Alfred was genuinely surprised when the little pickpocket finally arrived at the precinct. Selina’s tardiness only renewed his suspicions about her reliability and intentions, making him increasingly certain as the minutes ticked by that his trust had been misplaced. When the girl at last made her grand entrance, her feigned nonchalance only tried his patience further, her perceived rudeness in keeping him waiting triggering Alfred’s temper. He did despise such a show of blatant disrespect for his time.
“Ah! So kind of you to join us, Miss Kyle. I trust it wasn’t too great of an inconvenience for you to keep us all waiting here today?” Dripping with bitter sarcasm, Alfred’s words might as well have been spoken to the wall for all the consideration they received. Detectives Gordon and Bullock were focused on Selina, the leather-clad thief herself barely registering a visible reaction to Alfred’s reprimand.
Being ignored afforded the butler a moment longer to better scrutinize the girl’s appearance. While Selina and Jim Gordon traded quips before settling into a more productive dialogue to explain her latest appearance at the GCPD, Alfred studied Selina’s features and posture with the cool detachment of an investigator summing up a potential interrogation subject. She looked decidedly haggard despite what he detected was an attempt to force her usual blustering swagger. Her characteristically sharp gaze lacked its customary sting, the patches of dark skin under her eyes speaking volumes about the quality of what little rest she was able to earn during the night. She looked unwell, and clearly endured a far less relaxing night than Alfred, who slept soundly beneath Egyptian linen sheets in the cushy sanctuary that was Wayne Manor.
The angry streak of red splashed along Selina’s jaw particularly concerned him. But why should he care at all? She was trouble because of the life she lived, the world she knew, the morally questionable acts she committed without apology or expressed remorse. She was a threat, a bad influence. Alfred wanted to feel nothing about the trauma mapped in the young girl’s features other than his usual harsh, superior judgment, yet the worry nagging at him was genuine. Paternal distress was damned inconvenient when it was the last thing Alfred Pennyworth wished to experience, particularly for Selina Kyle. But even he could no longer disregard its existence.
She needs a good meal, even a safe place to rest a bit. Just for a little while. She’s only a child, no matter what she’s done. And she’s making sense. Even Gordon sees it. She’s doing this for Bruce. We’re all doing this for Bruce.
Exceedingly grateful for Gordon’s willingness to shoulder the burden of the investigation, Alfred sighed with some relief once the folder was in the detective’s hands. Being in possession of the proper authorities meant Alfred himself would not be tempted to review its contents or hunt down the culprits on his own. He knew how blurry the line could be between justice and vengeance. Better still, he understood how easily he might cross that line if left in the presence of those responsible for murdering Thomas and Martha Wayne. Such unspeakable horrors could be wrought by his own hands that he didn’t care to even think about.
You didn’t think I was gonna show, did ya? Started to worry a little bit? Selina’s wisecrack was actually more welcome than it normally might have been. Well-timed, well played, well done, Selina.
“Never doubted you for a moment, Miss Kyle!” Alfred puffed out his chest and straightened his shoulders in the manner of a proud father who’d been right about his misunderstood charge all along. “I knew if given the chance to prove yourself, you’d come along and do the right thing eventually.” His eyes conveyed something altogether, likely noticed by the eagle-eyed lawmen. You know bloody well I expected you to let me down, and damn you for proving me wrong right when it mattered. But thank you, too, all the same.
Turning to Gordon with a nod, Alfred absently straightened his cuffs and eyed the younger man in earnest. “Right. Well, thank you again, Detective. I trust you’ll do everything in your power to follow up on this lead and keep your promise to Master Bruce about finding those responsible. If he gets wind of this, he’ll try beatin’ the granny out of me, but I’ll deal with that later. You lads,” Alfred nodded pointedly to Bullock before returning his attention to Jim. “I expect you’ll both do what needs to be done, to the full extent of the law.”
Jim bristled slightly at the butler’s stern reminder of the passing of time since the first promise made in a dark Gotham alley still stained with the blood of Bruce’s slain parents. Alfred’s desire to see justice served was understandable, as was his desire to protect the boy, but something in the Butler’s tongue was more accusatory than grateful at times. The future police commissioner supposed that came hand-in-hand with the privilege of wealth. He’d certainly seen his share of that brand of entitlement over the years, and Alfred Pennyworth could certainly throw his weight around when Bruce’s welfare was at stake.
