Archive of Our Own ^beta

Alfred made his way down the staircase without hurry. He was still technically supposed to be off-duty, discharged into the care of the household rather than locked in the sterile hospital room only a few days ago. The other house staff had been, in general, very good about keeping him from exerting himself, under strict orders from Bruce to keep him from 'taking liberties', as Alfred himself liked to say, but a request as strange as this required the Master; and in his absence, his only trusted proxy. 

Alfred regretted his casual-wear, but knew he barely had the energy to trek across the mansion without expending his reserves on fitting himself into his usual house-attire. Donned in his workout wear, the only soft, loungewear-esque clothing he owned, he approached the reception room, where the police lieutenant was waiting. 

Clearly having sated his curiosity in his wait, the Lieutenant stood slightly to the side, inspecting some of the knick-knacks on the sideboard. Alfred allowed him the polite clearing of the throat, the man not-quite jumping as he turned his attention to Alfred. 

"Filthy, I know," Alfred said, keeping his tone light, knowing by now that British sarcasm rarely came across as intended on American audiences. 

"Spotless," Gordon countered, clearly thankful for the easy out from an accusation of snooping. "Compliments to the staff."

Alfred smiled, then raised an arm, guiding the Lieutenant back towards the seating area. He noted the kit-bag on the couch, though didn't linger on it as he took his seat opposite.

"My name is Lieutenant James Gordon," the man started as he made himself comfortable. "I was hoping to speak to Mr. Wayne…" But I was told to see you, he left unsaid.

"Is Master Wayne in some kind of trouble?" 

"Something like that," Gordon said, his eyes taking Alfred in. "You're his…?" 

"Butler, ostensibly. Alfred. I take care of Master Wayne’s business when he's not available."

"I always thought Mr Wayne was the reclusive type, that he didn't go out much."

"That is true, for the most part."

"But he's not at home today?"

"Afraid not, Lieutenant."

"When do you expect him to return?"

"That's a hard one to answer. He doesn't work to much of a schedule."

Eyes still pinned on Alfred, Gordon bit the inside of his lip, as if chewing a thought over. 

"How much does it pay? Butlering?"

Alfred didn't allow the change in subject to show on his face, very much used to tactics of charm and confusion in interrogations, from police and naughty child alike. "Thinking of a change in profession?"

"Hell, I'll get a bullet to the thigh one of these days. Doesn't hurt to have a backup plan."

Alfred smiled, aware of the cane at his side and the pull of scar tissue that made puttering about a building as large as Wayne Tower inconvenient before the latest bout of injuries. "I believe my salary is above that of a police Commissioner's."

Jim raised an eyebrow, letting out a low, appreciative whistle. "All that for making tea? Now I get the appeal."

Alfred sent him a small smile with an agreeing dip of the head. He wouldn't deny Gordon the assumption, though he felt he was rather leading the man on with what was actually expected of him, and why his 'salary' was documented so high in the accounts. It was hard to syphon funds towards secret vigilante equipment without at least some of it appearing to go somewhere tangible, like the family butler's retirement fund. 

"I'll be sure to put your CV at the top of Master Wayne's inbox." 

Seeming to find what he wanted from Alfred, Gordon thawed by a degree, sitting slightly more comfortably on his seat. Antique and actively designed to prevent any businessmen from feeling at home here, Gordon's ability to look vaguely relaxed was quite a feat in itself.

"I'll get to it then. The attack on your house, the attempted murder of Mr. Wayne," Gordon raised a hand, indicating Alfred's injuries, "Your subsequent hospital trip."

"Mr Nygma's plot, yes."

"While the main suspect has been arrested, facing trial, we have reason to believe he had a not-insignificant social media following."

"Yes, those lads who shot up the arena."

Gordon nodded. "While we arrested all those we found, our data analysts suspect there might be… others. "

"Others," Alfred repeated, attempting an expression of polite confusion: a mix of 'butler who had never considered the possibility of more followers', with a healthy dose of 'this is no problem for a household with our security detail.'

"Yes. Those who were either too coward to join the front line in the first attack and so might feel fuelled by revenge and attempt some kind of copycat killing or, perhaps a greater threat: sleeper cells positioned by Nygma himself to strike once our collective guard is down."

Alfred nodded, as if considering this for the first time. "That is certainly concerning."

"And so," Gordon said, his voice a well-worn tone of authority; confident and calming, "It was decided that Gotham PD should assign someone to watch the Tower, for the time being, until you or Mr Wayne have built a trusted roster of security."

"'It was decided'?" Alfred said, hearing how Gordon had blustered through the sentence in the way only a man lying through his teeth did. 

"Yes."

"By…?"

"It was rather concerning, finding that Mr Wayne does not employ a private security detail, with a wealth like his.”

“We have rigorous failsafes that-”

“No wonder our Riddler was able to get something as sensitive as an explosive within the heart of the Tower."

Alfred tensed without his volition, smarting at the implication. Lieutenant Gordon clearly understood that it had been Alfred’s responsibility to sort through the mail, and he’d obviously not done a good enough job at it to escape without injury.

Noting Alfred’s reaction Gordon didn’t press it, though the recognition in his eyes said that he was choosing not to lean on Alfred’s guilt any more than he needed to - for now. 

Alfred swallowed the instinct to look away, choosing instead to clutch just that bit harder at the cane by his side. “While I certainly appreciate your concern, Lieutenant, I can assure you that we have been revising our security systems, and are taking every precaution money can afford to ensure this unfortunate situation has no repeat incident.”

“Said like a man who’s been doing a lot of press events,” Gordon said, with a consolatory half-smile.

“Master Wayne is not fond of public speaking.”

“What is he fond of?”

Alfred blinked, Gordon’s tone sounding too genuine for the line of questioning. 

“Sorry, that was a bit…” Gordon frowned, scratching his chin as if he was as surprised by the question as Alfred. “I’m just curious, I suppose. The kid’s been in the public eye for… well, since he was born, and I’m not sure I know the first thing about him.”

Alfred hummed. Well for a start, he said to himself, he’s the man you spend most of your evenings with . With the secret safely stored behind a small smile, Alfred decided to throw the man a bone, partially in thanks for the many times he’d watched the man saving Bruce’s hide on the videos captured by Bruce’s contact lenses.

“He likes to tinker, I suppose.” Alfred glanced at one of the little non-Batman devices sitting on the coffee-table between them, disguised as a rather bland paperweight. He leant forward to press the top of the metallic creature and it sprung to life, mechanic arms and legs unfolding and parading about the table in a show of animatronic play.

“He made that?” Gordon asked, suitably impressed.

“One of his first successful works,” Alfred said, allowing the pride to flavour his words. “Age eleven or so. Absolutely despises that I keep it on display, but since I run the house and not him, he doesn’t get much of a say in the decision.”

Gordon let out a small laugh at that, catching the creature before it launched itself off the table, allowing it to come to rest in his cradled hands. “And it still works, to this day.”

“It does,” Alfred said, not admitting to oiling the thing’s joints every morning out loud but knowing Gordon understood anyway.

“An engineer, huh. I suppose that’s fitting of a reclusive billionaire who lives at the top of a skyscraper.”

“Yes, he doesn’t do much to assuage the stereotypes.”

Gordon fiddled with the creature for a moment, resetting it back into its paperweight disguise with a self-satisfied hum. “But he’s not interested in selling his projects?” 

“How do you know he hasn’t?”

Gordon shrugged a shoulder. “Call it an old cop’s hunch.”

“Master Wayne… likes to create for creation’s sake. I believe he worries his technology might be co-opted for military usage. Guns, weapons, that kind of thing.”

“No guns… A follower of the Batman is he?”

Alfred smiled. “They do have similar sentiments, yes.”

Gordon nodded, the way he was holding himself settling slightly as if hyper aware of the gun on his own hip. “And so he damns those he might do good for, because he fears he might do some unintentional bad.”

“If it’s a philosophical argument you’d like, Lieutenant, you’d best keep that close to your chest, or he really won’t talk to you.”

Gordon chuckled at that, accepting the rap on his knuckles as the warning it was. “I’ll steer clear of that. No way a cop from a shitty public school is winning a debate with mister privately-educated.”

“Trust me, the education at those places is not nearly worth the price tag.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” Gordon said, smile already neatening into his more standard police-affair, the brief flash of personality he’d let out already pressed back inside his worn suit as he remembered where he was. 

Gordon patted the kit bag next to him, the insides far more plush than Alfred had been expecting. It was a similar one to the kind Bruce filled with weapons and his bat armour, but it seemed like this one contained something far softer. 

“If you’ll forgive the assumption,” Gordon said, “I suspected you’d have a guest room going spare. It doesn’t have to be anything special, and the precinct will be more than happy to provide a stipend…”

Alfred blinked, finally putting the pieces together. “You want to stay here?” 

“Yes.”

“We’re not a hotel.”

“Of course. And I will happily cook my own meals, clean my own clothes, partake in household chores - I promise you’ll hardly notice me.”

“That’s…” Alfred closed his mouth, turning the words we cannot have a policeman snooping around the house in his head and attempting to find a non-suspicious way of saying that. “Why?”

“As I mentioned, the threat of-”

“I understand that,” Alfred cut in, “But why on earth would you want to stay here?”

“I thought-” Gordon said, before clamping his mouth shut and starting again, “We believe that if my presence is masked enough, I’ll be able to do my job without any kind of outside suspicion. A 24/7 parade of uniformed officers posted outside your door might only serve to encourage a more violent reaction, but a secret officer, positioned within the household, keeping an eye out for suspicious packages… safety without escalation.” 

Alfred considered the man sat before him, taking in the worry creasing his face, and the ever-haunted look in his eyes. Alfred respected this man. It was strange to meet him and to to be seen as a stranger: Alfred had spent many hours pouring over the man’s credentials, tailing him, ensuring that he was every inch the man he said that he was. He’d watched Gordon’s apartment for long hours: had watched him buy his groceries, had watched him go to and from work. He had watched this routine for weeks, and had seen the cop’s shoes tread their familiar paths. The occasional drink with buddies at a bar, the breakfast sandwich from the bodega on the corner after a particularly long night, the much-needed coffee from the stand just outside the precinct… A neat and familiar cycle the man rarely deviated from.

It had left Alfred feeling… glad . Glad that his Bruce had managed to make friends with one of the least interesting men in the city. He was exactly what Bruce needed from an ally: sad, boring and without a loving family to leave behind. Alfred had had the thought without remorse, all those months ago, but remembering it now, he felt slightly abashed. Jim Gordon in the flesh seemed like a good enough man, quick and kind, despite himself. 

“And if I said no?” Alfred asked.

“You’ve got a big enough carpark, and I’m just stubborn enough to buy a tent.”

“We could prosecute you for trespassing.”

“You could,” Gordon nodded. 

“But?”

“But now Mayor Reál’s in charge and she’s trying to get at Mr Wayne’s bank account, all it would take to swarm the place with cops is one concerned Lieutenant’s advice.”

“Blackmail, then.”

“Like it or not Mr Pennyworth, I am doing this for your benefit.”

