“Well, if you’re lookin’ for work, I could probably use another good bartender in this joint. Especially someone handy like you, who could double as a bouncer when the fightin’ starts. As long as you don’t actually go lookin’ for trouble. You got lucky I saved your ass this time before that guy cut your throat, but don’t push it, pal.”

Alfred was dismayed to find himself actually considering Harvey Bullock’s employment offer. After living for nearly a month in The Narrows, Gotham’s impoverished, notoriously crime-ridden island district, the former butler of Wayne Manor knew his bank balance would need to be supplemented sooner than later. The possibility of tending bar where Bullock had taken refuge after resigning from the GCPD was both a blessing and a new low.

But Harvey was right. He did stumble onto the scene, after emerging from the men’s toilet at almost the last possible minute, to save Alfred from certain death. Bullock deserved some respect based on that fact alone.

“I just may take you up on that one, mate,” Alfred nodded, absently staring down his empty shot glass. “Reckon it’s something to consider, i’nnit? At this stage, at least.” Just weeks earlier, teenage billionaire Bruce Wayne sacked Pennyworth as both his legal guardian and family butler, effectively terminating his salary and all connections to the home Alfred knew before Bruce had even been born.

“Aw c’mon, you make it sound like it’s the worst decision you could make around here.” Ever the attentive barkeep, Harvey was already tipping the bottle over Alfred’s glass for yet another refill. “This place ain’t so bad. Sure, it’s The Narrows, but like I said, I like this bar. It’s got history. And besides, with your luck lately, and after what we went through tonight, I’m startin’ to think we might make a pretty good team after all.”

Captain Jim Gordon had left their company well over an hour before, having heard the radio dispatch alerting that his escaped murder suspect, Alfred Pennyworth, had gotten into a brawl at a nearby drinking hole with the real perp who implicated Alfred in the death of waitress Tiffany Gale. Alfred was seemingly already in the clear once the real offender was led away in cuffs, but Bullock, refusing Gordon’s subsequent request to return to the force, unapologetically told Jim to hit the bricks. Such drama unfolded while Alfred mourned the fresh loss of his murdered friend, a woman he barely knew despite their intense connection at a nearby diner.

If ever a night called for strong booze and commiseration between two disgruntled souls in a Narrows dive bar, this was it.

“I shall sleep on it, Harvey.” Alfred lifted his eyes, watching as the former detective defied city ordinance by pouring himself another shot while still on the clock behind the bar. What use was there for law in The Narrows? Thanks to Jerome Valeska and all of Dr. Strange’s mutated minions, Gotham was fast descending into a lawless free-for-all well beyond the city’s usual chaos. If current trends continued, The Narrows might prove safer than the rest of Gotham. So what good was common sense or even decency, anymore?

Mr. Yes Sir, No Sir! Mr. Queensberry Rules and Discipline, Alfred’s military comrade, Reginald Payne, once called him. Alfred was starting to wonder if he’d been wrong to believe skill and hard work made it all worthwhile. Without a sense of purpose, Alfred could feel himself becoming dangerously disgruntled.

Oh, if only you could see me from the grave now, Reg. You’d have a right good laugh, wouldn’t you?

Almost as if he read Alfred’s mind, Bullock clinked their glasses together. Another drink was shared after multiple earlier toasts made in Tiffany’s memory, thanks to Bullock’s Irish sentimentality. “Well, at least you’ll be sleeping in your own bed tonight, and not in a cell at the precinct. Believe me, listening to Gordon’s holier-than-thou bullsh*t right now’s the last thing you need, even if you weren’t already cocked, locked and ready to rock.”

“I thought you were good mates, not just partners, you and Gordon,” A bleary-eyed but still conscious Alfred stated matter-of-factly. Being present while Bullock directly questioned Jim Gordon’s questionable conduct with Gotham’s criminal underworld had been awkwardly enlightening. But Alfred was in no hurry to return to his dingy little flat a few blocks away. Patience and persistence paid off when he was forced to secure acceptable housing in the Narrows on a newly restricted budget. But after losing Tiffany that night, and narrowly avoiding being framed as her killer, Alfred did not relish being alone with his rage.

“Yeah, well, sometimes friendships aren’t all that, am I right?” Bullock pointed to Alfred’s newly drained glass, but the Whitechapel native refused another drink with a polite wave of his hand.

“In light of recent events, I’m inclined to agree.” Alfred could feel the weight of Bullock’s well-meaning stare. Both men were skilled in the art of observation and interrogation. Harvey couldn’t shake his training any more than Alfred could fully shed his own. They were both soldiers who fought very different wars but recognized a commonality between them.

“Well, I don’t know what all happened with you and Bruce to get you to leave a cushy life at Wayne Manor for The Narrows,” Harvey offered, “but if it makes you feel any better, just try to imagine Bruce waking up with a killer hangover, a ton of regret and having to make his own breakfast or mop up his own…”.

Bullock’s poor attempt to lighten the gloom was interrupted by the buzzing of Alfred’s mobile phone. Reaching into the pocket of the casual jacket he’d been wearing all evening, Alfred produced the phone and stared at the caller ID.

Bruce Wayne. Once upon a time, not long ago, the boy’s name had flashed across the screen more affectionately as Master B.

“I’ll make myself scarce.” Harvey could read the caller’s identity in Alfred’s expression and was already sauntering away to give the man some privacy. But Alfred merely muted the call and dismissively slipped the phone back into the depths of his coat.