“Hopefully this is something we can move on. I’ll keep you posted, and report back as soon as we have any news.” Gordon regarded the pair with an air of authority that Harvey almost scoffed at. No one at the GCPD truly believed the Wayne killer would ever actually be identified, let alone brought to justice. Some things were just better left alone, but do-gooder Jim Gordon simply wouldn’t stop overpromising and under-delivering on the matter.
“You did the right thing, both of you. It’s too dangerous for Bruce to get involved in this. Best left to the law to handle.”
Shaking the detectives’ hands in farewell, Alfred turned to Selina. “Right, best we shove off then. Let these men do what they do best, while we stay out of their way.” It was an ironic turn of phrase for a man who had been, and would be, a frequent visitor to the GCPD with demands to get Bruce Wayne out of one sticky situation after another whenever the boy got himself into trouble.
Once they were out of earshot on their way out of the precinct, Alfred didn’t bother calling back the first thought on his mind. It seemed like the right thing to suggest. It seemed natural, even if he suspected he’d regret such kindness for the lairy little pickpocket. Or maybe he could live with it.
“What you need, Miss Kyle, is a decent meal and a safe place to rest for a spell. At least until it’s time for me to fetch Master Bruce from school and you to make yourself scarce again, ey?” His fingers were fussing with his cuffs yet again, tugging at his waistcoat, settling at his back. There was no hint of jest in his eyes or the firm set of his mouth.
“That is, of course, unless you’re going to try, and ultimately fail, to convince me that you didn’t have a bloody rotter of a night because of something - or someone - beyond the inconveniences of an unpaid power bill?” Lifting a brow, he kept his steely gaze upon her, openly daring her to mouth off. “Perhaps you would rather sell a kidney on the black market for a meal than suffer another plate in my kitchen, Miss Kyle, but nevertheless I’m offering.” A shadow of a smile touched the corner of Alfred’s mouth.
“Besides, it might be a good opportunity for us to get our stories straight, in the event Master B discovers our treachery today.”
THE DARK BEFORE DAWN - THE NARROWS- Rewritten drabble/Expanded for Marionette
“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.
He doesn’t understand—what I am. He doesn’t know the things I’ve done. The things that other people did…
Alfred was loath to admit just how rapidly the staunch, unflattering opinions he previously held about Selina Kyle were crumbling during their private encounter in the garden. The many failings of the girl’s misguided youth seemed less threatening when reexamined through the lens of paternal concern for another child. Her narrative infused with a heartbreaking clarity and surprising level of self-awareness, the little pickpocket unwittingly challenged Pennyworth to reevaluate his own judgment. She fully resided in the shades of gray muting the black and white foundation Alfred envisioned for his newfound role in Bruce Wayne’s upbringing.
Christ, child rearing was tough. Even considering everything Alfred Pennyworth had seen, lived through and accomplished - or, regrettably, committed- during his lifetime, raising a youngster was the most difficult responsibility he’d ever taken on.
Maybe I’m going about this all wrong, Thomas. After all, he’s not the same Bruce Wayne you left behind, is he? But he is still a Wayne. And just as you instructed, a Wayne chooses his own path.
How he could possibly start leaning toward wanting to parent Selina Kyle on top of it all was another curious twist of fate Alfred hadn’t seen coming. All the more surprising was how that very possibility was starting to seem more logical, more natural, than making it one of his missions to keep the pair separated.
“I know your lives are hardly alike, Miss,” Alfred managed to interject. “You’ve been openly hostile toward his upper crust life here and likewise, it’s difficult for Master Bruce to fully relate to how life can be on the other side for..” He paused for a heartbeat or two, before acknowledging the truth Selina had already articulated, that she and Alfred were both cut from a very different cloth than Bruce Wayne. “...for people like us.”
The kind smile he offered to Selina then was touched by a bittersweet memory. Thomas Wayne’s compassion was still guiding him, reminding Alfred that not everything was set in stone. “But, I also know first hand that, sometimes, it’s actually okay to accept when someone comes into your life and really sees you, warts and all. Someone who sees you at your absolute worst, and despite all of it, despite whatever you once were or what you done, they still see the heart of it all. They still see you, the essence of you. And that can make all the difference in the world, especially for people like us, Selina.”
