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Alfred steps into the parlour, a silver tray of hot cocoa in his hands until he steadily slides it onto the low coffee table. Bruce, settled on an ottoman across the room, turns to stare at it critically for a few seconds before he turns back around.
“It's the kind you prefer,” Alfred tries. It had taken him a while to find it, the unopened tin shoved to the back of the cabinet, forgotten and holding onto the last dredges of life. It had been purchased on his last trip home, but he's not quite sure what he was trying to accomplish when he grabbed it off the shelf, placing it in his cart with all the other groceries he was shopping for. Bruce hadn't asked it in years, and the kids wanted the American version.
He's not quite sure what he's trying to accomplish now, but with the date stamped on the tin coming in the next few days, he acquiesces that it was worth a shot.
“I don't want it,” Bruce says, and well, that's that. Alfred leaves the mug where it is and turns to exit, but Bruce’s calling out for him stops him in his tracks. It’s a simple, “Alfred,” but after all of the years (the ones that don't count in this very moment), he can hear the “stay” tacked to the end, never breathed but always implied.
Even when Alfred does as he’s wanted, Bruce doesn’t turn to look at him, and he can’t help but think it’s a punishment of some sort. One that’s been coming for a while, maybe. He just never expected it to take this form.
Bruce punishes himself often enough, always pushing and always going. Even on Christmas Eve, when his whole family was filling the manor. The Bat-Signal shone high above Gotham, and Batman was out of the door before he even thought about it, slick roads be damned.
It’s going to be the death of Alfred one day. He knows it is. They all know it is.
It wasn’t Batman driving the Batmobile back into the Cave, though. No, it was Bruce Wayne, cowl perched precariously on his small head but lips drawn in an aching familiar scowl.
Alfred stood in the back , blinking like he’d seen a ghost, while the teenager was interrogated. ”Where’s Alfred?” he’d said, shoving through the unfamiliar people until he found his employee, his oldest confidant. “Alfred,” he’d said when he found him, jaw tight but pale eyes unsure in a childish way only the older man would recognize. “What’s going on?”
They’d moved into the sitting room where they’d all been before, catching Bruce up on the years he couldn't remember and hearing what he could recall of the fight he’d barely escaped with his identity still a secret.
“I’m not sure who it was,” he explained, picking at a loose string in the seam of some sweatpants he borrowed from Damian.
(“My son?” Bruce whispered, eyes wide. He turned to catch his butler’s gaze, but Alfred looked away before he could, telling the boy all he needed to know.)
“How old are you?” Dick asked, starry-eyed, and Bruce ducked his head, cheeks dusted pink at the attention of the room.
“Fifteen,” he muttered, and Alfred turned and left the room. He couldn’t. He can’t.
He stokes the fire now, giving himself something to do. Bruce is still staring up at the large, lighted Christmas tree in the corner of the room, shoulders rigid. He’d been surprised to see it earlier, face lit up by the sparkling lights, and for the first time that night, Alfred had felt guilty. The Christmas decoration had died when the Waynes, the tradition only being revived when Dick came to live at the manor.
He hopes just for a moment, warm from the flames of crackling fire, that it stays like this. That he can do it all again and do it better for the child that was left under his care.
Gone, though, is the childish wonder from earlier, the pride of meeting his children, the satisfaction when he learned what he’d done as Batman. Bruce had barely spoken a word since everyone retired for bed, upset and not secretive about it. Alfred knew better than to ask, but he knew better, also, than to expect the younger to keep it to himself.
“I got married?” he asks, voice flat.
Alfred stares at his back, at the mistletoe patterned Christmas sweater Dick thought it would be funny to see him wear. It’s dangerously close to slipping off of his shoulder. “No, you’ve never settled down.”
Bruce hums. “But I have a child.”
“Yes, you do.”
It’s quiet for a moment, and Alfred picks up the hand broom and dustpan, kneeling down to sweep up the escaping ashes off of the hearth.
“Why?”
Alfred pauses for a moment, head tilted. “Why do you have a child or why haven’t you gotten married?”
“Either. Both.”