You’ve got a lot of bloody nerve ringing me at this hour, Brucie. I don’t give a toss. Not after tonight. Not after the past month. The bitterness of his own thoughts simultaneously broke Alfred’s heart and left him numb, his ability to feel anything threatening to leave him altogether. It was a frightening possibility, and welcome all at once.

“That’s what voicemail is for,” Alfred said aloud, surprising even himself at his refusal to take Bruce’s call. “Innit?” Carefully sliding off his barstool, he tried settling his tab but met some resistance from Bullock.

“Your money’s only good for the first four, Alfred. The rest are on the house, at least for tonight.” Harvey noted the former butler seemed slightly unsteady, but did not worry much about how Alfred might get safely back to wherever he was currently calling home. The tough old Brit already dodged the Reaper once that night. He could take care of himself for the remainder, even in the Narrows. Judging by the defiance in Alfred’s eyes, Harvey figured anyone stupid enough to try jumping the old guy in some alley would get far worse than a knife to the throat.

“Give the job some thought, man. You know where to find me if you’re looking for an honest gig to pay the rent.”

“You’re a good man, Bullock. Kindly disregard all the nasty things I’ve called you in the past.” Alfred stifled a hiccup and rifled through his wallet, slapping a handsome tip on the bar despite his unemployed status. “Well, apart from your slovenly state of dress, mate. It’s appalling, really. Have you ever met an iron in your life?”

Alfred’s tired grin reassured the other man that it was all mostly in jest, prompting a head shake and chuckle from Harvey Bullock as they shook hands in farewell. It was time for Pennyworth to take his leave while he could still feel his legs.

***

The night air’s stink of decay, death and corruption, even more prevalent in The Narrows than in the entirety of Gotham City, did little to clear Alfred’s head as he trudged along the shadowy streets leading to his new residence. The quantities of Irish whiskey Harvey so liberally served back at the bar may have temporarily subdued his fury, but stepping back out into the maze of hopelessness and despair only worsened his mood.

Visions of Tiffany haunted him from that very night, his last glimpse of her gazing fearfully from her murderous boyfriend’s car window and the subsequent wide-eyed stare projected from her battered, discarded corpse played on loop in his head. He’d seen the intent in the bastard’s eyes, recognized all the signs of violent intent, yet still Tiffany had gotten into that car with her abuser. She didn’t heed Alfred’s warnings, wouldn’t accept his protection. He could have saved her, he was certain of it. He only wanted her to be safe, to still be here. But she didn’t listen.

And neither had Bruce. The boy was still out there making bad decisions all on his own while the city’s lunatic villains were wreaking havoc on the city. Bruce was at risk. And Alfred no longer had any say in the matter.

Over a month’s worth of emotional blows was taking a toll. Was that all it took to weaken the former soldier’s resolve, to make him lose faith in his own life’s purpose? Four weeks in, and you’re ruffled by some bloody teenager and a woman you barely knew? Alfred spat bitterly to himself as he stared down at his booted feet, no longer caring that his surroundings were so sparsely illuminated by streetlights that anyone with sinister intent could be lurking in the shadows, ready to strike. He blended with the inky darkness in his casual black attire, hands thrust in the pockets of his jacket, a strange state of disorientation overwhelming him. The shock was wearing off, a familiar pang of anguish rising from the pit of his belly.

Serve. Stand guard. Protect. It was everything Alfred Pennyworth took pride in doing, his purpose, his meaning. The man was self-sufficient and could certainly look out for himself, but needed a reason that mattered. Having only himself to look after when no one else benefited always led to one grim reality. Without boundaries, his anger would feed upon its host.

Discipline, soldier! Sir, yes, Sir!
Give me a reason. Just one bloody reason!

The rage resurfaced, welling up from some deep recess and flooding his veins like the madness of a were-beast transformed by the full moon. Infuriated by a heap of trash bins partially blocking his path outside an adjacent alley, Alfred roared at them with a savage kick, scattering the barrels into the street. A stab of pain seized his chest, a wave of nausea churning violently in his stomach. Pitching himself into the alley, Alfred braced himself with a palm to the grimy brick wall, dry retching as he fought to keep from falling to his knees.

Maybe he was having a heart attack. Or maybe it was heartbreak. Either way, Alfred feared he was coming apart.

“Ugh. Bloody hell. F*** it!” Only after his stomach’s multiple attempts to empty itself did Alfred realize he’d started to weep. Absently rubbing his eyes with the sleeve of his dark jacket, he dug into a pocket and produced a handkerchief to wipe at his mouth. This couldn’t be his fate, not shattering into a thousand pieces in a Narrows alley, far from Wayne Manor and everything - and everyone - he’d come to love. He wouldn’t allow it. He needed to persevere, to fight his own downfall every second, if need be. Even if it meant reporting to Harvey Bullock’s as some glorified dive bar bouncer.

“One hour at a time, Pennyworth,” he muttered aloud, scolding himself for even thinking of succumbing to bad old habits. There was no Thomas Wayne to save him from the path of self-destruction this time. Alfred had to rely on himself and no one else to make it through.

A rustle of movement from somewhere nearby caught Alfred’s attention. He wasn’t alone in the alley.

“Hello?” Suddenly he was sobering up quickly. Despite how his head was still swimming, every sense was on high alert. His hands automatically reaching for the pistol tucked into his back holster, Alfred strained to see through the shadows, listening for further movement, waiting to be attacked.

And there she was, a young blonde crouched against the wall. Surely she must have witnessed the man’s unraveling from just a few feet away. Lowering his firearm but still keeping a steady grip of the weapon, he blinked at her, confused.

“You alright there, Miss?”