Alfred squinted his eyes, disliking that Gordon had pulled his ungiven surname as a show of power. As much as this man pretended to be the clueless but genial officer, it wouldn’t do to let his guard down.

“Master Wayne will not like it,” Alfred said, knowing the words were those of begrudging defeat.

“He doesn’t have to like it,” Gordon said, relief palpable on his face, “He can hate me for all he likes, so long as he’s alive long enough to do so.”

- 

Wayne Tower did, indeed, have guest rooms to spare. So many that the place did in fact resemble a hotel more than it did a home. Alfred led Gordon past rows of undecorated, blandly neutral rooms dotted about the winding passages, leading him further and further from any of the entrances that led to or from those used by Bruce when entering the house in his bat costume, eventually landing on a mid-sized, slightly draughty room to the back-left of the Tower, once reserved for particularly unsavoury guests.

It was a cold room, darkly lit with plenty of space for shadows, with a view out onto the bins. 

Gordon dropped his bag onto the bed, glancing around the place with the look of a man already doing a sweep for bugs and cameras. “You keep all these rooms clean?”

“You let the dust settle in one corner of the Tower and it’ll slowly encroach the rest,” Alfred said from the doorway, quickly checking the ensuite bathroom to confirm it still had useable toiletries and a store of bog roll. “If you run out of anything, ring that bell and someone will come to attend you,” he said, pointing at the bell hooked up to a piece of wire that led into a hole in the wall.

“A bell? Rather… archaic, isn’t it? For a man whose only hobby is engineering.”

“It’s not his only hobby,” Alfred found himself defending. “He likes to read, too.”

“Let me guess, mopey eighteenth-century novels about sad men in their sad castles.”

“His tastes are more eclectic than that.”

“Eclectic?”

“His library looks more like a teenage girl in the throes of puberty than what you’re imagining. A lot of horse girls and dragon riders.”

“Huh,” Gordon said. “That’s a shame.”

“And why’s that?”

Gordon rooted through his pockets, pulling out a battered, yellowing book. “Thought we might have something to talk about over dinner.” He offered the book to Alfred, who took it with open curiosity. 

“Candide? I didn’t take you for a Voltaire kind of man.”

“Oh I’m not,” Gordon said, watching Alfred flick through the pages. 

“I treat the lost and found at the Precinct like a lending library. Try to make my way through everything, no matter what it is.” He sighed a tired sort of sigh. “Not the best attitude when you’re trying to keep awake through a stake-out and you’ve picked up a tome about non-euclidean geometry or some highschooler’s German language textbook.”

“Wo befindet sich die Bibliothek?”

“Wie viel kostet das zugticket, wie komme ich zum Flughafen, mein Name ist Jim, all the necessities.”

“And how’s Candide treating you?”

“It’s… interesting.” 

“Certainly not winning any literary criticism awards with that stand-out review.”

“I think I’d enjoy it more in the French,” Gordon said, accepting the book back and placing it on the bedside table. “But a lot is lost in translation.”

“Is your French better than your German?”

“Significantly.”

Alfred hummed, choosing not to push on that for now but noting it as interesting. “While Master Wayne’s personal rooms are restricted access, I can certainly show you to the private library, where there is most certainly a copy in the French, should you wish to compare it.”

“Oh, no, sorry, that’s not what I-” Gordon frowned. “I don’t want you to get the wrong impression Mr Pennyworth, you don’t need to treat me like a guest. I’m strictly here for work. Like I said, I don’t need cleaning, or laundering, or feeding, or… library access.” 

“It’s no bother, Lieutenant.”

“Bother or no… I don’t want to appear as if I’m becoming comfortable before I’ve even met your master.”

“The offer stands, should you change your mind.” Alfred gave a small bow, more a nod of a head than a real show of respect before moving out of the room into the corridor. “And he’s not ‘my master’. Master as in 'the form of address used for a youth too young to be called mister', not as in 'the employer of a servant'. Dinner will be served at 19:30, if you find yourself lost, just use the bells and someone will come find you.”

Alfred allowed no reply, turning on his heel and already thinking how he was going to sell this to Bruce.

-

“You let him what ?” Bruce said from his seat in the cave, turning to gape at Alfred.

“Like I said, he was persistent.”

“So you let him have free roam?” Bruce swivelled back to his computer bank, pulling up the Tower’s extensive camera banks. Bruce flicked through the cameras, eventually coming to the corridor Alfred had positioned the Lieutenant, all but one camera flickering into view. Over one camera, the one in the man’s bathroom, was a post-it note with the Wayne Tower insignia that read “I like to piss in peace”. 

The camera in the room proper continued to show the room, though had been adjusted slightly, perhaps to show it had been found. Gordon was unpacking his bag, carefully folding his underclothes into a chest of drawers. 

“Nothing to hide, huh.”

“We’ve got to get him out,” Bruce said, already grabbing at tools scattered over the desk.

“What, you’ll crash through the window as Batman and tell him that the Waynes are under his personal protection?”

“Why not?”

“Because if I was a cop as single-minded as Jim Gordon, that would only prove my suspicions right, and I’d double-down on taking day-duty while the Batman took the night shift.”

Bruce set his jaw in the familiar way he did when he wasn’t happy at how logical Alfred’s comeback was. “So, what then?”

“We ride it out, I suppose. Until he gets bored or his Commissioner tells him to stop being so paranoid and drags him back to the precinct.”

“That could take forever,” Bruce whined, even now the teenager coming out in his voice.

“It’s not as if you’re locked in the same room,” Alfred sighed. “You’ve got enough cameras and enough rooms to avoid him permanently, if you so wish.”

“I do so wish.”

“There’s a surprise.” Alfred glanced at the screen again, watching Gordon take a seat on his bed, unpacking done. “Do me a favour and at least say hello to the man, so he stops asking me about you.”

“It’s not my job to babysit him.”

“But it is mine?”

Bruce sent Alfred one last sour look, then turned back to his computer bank, switching the screen from the in-house cameras to the videos from his night about town. As he scrubbed through the footage, Alfred caught glimpses of a far less violent night — the Batman tailing fire engines and ambulances rather than lurking in alleyways.

“Make sure you get some grub in you,” Alfred told Bruce, knowing the man wasn’t listening to him but needing to say it anyway. 

-

The dining room of Wayne Tower was larger than every apartment Jim had ever lived in. Hell, the table was longer than could fit in his entire apartment, and he was no longer living in the cramped rooms of his youth.

The butler, Pennyworth, had met him in the reception room, no longer dressed in his workout wear but fitted into a pressed suit; though to Jim’s eyes he looked more like a banker than he did a stuffy British butler from the prestige shows.

A banker who took care of himself too - he guessed Pennyworth to be about the same age as him, but had no doubt who would win in a fight. Jim got his steps in, and certainly had the stamina of someone who frequently ran through city streets and climbed ridiculous amounts of stairs knocking on doors in buildings with no lifts, but one-on-one, bare-fisted? Jim could see the pull of the shirtsleeves as Pennyworth set the table, and Jim did not want to be caught on his bad side.

“Ex-military?” Jim hazarded as he was guided into a chair to the right of the head of the table.

“A long time ago.”

Jim hummed. “Injury, discharge, private security, got close to the family, Wayne orphaning, who better to au pair than the trusted guardian,” he said, mostly to himself.

“As expected of the shining light of Gotham PD,” Pennyworth said as he stepped back, taking his place by the sideboard.

“So you’ve been by his side this whole time?”

“For my sins.”

“You get holiday leave?”

Pennyworth sent him a small smile at that. “I take my six weeks, yes.”

“Six?! Damn.”

“Really considering that job change now, ey?”

“And he treats you well?”

“That was a remarkable impression of my mother.”

Jim fought a smile as another member of the serving staff, Melanie , he remembered, brought in a trolley with two plates, covered in cloches. She kept one plate on the trolley and served Jim the other. “Thanks Melanie,” he said, and she gave him a little courtesy. “Though, please don’t mind me in the future, I promise I can fend for myself.”

“Nonsense. You write me a list of things you’re allergic to, love, hate, the doctor says you can’t eat, and you pass it to Alfred, and he’ll pass the message on.”

“I don’t want to be a bother.”

“Are you kidding? Most days the plates go straight in the fridge, cling wrapped, and nine times out of ten Master Wayne doesn’t even bother to microwave it.”

Jim’s eyebrow raised involuntarily, wondering at the kind of person who would hire staff to cook three meals a day but wouldn’t appreciate the effort that went into doing so.

“We make enough for us staff anyway, one more plate’s no bother.” 

“If you’re sure.”

Melanie dipped another courtesy, clearly getting used to having guests again. “It’ll be a pleasure to cook for someone who actually eats it,” she reiterated, before making her way back out towards the kitchen.

Jim glanced at the head of the table again, as if the Master of the house might have appeared in the second his attention had turned away, but no dice. 

Pennyworth removed the cloche from the dish before Jim, revealing a beautifully plated steak on a bed of mashed potatoes, the air instantly perfumed with a rich, red wine gravy. 

“Wine?” Pennyworth asked as he placed the cloche back on the trolley and revealing a selection of wines.

“Er, no, thank you. I am technically on duty…”

“Of course. Still or sparkling?”

“Water?”

“Yes, sir.”

"Jim, please,” he corrected. “This is your house. And still. Tap water is fine."

Pennyworth removed a bottle of a brand of still water Jim had only glanced at a fancy fundraising event, placed on the richer tables on the other end of the room from his own position, and poured the chilled water into its awaiting glass. Even the water’s different this side of the tracks , Jim couldn’t help but think. This steak could easily put him back a day’s wage, and the wine on the trolley likely totalled more than a month’s rent. 

Jim kept his hands in his lap and sent a desperate look towards the stairwell, hoping that Bruce would skip down the steps any second.

“I doubt Master Wayne will be joining you,” Pennyworth said from his position. “Please feel free to go ahead while the food's still warm.”

“Sure.” Jim picked up his silverware, feeling their heft in his hands. They were ornately carved, polished to a brilliant shine, and Jim needed to stop cataloguing the price of everything like a petty thief before he started to lose his grasp on reality. “Will you join me?” he asked. He pointed his knife at the other plate, and then to the second place setting. “If Mr Wayne refuses to eat like an adult, it seems a shame to let it go to waste.”

When Pennyworth only frowned at him, Jim put his cutlery back on the table. “Sorry. Would I get you in trouble for putting you in that situation?”

“Oh, no, nothing like that,” Pennyworth assured. “In fact, Master Wayne and I share many meals together.”

“Good, that’s great,” Jim said, relaxing slightly. The last thing he’d want is to put this man’s employment at risk because he felt a bit awkward eating alone. It wasn’t like he was unused to the situation: he ate most of his dinners by himself, in front of the TV, but having a serving person dedicated to your comfort stood there, watching… Jim could feel his skin crawl. “Your leg, too. I don’t want to presume, but… no need to stand on my account.”

Pennyworth took Jim in for a moment longer, before taking the second plate, removing the cloche, and then taking a bottle of red. “Do you mind if I drink?” Pennyworth asked.

“Not at all, enjoy yourself.” 

“Sure I can’t tempt you?” The butler asked after he had poured himself a generous glass, offering the bottle out. When Jim just placed a hand over his glass, Pennyworth nodded, then seated himself at the head of the table. 