Alfred was unable to finish the thought. His head turned toward the house when both he and Selina heard Bruce making ready to venture back outside, then the butler gave her a quick nod in farewell. He didn’t want the boy to find them speaking together any more than she did. It was already bad enough the pair conspired to keep information from Bruce, all for what they considered the very best of intentions.
“Right, up the wall with you then,” Alfred confirmed in a hasty whisper, glancing quickly over his shoulder to make sure Bruce hadn’t yet reappeared. “Tomorrow morning, at the precinct. We speak to Gordon together. Not a word to Master Bruce, not yet, is that clear?” A final nod given, Alfred turned his back to her and quickened his steps toward the mansion’s garden entrance.
“On my way, Master B! I’ll get the kettle on.”
*****
“No, no, she said she’d be here, Detective. And it’s bloody important.” Alfred was visibly agitated when Harvey Bullock made a stream of excuses for why Jim Gordon couldn’t wait around for the likes of Selina Kyle. She was only a little late in the wider scheme of things, but late enough for Alfred to be wondering if she had stood him up or, worse yet, had decided to take the intel elsewhere. Turning back to Gordon, Alfred pleaded with his eyes, wanting to believe Selina would be true to her word, yet starting to think Gordon was correct to assume she would be a no-show.
“If it’s so important that you expect me to wait for the appearance of a known petty thief who isn’t exactly the most reliable of contacts, Mr. Pennyworth, why don’t you just give the basic rundown to save us some time while we’re waiting?” Jim Gordon eyed the volatile butler with frustration, his patience fading. He knew all too well how Selina Kyle’s varying allegiances could foul up any investigation. What clearly puzzled him was why Alfred Pennyworth, of all people, was suddenly vouching for her.
“Because she’s got the bloody evidence we need, that’s why!” Alfred realized too late how ridiculous it must have sounded, shame settling over him despite his valiant attempts to hide it. Had he been manipulated after all? Should he have taken that envelope and trusted his initial instinct about the girl, slapping her into the next county and banishing her from Bruce’s circle forever?
“Evidence of what, Alfred?” Gordon stepped closer, studying the older man’s features with intent study. Alfred didn’t particularly care for being on the receiving end of an interrogation, and he especially didn’t care for how that slobbishly-dressed Bullock was giving him the Evil Eye. Finally lifting his eyes to meet Gordon’s, Alfred inhaled deeply, inwardly talking himself off the ledge. Calming himself required more self-discipline than anyone would ever know.
“Five more minutes, Detective. That’s all I ask.”
Gordon glanced at his watch before giving a nod to Bullock. Harvey threw up his hands, grumbling as he wandered off to give the two men some space.
“Fine. Five more minutes, Alfred. And if she doesn’t show?”
Alfred’s expression was as matter-of-fact as his voice in response. Already he was ready to kick himself for trusting the little delinquent.
“Well, it’s best I don’t tell you what happens then. Innit?”
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.
Right. Any conspiracy theories floating about, considering the birthday of everyone's fave Butler falls on the day of the Great North American Eclipse this year?🤪
//Thanks to my WPs for your cont'd kindnesses and patience while I deal with RL work and catch up on owes. And just a reminder that this writer celebrates Alfred's DC canon birthdate of April 8!
Alfred was prepared for a certain level of brass from the girl, effrontery employed as a parting shot to retain her dignity. Surely the abuse inflicted upon her by the butler’s own hand would not go unchallenged, even if all Selina could manage before retreating was some hasty advice about how Alfred Pennyworth could promptly go fellate himself. She was cunning and irreverent, an expert in the sport of disparaging every ounce of propriety and decorum Bruce Wayne’s guardian respected or possessed. Prior interactions suggested he could count on Selina to pass judgment on his literal slap to her face, even as he was left smugly satisfied that he’d stunned her mostly into silence.
What Alfred grossly miscalculated, however, was just how eloquently Selina would go for the jugular. Her articulate condemnation of his failings, even if not wholly deserved, revealed a depth of seasoned observation that Alfred had only heard expressed from one other child in his experience - Bruce Wayne himself. There were far too many hardships packed into Selina’s young life for the girl to enthusiastically comply with all the rules governing the world Bruce represented. That world had rejected and abandoned her, deeming her as forgettable as the trash and filth soiling Gotham’s crime-ridden streets.