“I wish I knew the motivating factors behind your actions, but alas, I do not.” It’s not something we’ve ever talked about, he doesn’t add. We don’t speak about matters such as these. Not anymore.
“And you’ve not remarried?”
Alfred rises from his stoop, returning the fireplace tools back to their handle. He gathers the tray with the hot chocolate up, ready to return to the kitchen, to finish shutting down the manor for the night. “No, I have not.”
Bruce turns, then, stark eyes watching his every movement. The softness of his jaw startles Alfred, like he’d forgotten in this short span of time who it is sitting in front of him. “What about us?”
Alfred doesn’t let him see that it catches him off guard. “I’m not quite sure what you mean, Master Wayne.”
Bruce laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “‘Master Wayne’, huh? That’s who I am now? The ‘son’ thing didn’t last very long, did it?” he asks, voice weighed down by teenage petulance, the ghost of his bottom lip poking out.
Alfred sits the tray back down with a sigh.
It had been something he’d said only once (grasping for straws) after years of vehemently claiming otherwise, right after Bruce had looked at him with a promise on his lips, a spark of hope in his eyes. It couldn’t have been too long ago for the boy in front of him.
(“Bruce, we couldn’t- you’re like a son to me. You’re my ward, my child. My responsibility. I could never. We can’t ever.”)
“Bruce-”
“We never even tried?”
Alfred frowns, heart pounding against his ribs. “We are not talking about this.”
Bruce scoffs, standing up from the ottoman. His sweater slips off of one of his shoulders, and he pulls it back up, angry. The look is almost unrecognizable painted across his features. “Am I really that much of a coward? You shut me down once, and I- what? Gave up? That’s pathetic,” he spits.
“You should be kinder to your older self. You don’t know what he’s been through.”
“I’ve been through it, too!” Bruce’s face floods with color, blood red. “But I’ve never been spineless. I have morals, and I wouldn't ask you to compromise yours. What excuse does he have?”
Alfred closes his eyes, chest heaving. It isn’t proper, discussing this with a child. He’s not going to argue a child, either, especially not one that doesn’t exist anymore. “You don’t know what you’re talking about, and I think it’d be smart for you to stop trying.”
Bruce frowns, eyebrows furrowing. “It’s not fucking fair! If it’s not you, then who do I have?”
“You have a whole family, a whole league. Bruce, you’re not alone.”
Bruce crosses his arms, and Alfred has to bite back an amused and half hysterical chuckle at the action. “I don’t care about any of that. I want you.”
“You don’t know that-”
“I do!” Bruce steps back, surprised himself at his outburst. “I do,” he states again, a little softer, his voice hollow and lost. “He wants you. I know he does. He has to. Cause I do.” He stares down at his socked feet, and Alfred notices for the first time the wetness in his eyes.
“Oh, Bruce,” he sighs, holding out his arms before the boy can grow embarrassed. “Come here.”
Bruce folds himself into them, tucking his head under Alfred’s chin, fitting perfectly. Alfred can feel the thump of his frantic heart against his own chest. “It’s complicated, Bruce. I know it feels like a lot right now, but I promise it’ll get better. You know who you are now, and you know what you want.” Bruce squeezes him tighter. “You’ve grown up a lot.” It’s a blessing and a curse. “But you still have me, however you need me.”
“You promise?”
“I do.” He turns Bruce around, gently by the shoulders, to look up at the beautiful Christmas tree. “You get to have this, every year.”
Bruce takes in a shuttering breath. “And if I want more?”
Alfred squeezes his shoulders, fond and a little heartbroken. “If you return to me and want more, then I’ll be right here, my child. Now.” Alfred steps back, detaching himself, bowing out of the confession, the conversation, the promise like it never existed if it stops. “How about that hot chocolate? Would you like for me to warm it up for you?”
Bruce nods, wordless, gaze stuck on that damned tree like it's the answer to everything.
(Bruce is still wordless when, a few hours late into the early morning, he slides into the worn sheets beside Alfred, shoulders wide and jaw sharp and eyes clear as the man that he is again. “I’ve returned,” he breathes into the lone pillow shared beneath their heads, and Alfred lets his eyes drift back closed, warm and knowing.)