“What are your working hours?” Jim asked, nodding his head at the glass of wine.

“Are you going to narc on me, Lieutenant?” 

“I wouldn’t dare.”

Pennyworth took an amused sip, savouring the flavour as he did. “I am, technically, still on medical leave.” Catching how Jim’s face crashed, Pennyworth waved a hand. “Don’t worry yourself, it wasn’t your arrival that pulled me back into employment.”

"You don't have someone at home missing you?"

“This is home for me. Master Bruce is my only family.”

“I see.”

“And yourself, Lieutenant? It’s quite the task, volunteering for a job like this.”

Jim levelled a bittersweet smile at him, a glance through the window at the blinking lights of Gotham a gesture as telling as any. “And it’s Jim,” he said again, already feeling that it was going to be an uphill battle to get this man to refer to him by his first name. 

“Just two men, married to their jobs, sharing a dinner together, then.” Pennyworth raised his glass. "How's that for a cheers."

“That’s a good a reason as any,” Jim said, clinking his glass against Pennyworth’s.

-

They fell into a kind of routine after that. With Bruce adamant that he would have nothing to do with the Lieutenant, it fell to Alfred to induct Gordon into Wayne Tower. He walked the man through the estate, nodding when Gordon pointed out tactical areas that needed special attention. He introduced the man to every member of staff in every shift, allowing the policeman to conduct personal interviews and to look through documentation, though every member of staff had either been on the books since before even Bruce’s father had been born, or were hand-picked by Alfred himself (using a system far more complex than the one the Gotham police had available to them.) 

They would walk through the gardens, have lunch over their paperwork in the library, and take tea in the balcony garden. It was purposefully as boring as possible, with Alfred choosing to potter about doing miscellaneous cleaning jobs as regularly as possible so that his shadow had nothing better to do than roll up his sleeves and grab a dustpan and brush himself. 

A week into the endeavour, Gordon showed up to breakfast without his tie. A fortnight in, he’d lost the suit jacket. He still kept his gun on his hip and his eyes on a swivel, particularly conscious about windows and suspicious packages, but Alfred hadn’t been lying about extra precautions they had set in place, and they now had an extensive system of checks that tested for mechanical devices and explosive substances over every entrance. 

The only change to schedule came when Bruce decided of his own volition to accept more business meetings (all off-site), which saw Alfred bundling his charge and their protector into one of the family vehicles ( bulletproof , he assured). Bruce complained, as he was wont to do, claiming he was more than able to drive himself into the city, but short of revealing that there was a separate exit, he saw no way to avoid Gordon simply jumping into the back of the car; especially now that Gordon had been added to their shared calendar and knew when Bruce was due to leave the house. 

Bruce did, however, draw the line at allowing Gordon into the meetings themselves, which left the Lieutenant stewing in the car alone. 

It was after on such day of torturing the man with tedium that Gordon looked up from his meal and said “I think Mr Wayne could benefit from self-defence lessons.”

Alfred choked on his soup, valiantly attempting to keep the rest of his mouthful in his mouth rather than spraying it across the brilliant white tablecloth. “Excuse me?”

“Apologies if I’m crossing a boundary, but it seems to me like… well. You’ve clearly done martial arts training so you know how it helps with self-esteem, with mental health issues… and you obviously worry about his safety.”

“So you think…”

“A few lessons wouldn’t hurt. He’s certainly got the time on his hands. Again, apologies if I come across too forward, but he doesn’t look particularly… well? He looks… sad, and a bit scrawny. A perfect target.” 

Alfred brought his napkin to his face to hide the look of absolute hilarity he knew he’d never be able to disguise. “I taught him a little, as a boy, but he didn’t really take to it,” he lied, packing in as much woe is me in his voice to mask his grin.

Jim thought about that for a moment. “And he doesn’t like strangers, right?”

“He’s not fond of them.”

“Well then, how about you ask him if he’d like a few lessons from me?”

“You?”

“I’m hardly secret service, but I’ve taught nieces and nephews before. I know the basics, especially for kids without typical social abilities.” 

Alfred wiped his mouth, carefully, neatly, giving himself the time to think. “That… that would be much appreciated, Lieutenant,” he said, already imagining the look on Bruce’s face. “I’ll broach the topic with him in the morning.” 

Gordon nodded, seemingly appeased by the answer. 

“So, you teach socially anxious young people basic defence and you read bad books,” Alfred said. “Do you have any other hobbies?”

“Not particularly,” Gordon admitted, buttering a slice of baguette as he thought. “I used to do this other… job, kind of like overtime. That took up a lot of my evenings.”

“That sounds incredibly ilicit,” Alfred said, delighted, revelling in knowing what Gordon was referring to and pretending otherwise.

“No, no, nothing - well. I suppose it wasn’t official police business, and they didn’t like that I was doing it, but not in the, er, corruption way.” 

“Drugs, sex and rock and roll?”

“Certainly a lot of rock and roll, if you count the stop and drop kind.”

“Oh but you've been missing out! I’ll send you the calendar invite for our weekly drug-fuelled orgeies once you’re on the payroll,” Alfred said, retaining his straight face.

Gordon snorted. “Colour me shocked that a billionaire’s mansion is full to the brim with cocaine and swingers.”

“Master Wayne doesn’t touch the stuff but the rest of us? High as a kite 24/7.”

“Really.”

“How else do you think we manage to clean the place top to bottom?”

Alfred watched Gordon chuckle to himself, very much enjoying every moment the policeman allowed himself a moment of joy. It warmed the man’s face, shaving years off of the serious brow he walked around the city with. 

Alfred supposed Gotham did that to people: aged them, took away their joy, their levity.

Gordon’s face was a rather handsome one, when he allowed himself to lower his defences. Alfred noted that thought as interesting and took another sip of wine as Gordon glanced out of the window, again taking in the sight of a city flickering with life, though his attention lay in the clouds, where a beacon remained notably unlit. 

“Can you keep a secret, Mr Pennyworth?”

“Only if you call me Alfred.” 

Gordon raised an eyebrow, but followed with a genial “Alfred.”

Handsome indeed. Alfred took a deeper glug of wine. “Go ahead, Lieutenant.”

Gordon almost-rolled his eyes, but settled for sending Alfred a wry look instead. "Jim," he said, continuing his futile quest to correct him. “You know the bat signal?”

“The ugly thing causing light pollution every night until last month?”

“That’s the one.”

“Ruining the skyline and causing absolute hell for the amateur stargazing community.”

“That was me,” Gordon admitted, slightly chagrined despite knowing Alfred was pulling his leg.

“ You’re The Batman ?” Alfred said, putting as much shock as he could on the words.

“No, no!” Gordon said in a rush, eyes bulging, “No, I just turned it on!”

“You turned the Batman on?”

“I- not- I turned the light on, not- not Batman .”

Alfred cast Jim a doubtful look. “You said you spent nearly every night with the man, why else would you do that if you didn’t turn him on?”

Jim stared at Alfred, slack-jawed, clearly turning their nightly interactions over in his mind. “Oh God. Do you think he… I hope I didn’t cause the wrong impression.”

“Maybe he’s out there right now, standing in your meeting spot, wondering what he’s done wrong…”

“No- I- he told me he was taking a break-”

“Ouch. Been there.”

“From being a vigilante ,” Gordon corrected vehemently.

“Are you sure you don’t want some wine? It pairs well with denial.” 

“I am not sexually or romantically interested in the Batman,” Gordon declared.

“Not even a little bit?”

Jim opened his mouth to speak, then closed it. He closed his eyes, as if really thinking about it, brow furrowing with concentration. After a moment, he shook his head. “No. He’s fit, sure, but someone that volatile, that interested in revenge… no. Not my type.”

“What is your type?” 

Gordon opened his eyes, slowly, turning towards Alfred. He watched him for a long moment before standing, walking to the trolley, grabbing the bottle of wine, refilling Alfred’s glass then pouring a healthy dose into his own. “I’ve not thought about it for a while,” he said after he’d settled back into his seat.

“Because you’re not interested in that sort of thing, or…”

“Typical cop scenario,” Gordon said. “Had a long-term partner, they told me to pick between them and the job.” Gordon shrugged. “This city… it’s demanding. Bags packed before I’d left for my next shift.” 

“But if you were looking?”

“I suppose if there was someone out there who’s as happy as me to be second-best to the city’s health, then… I suppose that’s who I would pick.”

Alfred was silent for a moment. “Sounds like you and the Batman were a perfect couple.”

Gordon did roll his eyes at that one. “I’m being vulnerable, Alfred.” 

“Yes, yes, my apologies. I won’t dwell on your bat-divorce anymore.” 

“And you?” Gordon said in an obvious diversion tactic. “You said you didn’t have a partner, but are you seeing someone?”

Alfred hummed, leaning back in his chair. “I laughed at you, but… I suppose that’s only because we’re fairly similar. Master Wayne is my life. This Tower, the Wayne legacy, they’re a demanding job, but Bruce’s safety? Emotional and physical, that comes first.”

Gordon nodded. Then, looking for some levity, he mimicked Alfred’s accent. “Do you have a type? If you were looking.”

“Big body… tall, simple but efficient fashion, especially dressed all in black… maybe with a cape and pointed ears…”

Gordon sighed. “Are you allergic to giving straight answers?”

“‘Allergic to straight answers’,” Alfred repeated with a laugh. “That sounds about right.”

“If you don’t want to tell me, you can just say so. I get it, I’m still a cop, and gossip gets knotty-”

“Honest,” Alfred cut in. “Honest, a sense of humour, being active doesn’t hurt but I love a good belly. Someone who is independent, but doesn’t mind a bit of a cuddle at the end of a hard day.”

Gordon smiled at that. “That sounds like a great person to love, and to be loved by.”

“It does.” 

Alfred squared the cutlery on his now-empty plate, the both of them finishing their wine in a companionable if melancholy quiet. 

“I’m glad he had you while he needed you. The Batman, that is. It seems like you were good for one another.”

“Yeah,” Gordon agreed. “I hope he’s doing well for himself, now.”

Alfred nodded, and then after another pensive beat, they cleared the table together in silence.

- 

Once they had made an after-dinner coffee in the now-empty kitchen, the staff returned home for the evening, Alfred told Gordon to follow him.

He led the Lieutenant up the stairs and through to the more personal side of the building, where painted family portraits traded places with intimate momentos and less-serious photos: the Wayne family in private. Gordon had been up here, of course, on their daily walk-throughs, but Alfred had always led them at pace, never letting him linger.

In the warm lantern-lit evening light, Alfred didn’t hurry them, giving Gordon permission to stop and glance a while. He didn’t pry, but he did take interest in the photographs, and would pick up an invention or two of Bruce’s from his youth making robots.

At the end of the corridor, Alfred unlocked the family’s more cosy library, settling himself into one of the plush sofas and pulling a box of biscuits from a small side-table. “My secret supply,” Alfred confided, offering one out to Gordon. 

Gordon smiled as he took one, glancing at the fancy-looking box as he did. “Earl grey and strawberry. Some fancy cookies you got there.”