You think you’re the first grown man to strike me? You’re not—though you might be the oldest…
The pickpocket’s sobering commentary on her violent reality, a stark contrast to Bruce Wayne’s uptown lifestyle, struck a nerve with the older man. He’d allowed his temper to go unchecked, repeated the sins of his own father and countless abusers of Gotham, sought to discipline Selina in the only way he’d understood when it came to dealing out punishment for her insubordination. His upbringing, his military experience, his life on the streets of Whitechapel before Thomas Wayne’s influence planted him on the road toward redemption and civilization, had reared their ugly heads in a moment of rage and disgust.
But Reggie’s life had been Alfred’s to take or spare, damn it all. Selina needed to understand that, needed to be taught that lesson. And Bruce’s safety was his responsibility.
Look after him, Alfred. The safety of our son is your highest priority, now. Of course, Thomas. My life for his, should it ever come to that. You have my word. We know, Alfred. As a soldier, and as a gentleman, you’re a man of your word.
Selina Kyle had no such hero in her life, no reliable parental figure vowing protection and shelter for the girl who had to fight over scraps against Gotham’s worst offenders just to see another sunrise. Alfred wasn’t privy to the horrifying details of the many ordeals she had survived, yet he was suddenly overcome with shame for his lack of self restraint. An unexpected wave of revulsion climbed the length of his spine, twisting his gut until he thought he might be physically sick right where he stood. He rather preferred to not be remembered for that sort of undignified reaction, especially not in the idyllic gardens of Wayne Manor.
Yes, Selina Kyle had killed Reggie Payne. And yes, Alfred’s old instincts prompted him to pronounce an immediate sentence upon his old friend’s murderer. But she was also still a child. Just a bloody child.
But you need to keep him on the right side of the tracks. You need to keep him out of the shadows. Take care of him, Mr. Pennyworth.
“Selina, stop.” Just as the girl started to turn away, Alfred was calling her back.
Stepping cautiously toward her, Alfred composed himself by readjusting his cufflinks, wary blue eyes momentarily downcast. The constant attention to his cuffs was both a characteristic of his meticulous nature and a holdover from years of service to Her Majesty - Mr. Yes Sir, No Sir, Mr. Queensberry Rules and Discipline, as Reggie had called him just days earlier. The action also served as a sort of distraction whenever Alfred needed to quickly collect his thoughts without discovery, a sort of rapid meditation to calm his nerves or conceal discomfort.
“Far be it for me to…condone the actions of those who have caused you injury when it wasn’t warranted, Miss Kyle.” Issuing a mea culpa was always uncomfortable business. Alfred wasn’t properly apologizing for striking her, but he didn’t believe it necessary to beg for her forgiveness in the moment, either. He also hoped she wouldn’t notice the grimace of pain after he’d slapped her, the force of his movement straining his abdomen. Perhaps one day soon, sometime in the future, he could muster an apology. Perhaps they could both find ways to admit to one another and to themselves, that they were essentially fighting on the same side.
One day.
“Now, it is true that Master Bruce initially took it upon himself to find Reggie, based on a comment I’d made about where the bastard might be holed up.” A hint of agitation flickered in his eyes as Alfred conceded his error, a misstep he intensely disliked admitting to that troublemaking little minx. “His selective hearing is a bit maddening at times.”
Alfred’s fingers ceased their fussing with his cufflinks, arms straightening at his sides. “But it’s also my understanding that Bruce wasn’t looking in the right place, because he misunderstood what I meant by shooting gallery, isn’t that right?”
He took up the familiar posture of folding his arms behind him, hands loosely clasped at the small of his back. “Now, not to underestimate the boy’s undeniable intelligence and infuriating tenacity, but he might well have spent the day only searching the city’s gun ranges before giving up and coming home, leaving Reggie properly to me once I was on my feet again.”
Lowering his chin, Alfred eyed her with the stern judgment of a father lecturing a child for sending a baseball through a plate glass window. “Point being, Selina, it’s very likely Bruce only found Reggie when he did because you pointed the way. And yes, he is good, as you stated, full of natural compassion, that boy is. But there’s also something deeper there, Selina. Something he’ll have to face eventually, but he’s not ready for that. Not yet.”
A shadow of profound melancholy darkened Alfred’s pale features but for a fleeting moment. Clearly the very idea of Bruce facing down all of life’s horrors and dangerous lessons before he could make better sense of it all filled Alfred with dread and genuine sadness. A time would arrive when it was all a necessary evil, the balance required for the man Bruce was to become. But Alfred had made a promise to Thomas that he fully intended to keep.
