Keenly observing Selina’s valiant struggle to contain and deny her emotions, Alfred was reminded of a question Bruce had recently asked him: You were trained in interrogations. You can tell when someone’s lying, right?

Alfred’s response, an admission that no amount of professional training or mechanical ingenuity could absolutely guarantee the existence of an infallible lie detector, was a more accurate assessment. Even though he was highly skilled in the specialized art of analyzing microexpressions and body language, Alfred Pennyworth was not perfect. He could acknowledge his own limitations when it came to conducting investigative interviews, no matter how many “baddies” had confessed or suffered from the pressures of his intense scrutiny. And some people, he also explained to his young charge, particularly sociopaths, psychopaths and habitual liars in general, presented unique challenges for discerning lies from truth.

Sometimes a subject flew just under Alfred’s proverbial radar. And still others could ultimately prove his early suspicions to be incorrect. He didn’t always get it right.

Already harboring conflicting viewpoints of one Selina Kyle, Alfred welcomed any reason to dismiss her as an accomplished agent of deception and bad influence. He didn’t actually want to believe the subtle rise of the inner corners of her brow or the slight pucker of skin above them were indicators of genuine emotion. He wanted to reject his own understanding of the tension in her jaw, the barely detectable tightening in her throat, the outward pouting of her bottom lip with the corners of her mouth angling southward. That subconscious communication, alongside her uncharacteristically respectful delivery of his formal name -Mr. Pennyworth- invalidated his earlier misgivings about the girl’s credibility. He could more easily disregard a dramatic sniffle or telltale shine of the eyes, all of which could be faked. But the rest?

She’s just a little girl. And she’s in pain.

For all her bravado, Selina Kyle’s armor was cracking in Alfred’s presence, threatening to reveal a deeply wounded child beneath the air of indifference she otherwise projected. The butler’s emerging paternal leanings were triggered seemingly from out of nowhere, a plot twist he’d not seen coming. The former soldier, a man who always believed himself personally unfit for fatherhood, suddenly wanted to comfort the girl, keep her safe from the world and make up for the lack of proper parental influence in her young life. Alfred Pennyworth quite unexpectedly felt just as responsible for Selina Kyle’s welfare as he did for Bruce Wayne’s.

Oh bloody hell.

Before Selina even finished comparing Bruce and Jim Gordon to everyone else in her orbit, Alfred’s posture became less threatening. His stern expression morphed into one conveying an increasing empathy. Streetwise though she may be, Alfred’s changing opinions about the pickpocket in the moment would not be denied, no matter how much he wished to rationalize them away. His arms fell back to his sides when she mentioned her code without elaborating further, the tense segue to her concern for Bruce prompting Alfred to cautiously step closer. A protective hand gently extended toward her elbow as if to help steady her.

“Selina…” He paused for a heartbeat as the girl raised her arm to swipe a sleeve to her nose. “The fact that you came to me with this information, before getting Master Bruce further involved, well...” Alfred sighed when she fussed with her pocket. “That was a rational decision. In fact, in light of the circumstances, it might do well for us to speak with Detective Gordon together, in order to…”

And then, he saw it. Alfred’s shrewd gaze followed Selina’s hands until they became laser-focused on the object she held.

Martha.

Alfred’s words trailed off, his thoughts unfinished. The appearance of a familiar handkerchief folded between Selina’s fingers evoked a gasp of shock from the Wayne family servant, affecting Alfred so profoundly that it felt like a sucker punch to the gut, and the heart. He would have recognized the embroidered initials and Martha Wayne’s signature forget-me-nots anywhere, having expertly washed and pressed her linens and delicates countless times with his own hands. Although he would be ashamed by it a moment later, Alfred’s immediate thought was that the little treasure had no business being in the possession of someone like Selina Kyle. Surely she had thieved it during some clandestine foray into the mansion, or, worse yet, during one of few the occasions when she had been an official, scheduled guest at Wayne Manor.

The very idea of such betrayal enraged Alfred Pennyworth. Opening his mouth to demand an explanation as to how Selina managed to acquire the handkerchief, his words failed him. His own fury rendering him speechless, Alfred waggled an accusing finger that was stilled the moment Selina started to speak of Bruce’s deceased mother.

I only saw his Ma that one time. But she was the most beautiful person I’d ever seen. Kind. You can tell from some people just by looking. And Mrs. Wayne, she just looked…kind. Like Bruce.

Besides the orphaned son, Selina was the other only living soul who witnessed Thomas and Martha Wayne’s final moments. Her very personal recollection of the tragic night in a dark Gotham alley gave Alfred reason to pause his intended interrogation. It was exceedingly painful to hear any version of the horrific event, but this time the focus was not on the number of gunshots or the young boy’s frantic screams for help as he shook the lifeless bodies of his slain parents. Not even the haunting vision of loose pearls bouncing over bloodstained brick and stone from Martha Wayne’s broken necklace figured prominently in Selina’s extended narrative.

I never got to meet her, but, after she died, the girls at the Wayward House; they all started telling these stories about Mrs. Wayne. Things she’d done to help them. Little moments of kindness sometimes mean more than all the big dramatic stuff.

This time, the memory of unspeakable horror and violent death was eclipsed by the memory of a life so beautifully lived. A purposeful life. Martha’s life.

A pained smile tugged at the middle-aged butler’s lips. He could easily reconcile the legendary kindnesses recalled by the Wayward House’s residents with the Martha Wayne he had personally known for years. She had been all of those things Selina’s peers described. All of those things, and more.

Little moments of kindness. You’d do well to follow her example, Pennyworth. Caring for others didn’t make her love or protect her own son any less.