“Master Wayne thinks he’s sneaky, taking from my supply in the kitchen, but he’s not found these yet.”

Gordon raised the biscuit in cheers, carefully biting into it as he turned to look around the room, not wanting to tread crumbs into the carpet. “I thought the room we worked in was the library.”

“Yes, that’s the public one, the office , as it were. This was the Wayne family’s personal retreat.” Alfred used his mug of coffee to indicate sections as he narrated: “There’s Martha’s, and Bruce’s, and Thomas’. Your best bet at finding Candide is over there.” 

Gordon took the long way to the pointed-out section, first taking a cursory glance at the medical textbooks and pulp fiction left behind by a deceased couple he didn’t know. He then inspected the young adult novels jammed into every space in Bruce’s corner. Black books with lacy red text declared themselves to be romantic and tragic and full of vampires, werewolves and hot young men. Gordon couldn’t help but laugh to himself, picking out a couple of books to get a better look at the shirtless young men and sad-looking girls on the covers.

“Anything you recognise?”

“Ohhhh yeah,” Jim said, flicking through the age-soft pages, “I’ve read plenty of these over the years. At least these ones aren’t annotated.”

“I believe he keeps his bedazzled versions under his bed.”

“Shame. I’d make a killing selling them to the rags.”

“Cut me in and I’ll scoop one up next time I’m hoovering.”

“Deal,” Gordon said, replacing the book and heading over to the older, less-tween-attracting novels.

“They belonged to Thomas’ parents, and grandparents. Much more into French playwrights.”

“Or pretending to be interested in them,” Gordon suggested, noting how pristine the spines of the books were in this section. A library filled with unread books, kept for vanity. He found what he was looking for fairly quickly, the novella looking as mint condition as the day it was purchased.

He turned through these pages much more carefully. They stuck, a little, pressed together as they had been in the decades since they had last been touched, releasing that dusty, inimitable smell of old book. 

It took a few moments of searching until he found the place he had left off in the English translation, having forgotten where exactly he'd read to two weeks ago. He’d not been keeping up with his regular routine of reading a chapter or two each day since he no longer had hours to fill in the day without companionship; it always seemed rude to bring the book to the dining table, where before he might have read while eating his microwave dinner.

From the corner of his eye he watched Alfred take out a laptop and put on some reading glasses, coffee and biscuit abandoned on the side. Gordon brought the book back over to the sofas by a now-defunct ornamental fireplace, settling himself on the other end of the sofa. 

He read for a while, book in his lap as he sipped from the now perfect-temperature coffee, savouring the rich flavour in a way he never did with his bitter take-out brew. He could taste its rounded fruitiness, the chocolate and nutty flavour on the back of his tongue. The biscuit was lightly sweet, perfumed by the floral tea and the dried flecks of sour strawberry.

« Nous allons dans un autre Univers» , he read, « c’est dans celui-là sans doute que tout est bien ». We are going into another world … and surely it must be there that all is for the best.

It was hard to keep track of time in the warmth of the room, likely designed without visible clockfaces for that very point. It was only when Alfred closed the laptop lid with a click and started to stretch with a groan that Gordon blinked back into reality and realised he’d long-since finished his coffee.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to - do you need to lock up?”

“Hm?” Alfred asked, taking a moment to parse Gordon’s meaning, before relaxing back into the sofa. “Oh, no, don’t worry. You’re not keeping me here any later than I usually stay.”

“Work?” Gordon asked, indicating the laptop.

“No no, a personal project.”

Gordon didn’t say anything, but knew the look of curiosity rarely kept itself from bubbling across his face.

“It’s just a digitisation project. Transcribing old diaries, that kind of thing. I’m getting very good at understanding scribbled handwriting and decoding personal ciphers with no keys.”

“Do you want to swap jobs? I was never good with that stuff.”

“No thank you, I very happily left all that behind.”

“Can’t say I blame you,” Gordon said, placing the book on the table before giving his own stretch. Even on the luxurious sofa his spine disagreed with his sitting in such a position for so long.

“How’s the French?”

“Mm, as I thought, it makes more sense than in English.”

“How enigmatic. Are you enjoying it?”

“Not particularly.” Gordon smiled at Alfred’s raised eyebrow. "You’ll be shocked to hear an eighteenth-century white philosopher’s novella about his young protagonist travelling the world isn’t particularly up my alley, satire notwithstanding.”

“There are other books in the world.”

“Does one have to enjoy a book to gain merit having read it?”

Alfred snorted at that, throwing his hands up in defeat. “If it’s philosophy you wanted, you should have told me; I’d have brought the scotch.”

“Bringing hard liquor to a debate?” 

“I’m told I’m much easier to shut up when the booze hits and I can’t help but agree with whoever’s speaking like the words they’re saying are sneezed from the asshole of God himself.”

Gordon scrunched his face up, humour battling it out with confusion at that string of words. “Do other British people understand you, or are you just as incomprehensible to them?”

“Now that depends on which side of the river they were born.”

“Uh-huh.”

“You grow up speaking French, then?” Alfred asked, nodding at the book. 

“ Ohh yeah. Mom’s side was Haitian. I’d have had a hard time keeping up with all the gossip if I didn’t.”

Alfred grinned. “I had the same.”

“With French?”

“No no, Arabic. And some Armenian, enough to get by.”

“That so.”

“Self-taught Cantonese, too, but that’s a different story.”

“Well now I’m curious.”

“Nothing interesting, just a poor kid who fancied himself a bit of adventure.” Alfred laughed, though this time it was a far cry from the genuine humour of just a few moments ago. “I like it though. So far it’s the only language I haven’t had to use while pointing a gun at someone.”

Gordon felt that one. He gave a consolatory half-laugh of his own, knowing no words of his could respond.

“You ever been?” Alfred said, injecting false joy into his voice. “To Haiti?”

“I haven’t.”

“No?”

“Money, you know, and then the job… and then my mom died, and I realised I’d not talked to anyone over there since I was a kid… But I guess that’s how it goes.”

“Is that where you’ll go? When you’re on Master Wayne’s pay and you’ve got your six weeks?”

Jim sat back, imagining what it would be like to go on a proper holiday. He tried to dredge up an old list of countries he’d like to visit, but drew a blank. “I think my mom’s spirit would come cuss me out if I didn’t visit her home first.”

“It’s a beautiful country. Rich history.”

“I take it you travel quite a bit, then?”

“It is a sad fact of life that rich people often prefer their meetings to be held in person on their luxury yachts in the middle of the ocean, next to some island they’ve recently purchased.”

“But beside that? You actually take your holidays, and enjoy them?”

“I do.”

“Your… Bruce, doesn’t… try to stop you?”

“Years of childhood conditioning means he doesn’t dare have a meltdown if I threaten to put him in time out." Alfred finished the last of his coffee, as if considering something. Slower, and with more emphasis he continued. "Don’t you worry yourself over power in this household Lieutenant, I love the kid like my own son, and I scold him like it too.”

Jim stared for a moment, before cracking into a wide smile, something deep within his chest stirring with an unfamiliar feeling — the fluttering, glass-like edge that echoed a long-unfelt twang of affection. Gordon grinned hard to mask that horrifying thought. “I’m glad to hear it.”

“So you’ve not been to Haiti - where else have you been?”

“I went to Central City for a school trip in Junior year.”

Alfred blinked, then barked a laugh. 

After a moment passed, his smile slowly dropped, realising Gordon was being serious. “Pull the other one.”

“Like I said, money, then the job…”

“Cars exist, it’s only a hop skip and jump over to Toronto. Hell, I’ve seen them practically give away flights to Vegas.”

“I’m not really the road-trip and gambling kind of guy.”

“Okay, so what do you usually do with your holiday leave?”

Jim fought the urge to shift in his seat. He could deal with bad guys with guns giving him the glare, and he hadn’t squirmed under the watchful eye of a superior in two decades, but something about the look Alfred was giving him was… unnerving. Familiar, too, like his mom when she’d caught him sneaking snacks into his room. Theirs had been a no-soda, home-cooked meals only kind of household, and while Jim had been the epitome of a goody-two-shoes, his one teenage act of rebellion had been his secret stash of candy, bought with the secreted away tips he earned on his paper-round.

Alfred’s look had that smack of I know what’s best for you to it — the look of someone who’d spent more of their life as a parent than not. Someone who was strict not because it delighted them to be, but because they only want to protect you from the onslaught of the world. Someone who cared , and because they care, they’re scared they’ll fuck it up.

“You do take your holiday leave, don’t you Lieutenant.” 

“...”

When Jim remained silent, Alfred removed his phone from his pocket and began dialling a number with a scarily blank face.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m phoning your superior.”

“What?”

“I’m informing him that Lieutenant James Gordon is to be put on paid leave, effective immediately.”

“Do you want to get me fired?!”

“I want you to have a decade’s worth of leave.”

“It’s the middle of the night!”

“He’ll answer if he knows what’s good for him.”

To Jim’s horror, he recognised the number Alfred entered as being that of his boss, and he watched the man press the green dial button. 

“No, no, no-” Jim launched himself across the sofa, using every piece of training he could in an attempt to wrest the mobile out of Alfred’s grip.

It was no real shock that Alfred was far stronger and more agile than him, and even with the element of surprise, Alfred didn’t relinquish the phone. As they tussled, Jim realised that he would have to use his full weight to bodily remove the thing — heart in his mouth as he heard the low, droning riiiiiiiing … riiiing….

Desperation fuelling him now, he tried straddling Alfred and putting the man’s arm in a deadlock, bending it back to where he knew bordered from uncomfortable to near-breaking. “Give it to me.”

“Make me,” Alfred said, grinning up at him, the hold apparently doing nothing to him. 

“I’m on duty ,” Jim pleaded. “He’s going to think that I-”

Jim bit his tongue as he heard the receiver click as the call was picked up, followed by the distant, croaked “ hello? ”

Using Jim’s moment of shock, Alfred took the phone from one hand to the other and pressed it against his ear.

“Good evening. Yes, yes. I hope I wasn’t interrupting your evening.” Alfred smiled at whatever was said on the other end of the line, the humour of it not reaching his steely eyes. “I have your Lieutenant here, yes, Gordon. No, no, he’s no trouble. A real delight, in fact.”

Having frozen in place from the pure adrenaline of what was happening, Jim realised what position he was in with a shock, like someone had just poured a bucket of ice water over himself. He rolled off, skittering back towards his claimed side of the sofa as Alfred continued to nod genially on the phone. 

“Yes, nothing but praise. If you’re not careful, Master Wayne’s on track for hiring him right out from under you! Haha, yes, I know. Yes, I know, I know…”

Alfred rolled his eyes, making the ‘ blah blah blah ’ motion as he half-listened to whatever the man on the other end of the line was saying.

“It’s funny you would say that, because Master Wayne and I were just saying how lovely it would be to have the Lieutenant join us abroad next week…” Alfred gave Jim a thumbs up, to which Jim desperately shook his head. 

“In a work capacity?” Alfred said, putting shock and horror into his voice. “No, no, as our guest! Hah, yes, imagine! Asking him to work while on holiday!” 

