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Gotham does not ask her valiant protectors when she chooses to don them with their feathered mantles. They need all the help they can get, out on her streets.
Gotham has long since stopped asking another, his answer has always been no.
But now, oh now, with her little Bruce so strong and grown, that little boy with wings of his own, soaring her skies as Batman, she finds her awareness being tugged away, to a corner of a cave.
There is a man, sitting in a circle drawn of coal, though his hands are pristine. Within the circle are gifts.
The feather of her Nightingale, fresh from where it had been lost in his bed. The feather of her Robin, treasured so deeply and given to the man with care (their Robin has only just moved in, their Robin is so young to experience the grief that consumes him). Two feathers, well preserved though old, of her long-gone Raven and the raven’s Peacock.
There are other gifts too. A pearl, once fallen from a neck as the woman bled to death. A scalpel, a strange token saved after it had been used to save his life. An old service gun, well maintained despite being unused for so long.
A beautiful dagger, silver pommel and obsidian blade, with a ruby inlay, taken from a storage box of the Lady Kane’s items. That is not a gift, that is what draws her shadows as he raises it to his palm and slices through the skin.
There is no hesitation when he places his bleeding hand on the cold stone of all that she is.
Gotham takes the form of her long-gone Raven, stepping into the circle with ease as she accepts his life’s blood.
She slides into his lap, tendrils of darkness rippling as she embraces him. She will give him credit, he does not flinch.
(He so rarely flinches. The caretaker has long known of her eccentricities.)
Hello, little one, she coos, draping more herself around his shoulders. A cloak of shadow to rival their shared ward.
“My Lady,” he says, not chilled at all by the cold that must be seeping into him from her presence. It makes her laugh, the sound of chittering bats echoing around them in her amusement.
She has always enjoyed Alfred Pennyworth. A fine man. One of hers, though he rejected her so long ago.
It used to be a common meeting, a slip of a shadow into his dreams. Purring that she could show him so many things. That she could shape his Soul and let him soar.
Not many would refuse. Her Thomas hadn’t, and neither had her Martha. A peacock born to attract attention, dazzling, and yet so caring of his charges. Intelligent and kind, devoted to his people. His wings were a gift she had offered, and he had been overjoyed for her attention.
And their Raven, cunning and quick. Dark, smart, ready to take what she had wanted. She had been the first in so long to be bestowed the feathers. She did not wait to be asked, she had been the one to call upon Gotham herself.
Alfred, alone, trying desperately to raise a child of Gotham and Gotham’s birds. She had offered, had known he would say no, too particular, too out of place. Too stilted, accepting his role in the background, between the lines of butler and parent.
But she had needed him to know.
You accept, then? You will be part of my flock.
A twitch of his lips, a smile, even as her darkness winds its way into him from the wound. “You’ve given me another child, Lady Gotham. You’ve given my boys their own feathers. Is it not my duty to match them and their hearts?”
You were always going to be mine, she smiles, leaning in to press her lips against his.
It’s a dance of shadows, a ripple in the pond. She can pull the strings and lead them to the truth she knows. Her detectives will always follow the truth, and it is hers to define. Just as she defines herself against him, pressing deep, letting the falsity of her tongue pour down her Alfred’s throat.
Tendrils lick at his mouth, curl around his body, sink into his skin where she places her hand against his chest.
Gotham sings as she plucks at his Soul, takes the dense raw material and spins it into threads. Takes the threads, makes herself into a structure of bones, and weaves the Soul across the foundation. Heavy on the piano in his own Music, a dash of strings strung together into becoming skin and blood and bone of his own.
Gasps escape him as she pulls, discordant notes in his head rather than a soothing melody.
But he is older, he has not the time to wait to fledge. She needs him grown.
Feathers bloom from his newly-formed wings. Soft grey fading out to white primaries. The White-Naped Crane, a fitting bird for his devoted heart.
Gotham lets him catch his breath, sprawling over his lap in a blanket of shadow rather than a human facsimile. The offered gifts were sweet of him to present, and she swirls around them, tasting the echoes of emotion on all, but she doesn’t need them.
He could have simply asked and she would have met him in his dreams like old times.
“You have always seemed the type to appreciate a ritual done properly,” he says, once he can manage to get his throat in working order at all.
Let this be your permission and reminder, she hums, frequency buzzing around her as she presses against his chest. Call me anytime.
A stain forms against his skin. Darker than night, with stars twinkling within. Four-pointed, just above his heart, no bigger than an average human’s palm.
He hesitates. Just for a second, but she hears it in the pulse of his drums. “If I may–”
You may.
“You did not give the others a choice, and yet I was allowed to say no.”
Our boys will need the protections my gift bestows. You, dear, do not, though it is far better that you have it anyway.
“You are letting them face the darkness of your streets.”
I would not let them do so without what armor I can provide. You are much the same.
It’s a sore nerve, she knows this well. She watches her favorites closely, after all. He would prefer to keep his Bruce off the streets, and his Dick as well. Even as he knows he could never manage to convince their Bruce and Dick, their Batman and Robin, she can taste that longing in his heart.
So he finds ever new ways to protect them. Armor, medicine, research of course, but beyond that. He feeds them, he cleans for them, he makes sure they have what they need to survive, so that they can live and soar.
“Perhaps you are right,” he inclines his head.
I always am.
He laughs, a soft little thing, fluttering to match his own wings.
Alfred was always going to be one of hers, it was only a matter of him accepting this fact. Gotham was never going to let him go.
It has been far too long since she has had a proper flock, and her gift will protect him too.
He will be hers for as long as she wants. Within the boundaries of herself, nothing can touch him. Not sickness, not old age, not death.
Inside Gotham, her wishes hold utmost sway.
(He is not the one she needs to worry about leaving.)