Alfred knew nothing of Selina’s ideas to provide Bruce with written accounts from those who directly benefited from Martha Wayne’s charity. But had he known, he could easily assume Bruce would strive to seek out every soul whose life had been impacted. The heartfelt testimonials would inspire him to personally thank each individual, sharing her memory through continued celebrations of hope.

I should probably give this back. Bruce told me to keep it, but…it belonged to his Ma. He shouldn’t be giving these out to just anybody. The little cat burglar was full of surprises.

Alfred didn’t trust himself to speak as he glanced down at the handkerchief Selina attempted to return. Silently accepting the transfer from her hand to his, he gingerly caressed the agonizingly soft cotton, convincing himself he could detect a hint of Martha’s perfume clinging to the fabric. It was a ridiculous notion of course. The heady fragrance was most likely a figment of his overactive imagination, a testament to the power of wishful thinking and fond memory. But as he turned the handkerchief reverently over his palm, a floodgate of sorrow and undeclared longings washed over him like a crushing wave.

Buck up, Soldier. Head up, eyes front, don’t let them see you cry. It was the same advice he had given Bruce one terrible night all those years ago, but the child had been allowed to come undone once they were both safe from the prying eyes of strangers. Men like Alfred Pennyworth, however, grieved their deepest, most catastrophic losses in solitude. No one, not even Bruce himself, ever once witnessed Alfred’s full despair when mourning his murdered friends, just as Martha Wayne never knew the true depth of his admiration. Boundaries were always respected, no lines ever crossed between the butler and his best friend’s wife, no confessions made to anyone beyond Alfred’s own heart.

She’d been safer precisely because she was unattainable. He wouldn’t have to make the same mistakes with love and loss as had his younger self. The choice was made for him. And Alfred would take all his private truths about Bruce’s mother with him to the grave.

It was unfortunate the lives of Selina Kyle and Martha Wayne never intersected while the latter still lived. Not yet having made the acquaintance of Selina’s biological mother, Alfred could only speculate as to the woman’s identity, character and reasons for abandoning Selina to chance. Perhaps the mystery woman truly was everything described in Selina’s wildly improbable fantasies that Bruce had repeated to Alfred in confidence. Possibly Selina’s mother was a combination of myth and harsh reality, the truth lying somewhere in between. They would all meet the real Maria Kyle in the not too distant future, a chance meeting that would once again give the reluctant father figure even more reasons to question his own judgment. But until then, Alfred’s best guess was that Selina Kyle had never been valued more by another human being until she crossed paths with Bruce Wayne.

Little moments of kindness, Alfred.
They could make all the difference.
It doesn’t mean you love or protect him any less.

Daring a final glance down at Martha’s initials, Alfred pursed his lips in solemn remembrance. Even in death, the mother of Bruce Wayne continued to guide the living, it seemed. The realization brought a hint of a smile to his strained features. Somehow, from somewhere out there in the ether, he could sense her approval. He could almost feel her playful, teasing elbow poking into his ribs. The old dog was still capable of learning new tricks after all.

You can do this, Alfred.
Jump.

“With all due respect, Miss Kyle, Bruce Wayne would never offer a treasure like that to just anybody.” The emphasis on anybody was a nod to Selina’s obvious dismissal of her own self worth, along with an admission of his willingness to cautiously wade into deeper waters. Parenthood, Alfred was fast discovering, involved more than enforcing rules and preventing mistakes through experience. Sometimes mistakes had to be made for one to learn, and the best thing he could do was stand careful watch nearby, ready to catch the fallen and tend to the bruises. After all, not everyone was a surrogate father to a billionaire orphan targeted by the mysterious assassins and corporate underworld of Gotham City. There was no proper user manual for this type of journey.

“If he willingly gave you something that belonged to his mum, then it wasn’t some cavalier gesture he’d likely regret.” Alfred watched her intently, actually speaking to Selina instead of at her, needing her to understand the full weight of the meaning behind Bruce’s gift. “And I think, or dare I say, I know, Mrs. Wayne would have been delighted to know that, rather than shutting this away in a drawer or boxed up in the attic, her only son had found someone through the darkness who is worthy of this, in his eyes. Worthy of his mother’s light.”

Slowly nudging the handkerchief forward, Alfred motioned for Selina to reclaim it as her own. Any resistance on her part would be met with more insistence on his until she finally relented. He wasn’t budging on that point. Selina could be stubborn, but Alfred Pennyworth had more years of practice under his belt.

“This gift was Master Bruce’s alone to give. It’s hardly my place to take it back on his behalf. Nor do I believe, all your good intentions aside, Miss Kyle, that you should return it at all. There are kinder ways to let him down that don’t involve weaponizing this, of all things, to break his heart.”

Clearing his throat to regain some semblance of composure and dignity, Alfred tended to the proper extension of his French cuffs. Ensuring that his cufflinks - monogrammed gold with onyx inlays - were properly rotated, Alfred lifted his chin and regarded Selina with a newfound commonality. Their secret confrontation there in the garden had been most enlightening.

“Now. I do suppose it’s not completely beyond the realm of possibility that what happened to Reggie was an act born more from good intentions than anything else.” Without directly admitting as much, Alfred was, in his way, apologizing for his violent outburst earlier and simultaneously accepting her explanation for Reggie’s murder. They had both reacted from a similar space, their shared desire to protect Bruce Wayne.

“After all, people do, at times, go to extremes when protecting those they care about the most.” A conspiratorial gleam reflected in the butler’s eyes as he leaned forward slightly.

“Don’t they?”