“But-” Gordon attempted weakly, only to have Alfred silently shush him.

“ A week ?” Alfred replied, again sounding aghast. “Yes, I understand that it’s a busy time, but… a man as important as you will understand that the Wayne family…” Alfred grinned, mouthing ‘ hook, bait and sinker’ . “A month would be more than enough, thank you. And paid of course? Yes, yes, said like a real man of the people!” Alfred released another laugh, managing to sound like this man’s best friend while keeping his face completely straight. “Yes that’s all. You have a good evening now- yes, you too. Goodnight.”

Alfred hung the call up, put his phone away, then shot Jim the most shit-eating grin Jim had ever seen on a person. 

“You have my boss’s number on speed dial,” Jim heard himself say, haunted.

“Yes, the man’s been hounding us about donations, and what with the rather rapid power restructure in the police department, he’s made it very clear that he’s willing to do anything for endorsement.”

“He’s going to fire me.”

“On the contrary, I believe we’re on track to raising your wages.”

“A month off…” 

“I believe this calls for a celebration,” Alfred announced, going to a hidden alcove and revealing yet another hidden stash. “What are we feeling, the malt or the port? 

“This is hell.”

Alfred picked out a bottle of port and poured two nightcaps. “Port it is.”

-

In Alfred’s youth, he had very proudly referred to himself as a jolly old slut . 

He thoroughly enjoyed playing the gentleman butler with its prim proprietary. It allowed him the slightly raised eyebrow of double entendre and the wink-wink-nudge-nudge of the suggestive lilt to the voice, but what the waistcoat and the upstairs-downstairs bullshit made difficult was ensuring that the rather handsome man he was very-much flirting with understood that Alfred was, for all intents and purposes, ready and willing to fuck, whenever .

Jim Gordon was nice. Too nice, perhaps, for his profession. Alfred’s jokes about getting the man on the Wayne roster had started as banter, but he had half-hoped the ploy with the holiday would get the man fired from the police department and enrolled in a job with a far better reputation. 

Alfred was no big fan of those who allegedly protected and served, and had been very pleased to watch Bruce's more recent transfer of focus from lending his muscle to what was essentially institutionalised vengeance to a more… people-focused approach to helping the city.

So saying, one key part of getting Gordon to say "fuck cops" and quit was to fuck the cop himself. 

Step one of that plan did, however, involve understanding what the biggest inhibitor was. Jim's impressive aversion to compliments was certainly a significant contributor, as was his desire to fade into the walls: a childhood anxiety perhaps, that had carried well into his adult profession. Judging by their initial conversation, Jim had some desire to enter a relationship, so there was some hope there. 

So far, Jim had made no off-colour joke at either Bruce or Alfred's fairly queer personalities, which meant the man was at least secure enough in his masculinity not to rely on homophobia as a bonding method. What remained to be seen was whether this security was an off-set of his being so decidedly straight he had not picked the cues up as queer at all.

The first day of their holiday had been spent convincing (threatening) Bruce to come with, and the second they had spent flying. Alfred then experienced what was left of the sunset on their first real evening together nursing Gordon through his very first jet lag. Nice as the plane was, luxurious as the journey had been, the man had still been a ball of nerves, hands gripping tight on the arm rests. 

Without batcaves to hide, their rooms in the vacation house were significantly closer together, the three of them individually taking guest rooms on the same floor. Once safely settled in, he’d fed and watered the man with simple foods, then had slowly sipped a Bloody Mary as he watched the man slip into an exhausted slumber. Alfred had dared to touch his hand to one of Jim's in a simple solidarity, and when he hadn't pulled away, he had covered it - a grounding, hopefully comforting weight. 

He’d tucked Jim into bed, had two more drinks, then had an early night to himself. Hopefully he wouldn’t have to be “subtle” for very much longer. 

-

Jim looked at his tea cup and found himself in a dilemma. 

He was a fairly fast learner when adopting the practices of the households he was visiting, knowing that first impressions tended to ensure better interactions with those involved in cases. Even without the head of the household present, Jim had still had quite a bit to deal with at Wayne Tower, Alfred never one to do things in halves.

The dilemma, then, was having just spooned sugar into his tea, using the sugar-spoon, only to find no teaspoon beside his cup with which to stir it. 

In his flat, this would have been no big issue. For a start there would be no tea, nor any propriety; he'd have used a fork, or his finger, or would have done a half-assed swirl. 

Here, that would not do.

Not only would it not do, it would draw Alfred's attention, and Alfred would know that the table had not been laid properly, which would probably start some kind of sanctions protocol.

He could not mix the tea, but Alfred would have seen him shovel his customary two spoons into the cup, and that signalled doom in Jim's brain. 

"Looking for something?" 

Caught, Jim thought before looking up to find Alfred watching him, elbow on table, chin in palm.

"Teaspoon," Jim admitted quietly. 

"There's something wrong with it…?"

"I'm- looking for one."

Alfred hummed - a low, inquisitive sound. "I suppose you'll have to pat me down, officer."

Jim blinked, then laughed. He was slowly getting used to Alfred's very British sense of humour. It often came out as overly flirtatious, which wrong-footed Jim, left him feeling overwhelmed by the attention. "Need anything else while I'm up?" he asked as he stood.

He heard Alfred sigh, felt him watch him as he crossed the room. "Nothing from the kitchen," Alfred said into his palm, barely audible. 

If Jim stopped being so hard on himself, he would admit that the attention was nice, if a little… new. He liked being neutral, being taken for granted, slipping into the background and simply watching. He felt most comfortable when his presence disappeared from a space, and conversation happened around him. When life happened around him.

He dug around in the cutlery drawer of the vacation house, everything almost-exactly where it was in Wayne Tower, and he ruminated on that last thought.

How long had it actually been since he had had a day in his life for himself?

He lived to serve - his job came first - he really had no regret about that -

And, he always told himself, what about the kid he didn’t save the day he took himself to the baseball, or to the aquarium, or on some date he knew would never work out anyway?

How could he live with himself, having wasted some poor innocent’s life on something like-

Like…

Something like his life, which was… 

Disposable.

He gripped the teaspoon in his hand.

Was that really how he thought of his life? Disposable?

This was why he didn’t take the time out to think about these things. It was so much easier to simply… do , instead of…

Because if he died, in the line of duty, to protect an innocent, a person who didn’t deserve it - 

Jim blinked. No, no, now he was mixing things up in his brain.

It wasn’t that he deserved it more than-

Just that- 

Compared to-

He blinked again, biting hard on his tongue as he felt a well of emotions spring at the back of his throat.

He had the teaspoon. He just had to go back to Alfred-

And what? Sit by the pool for the day? How could he have been cajoled out here like this? There were people suffering - really suffering - back in Gotham. The police department was going through serious personnel changes because of the wide-spread corruption, and Jim still wasn’t sure they’d rooted all the rot out.

Every day he wasn’t there to watch, and to listen, was a day he lost gathering intel, a day closer until - 

Wasn’t that the reason he had spent every night the last few years on a rooftop, calling for a man dressed like a bat? Because he couldn’t do it all alone?

It wasn’t like he was the only good cop. There had to be people out there he could trust. He wasn’t so big-headed to think that he was the only one capable of enacting change - he could leave it to them, catch up with them when he got back, but…

But… 

What was he supposed to do out here? Lie back and enjoy the not-flirtation? 

Because he did enjoy it, so sue him. He liked that Alfred saw him, noticed things about him. He liked that Alfred cared.

He had worried, for a week or so, that Alfred was doting after him because it was his job, that Bruce had told the man to watch him, to feed back, but that didn’t seem to be the case. Alfred seemed genuinely curious about Jim, and when he didn’t want to do something, he knew that Alfred would not do it.

He knew that some of it would of course be training: Alfred always made Jim’s coffee just the way he liked it, and had clearly done some background research on him, but other things… 

When Alfred had thought Jim was asleep on the plane, he’d taken out a copy of Candide , in French, as well as a French dictionary, and had sat and written little translation notes into his book.

It had made Jim want to fight against the sleeping pill he’d taken, wanting to sit and enjoy the moment for just a minute longer - the blue sky out of the window making a halo behind Alfred’s head… 

He didn’t even know if Alfred was into men . 

He could, for all Jim knew, be one of those… metrosexuals . And there was something camp about all those butlers on Downton Abbey , and most of them were straight. It was just… very confusing territory, and not something Jim had the time to deal with.

…Though time was, of course, one thing he did have in abundance now, on holiday, just the two of them, alone-

“...you’re in the way.”

Jim jumped out of his skin, hand automatically going to where his gun would have been on his belt, if he had been wearing it, then dropping the stance immediately as he placed the voice as Bruce’s.

Bruce was standing with a bowl of milk and a box of cereal, looking intently at the cutlery drawer.

“Right! Sorry! Zoned out there for a second…” 

Right. Yes. Not two, but three. Not alone. Bruce was also here. Jim sorted through the drawer and handed Bruce a spoon, which was taken gladly.

Bruce turned to go in silence, but then stopped, and slowly turned around, barely holding in a look of begrudging concern.

“Are you… feeling better?”

“Feeling better?”

“You were… you looked… under the weather. Yesterday. And… just now, you were…” Bruce made a vague gesture with the spoon, somehow managing to capture the feeling of ‘spiralling about your life choices’. 

“Oh. Yes! Thank you. Much better now that I’ve had breakfast.”

“That’s… good,” Bruce said, not looking at all convinced.

“Speaking of, Alfred will be wondering where I’ve got to…”

“You…” Bruce dropped his attention to his bowl. “I didn’t say this back at the Tower but… please make yourself at home. Don’t feel like…” Bruce trailed off, seeming to run out of steam, then internally kicked himself, looking up and meeting Jim’s eye for the first time. “This is your place too, is what I’m trying to say.”

“That’s very kind of you to say, Mr Wayne, thank you.”

Bruce made a sour expression at the name. “Bruce, please. I’m not- I’m just Bruce. Especially when I’m on holiday.” 

Something about the response made Jim remember an interview he’d watched before, about Thomas Wayne. Maybe it was one of the campaign videos he’d poured over when trying to figure out how the Riddler was connecting the Waynes to the other victims. 

It was an old-school type of charm - a man used to the media fanfare, a man who could get away with murder with a witty remark, timed to perfection. The half-smile Bruce attached to it, too… 

You’re very like your father , he didn’t say. He’d not had much of an opportunity to talk with this man during or after the case, but it didn’t take a detective to know that that was not a particularly kind thing to say right now.

“We’re taking breakfast on the veranda, if you’d like to join us,” he said instead.

Bruce opened his mouth, likely already preparing to decline, but then took a moment to consider, and then bent his head in an almost-yes.

Jim smiled to himself. Maybe there was a kid here he could help after all.

-

Alfred felt like his smile was probably more intense than the light coming off the sun . He was sat beside the pool in a sunlounger, cold drink in one hand, canapes in the other, watching Jim Gordon teach Bruce Wayne how to disarm a burglar armed with a butterknife. 

There was such delightful tension on Bruce’s face, caught between not wanting to be treated like an ignorant child, and knowing that his disguise as a weak-willed billionaire only got more realistic if he wasn’t able to block even the most telegraphed of punches.