When he’s ready. Until then, keep him safe.
Alfred regarded Selina with intense study, meaning to hold her gaze, making an effort to convey his worry for Bruce was not unlike her own.
“You want me to keep him out of the shadows. That’s precisely what I’m attempting to do, Miss Kyle. And all of this business, this obsession, the scampering about searching for clues to murders and secret societies, it needs to stop. Whatever it all leads to, that too could break him, if he keeps obsessing over it and pursuing it before he’s properly able to shoulder all of the burden he’s meant to carry.” His eyes then dropped to her jacket, a single nod of his head offered in reference to the envelope she had hidden beneath the leather.
“That’s why I also agree that handing the matter over to Jim Gordon is indeed the best course of action.” Alfred had no qualms about admitting that much; he was only annoyed that he hadn’t suggested it first. “Gordon gave his word to Master Bruce. The more concrete leads he has to go on, the better.”
One more shadow crossed Alfred’s brow as he spoke in Reggie’s memory. “It doesn’t matter what ole Reg was like in the end. The Reggie I knew died years ago. I wouldn’t expect you to possibly understand the code you violated when you pushed what was left out that window, Selina. But he died for whatever that envelope leads to. Let Gordon handle it. With any luck, Bruce will let it go.”
@Pennyworth Reply to Street Trash FIRST BLOOD Alfred and Selina
“Oh no, you don’t. I’ll mind that, Master B. You just see to the chessboard, I’ll tidy up.”
Alfred slowly began to pull himself upright from his seat, motioning to the table where he and his young charge had just finished their late morning tea. Skillfully masking his discomfort, or so he thought, from the subtle twisting of his chest, he attempted to stop Bruce from clearing the table. The hint of a wince on the butler’s face as his torso shifted, however, did not go unnoticed by the youngster.
“Alfred, it’s fine. The doctor said no lifting, remember?” Stacking the teapot, empty cups and saucers onto the tray, Bruce cocked his head, eyeing the stubborn Englishman with affection. He remembered only too well the nightmare of nearly losing Alfred to Reggie Payne’s knife days earlier. “Especially since you haven’t been resting as much as you’re supposed to.”
“Right, well, that was days ago,” Alfred protested. He wasn’t one to idle, even if the effects of thoracic trauma required more healing than he wished to make proper time for. He’d survived far worse, after all - but all in his younger days, when he could bounce back from illness or injury more quickly.
“I think I can manage the bloody tea tray well enough, can’t I? I’m feeling much better, Sir. Back to me old self, in fact.”
Observing his friend’s struggle with adherence to duty and refusal to admit Reggie’s attack had slowed Alfred down, Bruce shook his head with an admiring grin. Pennyworth had guided the boy through tragic loss and its aftermath, only to suffer a near-fatal blow from an old war buddy hired by forces Bruce was committed to identifying and exposing. The very least Bruce could do was temporarily shoulder a few of the household burdens that normally fell within Alfred’s jurisdiction as Wayne Manor’s primary caretaker.
“I’ve got it, Alfred. Enjoy the garden a little bit longer, you’ve been inside a lot more than you’re used to. I’ll get the chessboard ready.”
There’s a big heart. What a fine young man you’re turning out to be, despite everything. This time, Alfred was the one left smiling in the wake of Bruce’s departure from the garden. He marveled at the boy’s capacity for compassion even after so much of the world’s ugliness had already touched the privileged existence of the surviving Wayne heir. Alfred could only hope that sort of empathy would remain a vital part of Bruce’s character. Life itself had a special knack for kicking down the kindest of souls, making them suffer the most for the sins of those less deserving of grace. That truth was just one of many reasons why Alfred was so protective of his late friend’s only son. Recent events had only hardened his resolve.
I swear on your graves, Thomas and Martha, I will do whatever I can to ensure Bruce becomes the man he was meant to be. Or I’ll die trying, if needs be. My life for his. Always.
Closing his eyes and lifting his chin to the sunlight, Alfred inhaled slowly, as deeply as he dared, testing the limits of his impaired chest wall. He did love the gardens at Wayne Manor especially, taking great pride in tending the topiary and his beloved roses when not experimenting with growing vegetables or micromanaging the remaining groundskeepers. Skulking about the mansion like some crippled invalid had not suited the industrious, self-sufficient Alfred Pennyworth in the slightest. Still, he willingly took Bruce’s advice and enjoyed the peace and tranquility of his surroundings a moment longer.
