it to the large mixing bowl. Thankfully, he remembered to wash the celery earlier, as he would prefer not to wetten his hands again after the laundry. Alfred dices the celery as well, adding it to the onion.
The potatoes should be done now, so he bustles over to the stove top. He strains them, rinsing the excess starch down the drain. He dumps the now cooked potatoes into the larger mixing bowl, careful not to knock out his finely chopped vegetables.
“I am going to dice the potatoes now.” Alfred explains aloud. “They are still quite hot, so do not touch, please.”
Tim nods solemnly, tucking his fidgeting hands against his chest. Alfred turns back to his bowl, cutting the potatoes into bite-sized pieces. He then grabs the other mixing bowl, pouring the sauce onto the still hot potatoes.
“They take the flavor on better while they are still warm.” Alfred adds, focusing on mixing his ingredients without spilling anything over the edge of the bowl. “Make sure to add your seasonings as well. Because I am making this for lunch with the Kents, I will add paprika. Otherwise, my sauce would also have garlic powder and dill.”
Tim nods, like he is mentally cataloguing each beat of the recipe. Maybe, when he is a little older, Alfred could teach him to make many things, if he is interested. Master Jason has certainly caught on, insisting on joining the butler in the kitchen whenever schedules allow. It would be nice to spend time with two of his grandchildren, particularly in passing on skills that will serve them well as they find their way in the world.
The eggs should be done now. No timer sounds. Alfred has learned the timing from years of cooking, many of which with this particular stove. He removes the eggs from the burner, letting the pot cool.
“Would you like to help?” Alfred offers. He watches as Tim unfurls his arms, tilting his head to one side in question. “When the eggs have cooled down some, I need you to shell them. Putting the eggs without shells here on the cutting board and the shells back in the pot, can you do that?”
Tim nods, brow furrowed. A very serious expression on a very small face. Would it not offend the child, Alfred might let himself laugh. Such worries over hard boiled eggs. A trivial matter that should never be so vexing.
The boy lifts one, once Alfred has triple checked that they have cooled enough, and cradles it carefully in his hand. He cracks it deftly against the edge of the pot, shucking the shell with great dexterity. Repeating the action, he cleans the dozen eggs in a few minutes. Alfred dices them as he goes, adding them to the larger mixture. Once finished, he mixes them into the salad.
“You’ve done this before.” Alfred observes. “I daresay you make quite the chef.” Tim blushes, ducking his head. He murmurs something into his threadbare superman t-shirt. Alfred catches a few syllables, but cannot decipher the child’s meaning. “Repeat that for me, please, Master Tim.”
Tim’s head pops up, still pink. He stares at Alfred for a moment before opening and closing his mouth a few times. Clearing his throat, he averts his gaze. “I make my own eggs at home sometimes. I like scrambled but these are okay too.”
Alfred smiles, instantly rewarded by a smile in kind. He knew there was more to this child than meets the eye. Although, the comment immediately brings several questions to mind. If his time spent at home, Drake Manor, is as supervised as the Drakes insist it has been, then when would a six year old have made his own meals enough to prefer scrambled eggs over hard-boiled?
“Do you make them with your family?” Alfred inquires nonchalantly. He does not watch the child’s face directly as he forms his response. Timothy does not hide the lie he is constructing well. Perhaps he is out of practice, unused to answering inquisitive responsible adults.
“Ummm…” Tim murmurs, thinking. His brow furrows adorably, disappearing behind his dark bangs. “No. My mommy and daddy let me use the stove ‘cuz Ms. Mac is there to watch.”
“I see.” Alfred accepts easily, even though he knows the boy is lying. He does not need to interrogate a child to divine the truth. “Did Ms. Mac teach you how to make eggs then?”
Yet again, the question prompts great deliberation from the boy. He ponders, bringing up his hand to stroke his chin as he thinks through his response. Alfred busies himself with stirring the bowl a final time before covering.
“Suuure.” Tim mumbles, tucking his head back down to avoid eye contact. Alfred ruffles the boy’s hair, sweeping him off the counter and onto his hip. His grandson is bad at lying, not that Alfred truly minds it. Perhaps this one might actually get into less trouble than the other two. If only.