Jim was walking through the movements like choreographing a dance, all words of affirmation and careful corrections, softly touching Bruce’s elbow to raise it into a safer position, and using his foot to part Bruce’s legs into a more comfortable stance.

What made Alfred so delighted was that he’d been telling Bruce to brush up on his basics for a while. The kid expended so much energy every evening just keeping upright in an onslaught of attacks that it was no surprise that Bruce opted for not training in the day, but it meant Jim’s corrections were real fixes for actual problems in Bruce’s form. 

He could tell Bruce was getting frustrated with it, his muscles tensing with the desire to use brute force over clever tactics. Thwack, and again, Jim countered an attack with ease, giving a calm run-down of Bruce’s openings.

Alfred took another sip of his drink as Jim managed to get Bruce landing on his butt, smashing hard against the pool tiling. Jim made a sound of genuine worry, crouching and apologising that he hadn’t intended on actually knocking Bruce over, and that the man must be lighter than expected - 

And then, with a splash, Jim was in the pool and Bruce was stalking back up towards the house. 

It took a moment for Alfred to process what had happened - before bursting into exhilarated laughter. “That’ll show him you’re not a child!” Alfred called at Bruce’s back, getting only an angsty silence in return. 

When he turned back, Jim was clutching at the pool edge, coughing up swallowed pool water. “Something funny?”

“I’m having the time of my life!”

“Apparently,” Jim grumbled, trying and failing a few times to pull himself out of the water. “Can you give me a hand getting out?”

“What, self-defence sensei can’t save himself from the big scary pool?” Alfred said, though he was already getting out of his lounger, offering a hand down. 

“Upper body strength isn’t my forte,” Jim said as he took Alfred’s hand. Once Alfred had a good grip, Jim tugged, violently, using his whole body weight to send Alfred careening into the water next to him. 

After taking a brief moment to be absolutely shocked that he’d not seen that coming, Alfred kicked his legs to send himself to the bottom of the pool, manoeuvre around, and then start on his counter-attack — 

Only to find that Jim had already made his escape. Alfred breached the surface, wiping a hand over his face to clear the water. Jim was standing with his hands crossed over his chest, clothes soaked and dripping. “You know, you’re very rude for someone whose job is to be polite.”

“You’re the one who pulled me into the pool!”

“He’s trying his best, and laughing at him is what makes him feel like he has to lash out, to prove himself to you.”

Alfred had to take a moment to parse what Jim was saying — that the conversation had turned towards Alfred and Bruce’s relationship. “That’s not why he pushed you.”

“Look, I know I’m coming in here, giving you unsolicited advice when I’m not even a parent, but I’ve been around the block. Young men like him need kindness and understanding in the home environment.”

Feeling like an absolute idiot doggy-paddling through this conversation, Alfred pushed himself towards the nearest edge, pulling himself out in a single neat movement. “That’s not why he pushed you,” Alfred repeated.

“When boys like him grow up thinking they’ve got to be strong and tough for their father figures, they get frustrated when they can’t live up to expectation, and they resort to violence.”

“And I’m telling you,” Alfred said, squaring up to Jim, “That’s not why he pushed you.” Jim had height on Alfred, but not much. Equal weighting, too. 

“Why did he push me, then?” Jim asked, staying completely still in spite of the threat. 

“That’s his business.”

“And not mine?” 

Alfred’s expression didn’t change, feeling… feeling… 

He had no words for the feeling. 

“I’m going to get changed,” he said instead, brushing past Jim to climb the stairs back up towards the house.

“Alfred-” Jim said, but Alfred refused to listen.

How dare he imply that -

That Alfred wasn’t -

He knew he wasn’t perfect, but -

Bruce had always been - 

And with a kid that had seen such violence so early - 

What the hell did Alfred know about proper families? About - 

And yeah, Bruce dressed as a bleeding bat at night to beat up shit-heads but - 

That wasn’t because -

That wasn’t because he thought that’s what Alfred wanted of him, right?

Bruce’s sense of vengeance was… was his own, surely?

But then, what did a kid of 10 know about vengeance? 

Wasn’t it Alfred who’d spent the last 20 years hunting for the Waynes’ killers? 

And if Bruce thought the only way to get love from Alfred was to become a hunter,  consciously or not…

Alfred took the stairs two at a time, leg be damned, almost savouring the jarring pain of it as he climbed. 

He burst into Bruce’s room, not caring about knocking. Bruce looked up, immediately on guard from where he was getting changed into work-out gear - a guilty look on his face as if remembering what it was like being a teenager caught doing something embarrassing. “Is everything-”

Bruce’s words were cut off as Alfred pulled him into a bone-crushingly tight hug.

“Alfred?”

“You know that I love you, right?”

“Uhhh,” Bruce said, before slowly raising his own hands to pat at Alfred’s back. “Yes?”

“And that I’d love you, no matter who you were, and what you did with your life?”

“...Yes?”

“And that-”

“Alfred, if you ask me to call Jim dad, I will say no.”

“What?” Alfred released Bruce, who straightened out his crumbled clothing.

“I’m totally cool with you two being together. I’m actually really happy you’re taking this step. I don’t think that you could have found someone better suited to you. I’m just… not really ready to incorporate language like ‘dad’ back into my vocabulary.”

Clearly clocking Alfred’s absolutely confused stare, Bruce frowned. “Oh, is it the Batman stuff? You can tell him if you want. I wouldn’t want you to think you have to keep secrets from him if the relationship is serious.” Here, Bruce patted Alfred’s shoulder in a manly show of solidarity. “And hey, maybe he’d be relieved to know I can protect myself. Can’t wait to see his face when he finds out. I wonder if he suspected anything…”

Bruce smiled at that, turning his attention back towards his gear-bag. “I’m going to go for a run. I don’t want to lose stamina while we’re out here. I’ll be back in a couple hours. I have my phone, if you need me.” Bruce gave Alfred another grin as he passed him, face turning positively lecherous. “You kids have fun while I’m out. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do. And don’t forget, there are cameras by the pool, and I don’t want to be scarred for life.”

With those parting words, Bruce left, leaving Alfred rooted to the spot for a good, long minute. “What?” Alfred eventually asked the empty room. The room had no reply.

-

Jim was feeling like a real asshole. Class-A, top of the line, front row assholism. 

What kind of stuck up, no-friend-having person would go on an all-expenses paid trip to some country they’d never heard of, with people who genuinely seemed to care about them, and then proceed to berate their hosts on their parenting? On their certainly unplanned and likely unwanted but necessary adoption of a child who’d just witnessed their parents’ murder? 

Lieutenant James Gordon, that’s who. 

Jim had gone straight up to his room to pack, then had had the realisation that he wasn’t entirely sure what corner of the world they were in, what phone number to call to book a taxi, let alone a flight, nor, really, where his wallet was.

It had been several weeks since he’d required his wallet, and he had the brief, mortifying realisation that he didn’t even think he’d packed it because of how unnecessary it had become in his life.

He was, essentially, stranded here, until he was brought home or kicked out.

He kept his bag packed, just in case. 

He crept through the halls, wondering if he’d be able to find some sort of hint at where they were without bothering a) the man he’d recently implied was a child abuser or b) the child he’d implied was emotionally abused. 

Eventually he ended up doing a useless loop of the house, before landing himself in the living room, half-absorbed in the corner of one of the sofas, staring blankly at the wall.

-

Jim blinked awake, realising it was suddenly a lot darker in the room - the sun setting through the ceiling-height french doors that made up one side of the room. Disoriented, he sat up from where he’d been curled in the couch, and then jumped as he realised Alfred was there, too, on his own end of the sofa.

Jim swallowed, following the man’s gaze to the television: on now, with the sound on low. It took him a moment to place what it was they were watching, but then remembered one of his niece's brief but all-encompassing obsession with the show — Legally Blonde — on broadway. Jim tended to stay away from anything procedural-related in his down-time, but had been on the caretaking rota with this kid and so had been dragged to see the production; his first (and only) experience of a musical outside of school performances. 

It had certainly made a lasting impression: it was flashy, it was catchy, and he enjoyed the way his niece had given him a speech on internalised institutional misogyny in the intermission.

The characters were in a court-room now, and even without the musical-element, Jim could hear a familiar refrain rise in his brain. Gay or European ? The chorus questioned, and Jim found himself snorting softly at the question as his eyes came back to land on Alfred. The man was enrapt, and had not noticed that Jim had woken up. 

Alfred was a handsome man. Jim especially enjoyed watching him when his guard was down. While the sarcastic back and forth and the holier-than-thou British posturing was something Jim delighted in, it was also nice to get a glimpse behind the curtain at a man very few people were privileged to access. Softer, for one, less statue-esque. Expressions small, warm, a far cry from the mask of a soldier placed on guard. 

“I’ve always loved this film.”

Jim sat up straighter, guilty at having been caught peeping. “Oh?” Jim said. “Did you, er… want to be a lawyer?”

The eyeroll Alfred gave him was almost audible, but he remained silent after that. 

“I’m sorry, for what it’s worth.” Jim tried to stop himself from squirming in his seat. He was used to confrontation, just not so much in his personal life, and wasn’t entirely sure when else to start to apologise. No time like the present, as they said. “For what I said earlier. I shouldn’t have spoken to you like that, made assumptions and… I can understand if you’d prefer to send me back home.”

Alfred turned to meet Jim’s eye. “If I were to bend and snap right here, in front of you, what would you do?”

“Probably congratulate you on your ability to reach the floor without groaning?” Jim said, confused by the non-sequitur. “I’ve not been able to touch my toes for years now…”

“Jesus,” Alfred said. 

“I’m sorry,” Jim said quickly, “I’m not really sure what you’re asking me.”

“Bruce Wayne is Batman.”

Jim blinked, consciously starting to smile at the strange joke, unsure what the punchline was but willing to see Alfred through this strange series of sentences he was stringing together. When nothing followed that, Jim considered the possibility; mostly because he enjoyed a joke as much as the next man. 

Bruce Wayne was a frankly pathetic young man — rich, intelligent, an inventor, a trauma survivor. Batman was a highly trained, acrobatic detective. Jim supposed they both had the same chin, and the penchant for dramatics — one living in a tower fashioned like a gothic castle, the other dropping from tall places to beat up villains… They shared a brusque anti-sociality, but then so did most of Gotham. They were both white men of a certain age and, he supposed, height - if he were to cater for Batman’s raised combat boots and Bruce’s awkward, shrunken form.

“I, Alfred Pennyworth,” Alfred continued after a pause to allow Jim to have this mental conversation, “Have been attempting to fuck you for weeks now.”

Jim choked on his own spit. If the first had seemed out of the blue, this second — “Is this two truths and a lie?”

“Do you want it to be?” Alfred said. “Because my third statement would be, ‘we’re currently in Europe.’” 

Jim’s frown only grew. 

“You do know what continent we’re in?”

“I sort of blacked out as we went through US security, and… no, I’m not sure where exactly we are.”

“Well we’re certainly not in Europe ,” Alfred said, with emphasis. “I lied about that one .”