That tranquility was effectively shattered by the sudden sound of movement behind him. Opening his eyes, Alfred whirled around to find himself staring into the face of that thieving little street urchin, Selina Kyle. Already well-acquainted with her penchant for scaling walls and breaching windows over the proper use of doors and phone calls for visitations, Alfred was not entirely surprised she had interrupted his reverie by literally dropping in unannounced. He was also, as she would easily see by the cloud darkening his features, displeased by the mere sight of her.
“Keeping your distance from Master Bruce would have been the wisest decision you could’ve made, if you’d stuck to it,” Alfred hissed, slowly stepping toward Selina before halting within two feet from where she stood. Her presence offended and infuriated him, a reminder of how her influence threatened Bruce’s own safety. She had crossed the line with Reggie, putting Bruce in further danger and violating a strict, unwritten code between soldiers. Between mates.
Glancing down at the manila envelope in Selina’s hand, Alfred’s immediate reaction was to refuse it. He’d resisted Bruce’s obsession with investigating the dark underbelly of Wayne Enterprises and Thomas Wayne’s mysterious activities, a personal refusal that conflicted with Alfred’s professional training. Grieving his best friend’s murder in private in order to prioritize Bruce’s well-being, Alfred wanted nothing to do with dangerous conspiracies or anything else that might jeopardize the boy’s life. Selina Kyle, in Alfred’s view, represented too many of those dangers and more.
And now she wanted to provide intel she and Bruce obtained from Reggie? The fury was visible in Alfred’s crystal blue eyes. The vision of Reggie’s broken body at the morgue, skull busted open like a watermelon and his dead eyes staring accusingly up at Alfred for daring to diminish the importance of their service together, would likely add to Pennyworth’s recurring nightmares of conflicts they’d known.
“Oh, I see. Wasn’t enough you had to encourage these mad capers. Now you’ve come with more trouble, have you?”
Alfred wasn’t consciously aware of the squaring back of his shoulders as his throwing arm, powered by the quick rotation of his hips, swung out at Selina. Landing a hard slap to her jaw that nearly spun the leatherbound girl off her feet, he stared her down as she recovered, registering any shock or confusion her features reflected.
“That’s for Reggie,” Alfred stated flatly. It didn’t matter to him that her chronological age, so close to Bruce’s own, was that of a child, someone to be protected and not battered by a man of Alfred’s age. The violent streets of Gotham had parented and created Selina, forcing her to grow up faster than should be expected of any child. Alfred viewed her in that moment not as a little girl worthy of the same protection he offered Bruce Wayne, but as an unworthy adversary, a cold-blooded killer who assumed the role of Reggie Payne’s executioner without Alfred’s knowledge or consent.
“Sorting him out was up to me, Selina. Not you. That wasn’t your place, you had no right or authority, not that you understand anything beyond your own agenda at any given moment, do you?”
Alfred had done far worse in his time than Selina had up to that point in her life, but he recognized the road she was traveling. Perhaps they were more alike than either cared to consciously admit, albeit at very different times in their lives. Once upon a time, he himself had demanded punishment from the world, repenting for his sins through raging self-destruction and recklessness to tempt the fates into slapping him down. Fate had intervened for Alfred Pennyworth, in the form of Thomas WayneSelina Kyle had no such divine intervention, but they were seasoned adults by then.
Was that why Alfred had no qualms about lashing out at her, a child? Selina wasn’t innocent in his eyes. She was trouble, an unhealthy distraction, a threat to the future of Bruce Wayne, son of Thomas and Martha. And Alfred Pennyworth would not tolerate it.
“Now, I don’t know what you want with Master Bruce going further, but I’m certain that his life’s gonna be a damn sight better without you in it.”
Alfred glanced back down at the folder, making up his mind on the spot not to accept it. If he did so, it would either be necessary to lock the folder away, unseen and unacknowledged with the threat of discovery, or watch Bruce obsess further over something that would invite still more trouble into their lives. The boy was too young to have a heart for such vengeance, let alone a burning desire to see it through. They didn’t know it yet, but both Selina and Alfred shared that much in common - a need to protect Bruce Wayne’s soul from the filth and regret they understood firsthand.
“So you do yourself a favor, Treacle,” Alfred concluded, his eyes blazing, daring her to sass him. “And jog on.”