“Sorry. Hold on.” Jim scanned Alfred’s face for any hint that this was a prank, some strange payback for what happened at the pool. “Bruce is Batman? This Bruce?” 

“He’s been meeting you up that stupid abandoned building every night.”

“...Anyone could find out where the batsignal was located.”

“He tells me you and a woman dressed as a leather cat had a bit of a party up there during the last case.”

Jim’s brain raced, attempting to recall whether that particular information had been made public domain - but he didn’t even think that he’d mentioned it in his own report — sensing that the woman had wanted to keep a low profile.

“And as for the second point,” Alfred said breezily, as if the revelation about Batman was now to be considered a common fact, “I’m not entirely sure what you’d require for proof.” 

“So, for clarification, you’re both gay and European?”

“God, you were still having that dilemma?”

“I didn’t want to assume anything - and, it seemed rude to just - take anything for granted…”

“But you have been thinking about it.”

“I—” feeling like he’d been rather spectacularly trapped by the question, Jim looked away, feeling hot under the collar. “I might have… considered… things.”

“Things?” Alfred prompted, voice adopting its more familiar teasing lilt.

“Things,” Jim confirmed. “Thoughts, feelings. Things.” 

“Mmmmhmm,” Alfred hummed, sounding pleased as punch. 

“Wait,” Jim said, brain now firing on all cylinders. “You made me teach The Batman self defence!”

“I did,” Alfred said, gaze intense and delighted.

“You insinuated that the Batman and I had- had- a relationship . That’s not because Bruce-”

“Oh God no, that was just a bit of fun. He sends his regards, by the by. Says he found a lovely hotel down the road he’s opting to stay in for the night…”

Jim’s cheeks flushed with heat, mortified. “You’ve been playing games with me.”

“Not out of any unkindness,” Alfred assured. 

“Why didn’t you just tell me to start with? If I knew he was the Batman, I wouldn’t have needed to stay.”

“It kind of defeats the purpose of a disguise if you tell your local cop who you are.”

“But you have told me.”

“Because he trusts you.”

“He didn’t trust me before? When we were working together?”

“He did. I didn’t.”

That knowledge worked its way across Jim’s face. “So this has been a test.”

“You’ve passed with flying colours.”

“Is that why you brought me out here?” Jim felt his hackles raise. “What would have happened if I’d not passed?”

“I brought you out here because if I know anything, it’s that one, lonely man cannot dedicate his life to changing the world. That he needs friends to get things done.”

Jim’s jaw clenched. 

It wasn’t that Alfred was wrong- he had, in fact, hit the nail directly on the head. 

“While I appreciate the sentiment,” Jim said, picking his words carefully, “This is… a lot to take in.”

“Of course.” Jim watched Alfred’s face, seeing the exact moment he realised they were not about to make out on the couch. “...Take your time.”

“I think,” Jim said, not able to hold that look anymore and turning away, “I need to go home to do that.”

“I see.” Alfred straightened himself up, then stood. “Yes. I’ll arrange that for you now, Lieutenant.”

Jim felt the distance between them like a stab, even knowing it was just Alfred attempting to protect himself. 

He wanted to say something, to make it feel less - less like they were never going to see one another again. But it was Jim who’d said he wanted distance, so what could he do now but respect whatever Alfred gave him in return? 

-

The first thing Jim did when he got into his flat was to check the fridge. He’d considered stopping off to get a take-out on his way home, but had remembered the weeks-old microwave meals stacked in the fridge at home and thought with some guilt that he shouldn’t let the food go to waste.

He was bone-weary as he took stock of the fridge. It didn’t seem like an ecosystem had sprouted in his absence, so he chose the meal on top of the pile. He took a sniff as he peeled back the plastic — it smelled just as processed and bland as he remembered them, with no underlying must of rot. 

He put the tray in the microwave, only realising as he was punching the numbers in that it’s broken . It had been on his to-do list for a while, but he’d not gotten around to fixing it with all the Riddler stuff. 

He cast a weary look at the oven, but… he was starving. 

It seemed such a long time ago that he’d had to make food for himself, he’d almost forgotten how much effort it took, just to get food in himself. He’d acclimated to having a private chef far too easily, and the absence of a good home-cooked meal was already starting to sting.

With nobody to judge him for his sins, Jim took a spoon from where it had been left to dry by the sink a month ago, and went to sit on his couch, digging into the unpleasantly cold meal. 

He’d forgotten the sounds of the streets of Gotham outside his apartment, but they were an almost heartwarmingly familiar friend in the silence of his living room. 

The blaring car horns, the shouting of teens, the judder of the metro, the bass of some teen’s angsty music in the bedroom above, the knocking at the window-

Jim looked up, confused, locating the sound but knowing that that was not where the fire escape was.

Blocking the light of the sun was a large shadow; the owner of which was instantly recognisable.

The Batman rapped on the glass again, then pointed at the latch. 

Jim allowed himself a moment to take in the scene before carefully depositing the meal on the table and going to let the masked vigilante in. 

“Are you alone?” the Batman said, taking a brief glance around the room.

“Uh, yes?”

It was fascinating, how quickly the Batman became Bruce. Even before taking off his helmet, his posture changed, his jaw relaxed, and then an awkward thirty-something was standing in his living room, looking like a lost teenager.

“He told you?” Bruce asked.

“Yeah,” Jim said, though no less shocked to see the transformation happen right before his eyes. 

"And then you left."

"Yeah."

Bruce glanced at the half-eaten food, and the abandoned, unpacked kit bag. 

"Did you leave because of me?" he asked, not raising his eyes to meet Jim's.

Jim took a breath, then, defensive, let it out. "I left because I needed some space to think."

Bruce thought about that for a moment, then took a step back. "Oh."

Jim raised his wrist so he could check the time; a visible display of crossed boundaries. "I've been back about ten minutes, Bruce. If you want to talk about something, do you think it could wait until I've had a shower?"

Bruce nodded. "I'll… It can wait. I'll wait. If you need me, you know how to find me."

"That's assuming the bat signal still works…"

Bruce's face scrunched in confusion. "No, you know where I live. You have a key. You can come over whenever you- … if you feel like coming back."

"Oh," Jim said, a bit pathetically. "Right. Thank you."

Bruce nodded, pulling his mask on and turning back towards the window. It was like magic, watching him transform back into the reliable Knight, seeming almost to grow. 

One foot out of the window, Bruce looked up, pinning Jim with an unreadable look.

"He has a way of…" Bruce trailed off, as if unable to find the right words. He looked like he would abandon the thought and leave, but kept himself there for a moment longer

"You think that maybe you don't deserve it? Him? His kind of love? But uhm. If I do, then so do you."

And with that, the bat had gone.

Jim swallowed, watching the window for long minutes after Bruce's departure. 

I should go beg for my job back, he thought, picking the abandoned meal up and throwing it directly in the trash. And do some grocery shopping too.

-

It had been a stupid mistake. Real rookie-error shit. He'd just had so much on his mind, with six guys on one side and his partner on the other end of the alleyway; he'd half-assed the pat downs while getting them in handcuffs, and then he'd turned his attention away for a half-second to check on his partner, and then there was a dull pain in his side, and when he touched it, in shock, he found a knife protruding from his belly and the warm slick of blood spilling through his fingers. 

It had come from a weird angle so it hadn't gutted him, thank God, but the amount of blood coming out of him was already making him woozy as he tried to clutch at the wound and stem the flow. He didn't think it had hit anything vital, but even as his brain screamed at him to chase after the culprits, the strength left his legs. Taking the chance for what it was, his six guys skittered off and away, leaving Jim to fall to his knees. 

He glanced up, but his partner wasn't in sight - had maybe followed the men out of the alley. 

This is bad, he thought. Pros, the knife-holder hadn't decided to immediately kick his head in, but cons, there was no way to say that the gang wouldn't come back, and this time armed with weapons more dangerous than a knife. 

I have to move.

He took a steadying breath, fighting against the nausea his brain was using as an alarm bell. I know, he told himself. Blood bad.

Three, two, one - using the countdown as incentive, he hauled himself up, leaning heavily against the damp, grotty wall to prevent himself from simply falling back over.

He closed his eyes to stop the spinning double-vision, and keeping one hand on his new knife, he staggered in the opposite direction to the escapees. 

Just make it to the street, he told himself. Then to the patrol car. Then call for backup, and then wait. That's nothing. That's simple. You could do that in your sleep.

Jim thought he heard the distinct sound of a familiar car revving in the distance, and then his chin hit the sidewalk and he blacked out. 

-

So sue him, Bruce kept a tracker on the man. 

Bruce Wayne wasn't the only person directly involved in the Riddler case, and Jim had taken a fair few of the city's most corrupt into custody. So he had a simple, heart-rate monitoring, audio-recording bug in the man's phone. 

…And the sole of his shoe. And a backup attached to the badge in his wallet. 

And so when he had been alerted to Jim's… issues, Alfred had pressed a button, and a car stored in a garage a block away had turned on, and Alfred had used his remote control to drive it to Jim's location. Designed for extraction situations like this (though initially for a different passenger,) the car's doors had opened and a pair of mechanised arms had lifted the unconscious Jim into the secure cabin before hurtling through the streets of Gotham towards the Tower.

Alfred had stitched his fair share of wounds in his life, and Jim's was - thankfully - a simple one. No shrapnel, no toxins, no ruptured organs, just a good old-fashioned shanking.

Once he had cleaned the man up, he'd deposited him in a clean bed (in Jim’s room, his brain said), and then he had left.

Jim had wanted privacy. He wouldn't want to wake up with Alfred hanging over him, gripping his hand, even though that was what Alfred longed to do. 

So he went to make himself useful, only keeping a small monitor on hand, just to make sure Jim didn't pull a stitch in the night. 

He cleaned the batcave from top to bottom (no mean feat considering the space was shared with real bats,) and decidedly ignored when the service bell was pulled in Gordon's room. 

Alfred had pre-warned the staff that Jim might wake up confused and in need of feeding or watering. If he asked, Alfred was 'out, on a business trip'.

Once Jim was back on his feet, he was free to leave, or even to transfer to an actual hospital. Jim was not to feel kidnapped, or trapped here out of any propriety.

Jim could leave again, and Alfred could treat this as a brief, if slightly inconvenient, hiatus of their separation.

No need to emotionally invest, no need to get worked up, or to make himself more available just in case-

Just in case Jim regretted leaving.

And so he ignored the bell when it rang again, and he continued to ignore it over the course of the week to come.

-

Jim couldn't exactly blame Alfred for ignoring him. 

Whether it was because of his age, or because of the slightly awkward position of the wound, Jim hadn't recovered from his injury as quickly as he would have liked, finding it difficult to maintain energy past a few hours, let alone across an entire day.

He'd attempted to order a taxi home, but Melanie had turned the driver away at the door, stating that her chicken soup would do more for Jim than a whole month's bed rest.

So, despite the messaging that he was free to go, whenever, this did not actually appear to be the case.

Already sick of being forced into bed-rest, Jim had argued his case for being allowed to use the library, where he could sit in comfort while occupying his brain.

Melanie took a while to consider this compromise, but relented when Jim threatened to have a cop car come collect him in the dead of night.

He forgot how tiring it was just keeping himself awake while reading, especially when in a language he hadn't used daily since childhood, and so spent half his days dozing, the other half working through easy-reads in the form of Bruce's eclectic young adult novels. They were, for the most part, more riveting than a lot of the philosophical texts translated from Latin into stiff, legal-sounding formal English.

He'd haunted the library for a few days when Bruce walked in, heading towards a certain text and getting halfway to the couch, book in hand, before noticing Jim sprawled there. 

Bruce looked around as if wondering whether he had accidentally found himself in Jim's apartment, and then confirmed that this was, in fact, his personal library in his Tower. "Hello?" he said, though managing to get across an unsaid 'what are you doing here?'

"Hey," Jim said, raising one hand and not elaborating, hoping that his equally unsaid reply of 'you'll have to ask if you want to know' came across just as plainly. 

They watched each other in silence for a moment before Bruce pointed at an armchair with a book. "Do you mind?"

"It's your house," Jim said, dropping his attention back to his novel.

"You were here first," Bruce countered, but he sat himself in the armchair anyway, opening the book in his lap.

Jim valiantly ignored the curious looks Bruce kept sending him, like a dog trying to play mind games with its owner in an attempt to get free treats, until eventually Bruce got the message that Jim wasn't about to spill his guts, and they relaxed into a mutual quiet.

Bruce seemed to be the kind of man to react vocally to what he was reading, totally un-self conscious as he laughed, or gasped. It made for a pleasant background noise, as warming as any fire.

After a few hours there was a quiet knock on the door, and Melanie entered with a trolly, which she left before them. "A light lunch," she said, voice so neutral that its absence of tease could only mean one thing: that this was sent by Alfred. 

"Thanks Mel," Bruce said, not looking up from his book in a rote performance of pleasantry.

Jim put his own book aside and thanked her, admitting in his own brain that he was more hungry than he had thought, thankful that he didn’t have to go out and search for sustenance himself. He unwrapped the plate of sandwiches, and once Melanie had bowed herself out, Jim reached over to pluck the book from Bruce's hands. 

"Let's have a break," he suggested in a tone that meant 'and I'll hear no excuses.'

Bruce sighed, and Jim felt a fondness for the kid, who could still find himself being a spoilt brat. Brattishness was a luxury few could afford - both financially and emotionally, and it was nice to know that Bruce still had enough sense of self that he allowed himself to be pandered to. 

Jim started to tuck into the food, but stopped when Bruce’s attention snapped from the plate to Jim, a look of shock and pure fear colouring his face. “What did you do ?”

“Excuse me?”

Bruce touched his hand to the teapot and went a shade whiter.

“The tea’s lukewarm, and we’re getting the bad cucumber sandwiches. You did something."

“Done something?” Jim repeated, feeling dread in his gut. “To Alfred?”

Bruce shook his head, as if talking to an absolute fool. “Not to him . You think he’d make the sandwiches soggy because you’d slighted him?” 

Bruce knocked his seat back, unceremoniously grabbing at Jim, pulling up his shirtsleeves, prodding at his back, his sides, until he found Jim’s injured spot. 

“There,” Bruce said, pulling apart Jim's clothing to look at the wound. “See? You didn’t take care of yourself properly, and now I have to suffer.”

"Ow," Jim said, edging away from Bruce's probing finger.

"What is this, a stabbing?"

Jim nodded, but Bruce was hardly paying attention as he ran a finger over the stitches. "You blacked out in an alley and woke up like this, didn’t you."

"Er, yeah," Jim said, vaguely surprised that Bruce hadn’t been informed. "I meant to ask who your doctor is, so I can ask for the bill - I know that you'll want to wave it off, but I really can't accept that kind of debt."

"Doctor?" Bruce said with a look of incredulity. "We don't have a doctor."

"Then who…" Jim's brain provided the answer in a belated flash. 

"... You can't have anyone knowing Master Wayne gets stabbed nightly, so you improvised."

"He knows field first aid," Bruce said, as if that was enough of a CV to routinely operate on someone. 

“Oh,” Jim said, not knowing how else to respond to this news. And then, coming to the realisation even as he said the words, “He saved my life.”

“He does that,” Bruce agreed.

“I should probably thank him.”

Bruce just half-shrugged, dropping his gaze to the sandwiches. “If you want me to eat well this week, then yeah.”

“Do you think he…” Jim trailed off, feeling silly to say the words ‘wants to see me’ out loud, especially to the man’s adopted son. “Where’s his room?”

Bruce grinned. “I’ll show you the way.”

-

Alfred registered the knock on the door with a vague sense of awareness - lost, as he had been, in a hyper-focused attention on his transcription project. 

Alfred had started it as a kind of hobby — a way to get better at assisting Bruce’s jaunts on the town without being a tactical combat partner. He’d enjoyed the challenge of decoding some minor villain’s plot, and since then had been taking on more and more voluntary projects posted to forums online.

Some were from unsolved murder cases, uploaded by murder mystery fanatics hoping to crack decades-old cyphers, and others were custom-made by fellow amateur cryptograhpers wanting to improve their making and breaking skills.

Alfred didn’t usually spend this much of his time in the forums, pouring over more of the advanced puzzles, but this week he’d been in need of… distracting. It seemed like every time he looked away from the screen, his brain would immediately wonder how Jim was faring, which meant he ended up wanting to do less and less looking away.

The sooner Jim had recovered and departed back to his own flat, the better. 

When the knock came again, Alfred just sighed. “Not now, Bruce,” he called, knowing the boy’s pattern of knocking.

He didn’t turn to look as the door opened, but knew he had no leg to stand on to complain about a lack of privacy when he routinely checked in on Bruce without permission. “Can’t you find someone else to pester?”

“It’s you I’ve come to pester, I’m afraid.”

Alfred tensed, not having expected to actually face the consequences of his actions. Yes, he’d brought Jim into the house, but to have him in his room… “What can I help you with?” he asked, surprising even himself with how level his voice came out.

“I, uh, wanted to thank you.” Jim’s voice remained near the door, clearly not wanting to impinge any more than was invited. “For saving me.”

“You’re welcome.”

“And for giving me the time to think things through,” Jim continued, undeterred by Alfred’s standoffishness. “I haven’t exactly had a lot of people in my life, so it gets… overwhelming, sometimes. Knowing that my life isn’t just my own. That there are other people out there who care what happens to me.” There was a quiet, self-conscious laugh from Jim. “I’ll be honest, I think this is the first time I’ve had a real friend since High School.”

Alfred turned in his seat at that, just a half-turn, just to show that he was listening.

Because Jim had left but-

But he’d said, hadn’t he? That he needed time to think?

And Alfred had interpreted that as a polite way to turn him down - as a way to separate them, to rip this growing friendship up by its roots. But that wasn’t what Jim had said, and Alfred had been mad at him anyway. Mad at him for giving himself boundaries, for being cautious. For being human .

“I suppose what I’m trying to say is that I have a lot to be thankful for since you welcomed me into your house, and now that I’ve had some time to myself… I’m realising that I hope that you feel the same way.” 

“The same way about what?” Alfred asked, knowing but wanting it said aloud anyway.

“The same way I feel about you.”

“Which is?”

“Which is,” Jim said, with some hesitance, “Which is that I’m not one hundred percent ready to jump into bed with you, but that I would like to take you for a drink some time. If you would like that.”

Alfred hummed, mostly in an attempt to quash the pleased smile trying to work its way on his face. “You’ve got confidence, thinking you can afford my taste in drinks.”

“You’ve got confidence thinking you get a choice in where I take you,” Jim said, relief tingeing his humour.

“My my, Lieutenant Gordon, showing your dominating streak, are we?”

“I’ll grow a backbone in defence of my wallet any day.”

“I refuse to be a cheap date. Not in my dear old age.”

“We’re barely out of our forties, Alfred, you need to stop talking like we’re on our death beds.”

“ One of us recently got out of their death bed!”

“I seem to remember one Alfred Pennyworth being blown up, not 2 months ago.”

“Right, so, my point stands, we’re both one-foot in the grave.”

Jim rolled his eyes, choosing now to step further into the room. Jim held his hand out as he reached Alfred’s perch, and Alfred let Jim interlace their fingers together, giving his hand a light squeeze. “You can spend what you want on the first date, but after that, it’s local diners only.”

Alfred made an overly-scandalised face, but pulled gently anway, bringing Jim closer into his space. “I’m sure I can lower my dining standards if it means I get to take you on more holidays.”

“I’ve had enough holidays to last a lifetime,” Jim said. “I’m never leaving Gotham again.”

“What about a trip to Blüdhaven? I’ve heard it’s nice in spring.”

“Now I know you’re screwing with me,” Jim said. “Taking a cop to Blüdhaven, that’s just asking for trouble.”

“Great seafood. And in your budget, too.”

Jim snorted. “I suppose I could kill two birds with one stone.”

“Oh?”

“If I quit to become a Wayne Tower butler, you won’t be bringing a cop, and I won’t have to dip into my retirement fund to wine and dine you.”

“I’ll get the paperwork ready by morning,” Alfred said, serious even though he knew Jim was only joking. 

“Maybe next year, next spring,” Jim allowed.

“I’ll keep it ready for whenever you need it.”

“Always adding more things to thank you for.”

“I live to serve,” Alfred said with a wink.

Jim smiled an indulgent smile, and Alfred was floored by it. It was a soft smile, full to the brim with adoration, thanks, and a wry dismissal of Alfred’s attempt at a joke. It was a handsome smile, and it stole Alfred’s breath.

Jim raised the hand not-linked together, lightly stroking the back of his knuckles to Alfred’s cheek. Slowly, giving Alfred the time to deflect, Jim leant closer and pressed a kiss to the corner of Alfred’s lip, lingering, only slightly, before pulling back.

“Sorry,” Jim said, expression abashed. “You were just- you looked -”

Alfred raised himself up off the seat, pulling Jim into a kiss again, this one far less chaste. He brought his hand to the back of Jim’s neck, felt how warm he was — from embarrassment, he noted with some satisfaction — and revelled in how easy it felt for them to kiss like this. Jim kept Alfred’s raw eagerness at bay, but he still kissed like he meant it, chasing after Alfred when he pulled away.

He kissed like he wanted to be here, to stay here, to not let go.

“And you’re sure we can’t just go straight to bed?” Alfred asked, scratching lightly at the nape of Jim’s neck.

“Three dates, at least,” Jim said, knocking his forehead against Alfred’s. “And maybe some make-outs in the library if you’re good.”

“I’m holding you to that one,” Alfred said, bringing his arms down to wrap Jim in a half-hug. “All the more excuse to bully Brucie.”

“You’re terrible.”

“But you both love me anyway.”

Jim’s smile grew at that. “Yeah. I think you’re right.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Jim confirmed. “And what a great person to love, and to be loved by.”

Alfed closed his eyes, blind-sided by such earnestness and feeling, for the first time in a very long time, completely speechless. No witty remark, no sarcastic rejoinder, only the sense that he was well and truly in over his head. 

Yeah, he agreed. How long it had been since he had felt this at peace? Too long , he thought. But with any luck, you’ll never have to ask that question again.