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Pennyworth: The Daring Young Man

Chapter 10

Summary:

Richard seemed to take that in, then nodded. “Will you be there?” he asked shakily.

“Of course,” Bruce replied, finally closing the gap between them and letting his hands rest on either side of Richard’s shoulders, rubbing his arms soothingly. “We both will, won’t we, Al?”

“Just try and stop us,” the old butler replied, closing the door on the dishwasher and turning to look at both of them. “You’ll be all right, Richard. I promise. No one can hurt you in the Manor.”

Because I’ll kill them, he didn’t add, but he knew it was implied from the sideways glance Bruce gave him.

Alfred respected Bruce’s no-killing rule, but Bruce knew better than to try and enforce it on him. The butler would do whatever he deemed necessary to keep his people safe. Martha and Thomas had known that— it was why they’d entrusted him with Bruce, and Alfred would be damned if that now didn’t extend to Richard as well.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Thankfully, the drive back to Wayne Manor was uneventful, as was dinner, where Alfred was heartened to find Richard’s appetite was still improving. Though, just as he’d feared, bedtime was proving to be more of an issue.

“Can’t I stay up?” Richard asked as he brought his dessert plate over to Alfred. “It’s not even dark out.”

“It’s plenty dark,” Alfred replied as he rinsed the dishes in the sink. “And you’ve got another long day ahead of you tomorrow.”

“Why? What’s happening?”

“Well, first thing in the morning, we’re going to see Doctor Leslie Thompkins so she can have a look at you.”

“A doctor?” Richard balked back. “What for? I’m not sick.”

“We just want to make sure,” Bruce said soothingly as he stood up from his spot by the kitchen table and refilled his teacup from the pot on the stove. “You’ve been through a lot. And frankly, I want her to look at your arm after what the doctor in the orphanage did to it. You might need an ointment to help it heal.”

Richard pulled his arm close to his chest, cradling it at the elbow. “It’ll heal,” he murmured. “Dad always said I heal quick.”

Bruce’s expression softened as he put his cup aside and kneeled to Richard’s height. “I don’t doubt that, chum, but if we can stop it hurting sooner, wouldn’t that be better too?” Richard gave him a sidelong glance and then nodded. Bruce smiled and gave him a friendly nudge on his uninjured arm, awkward but sincere. “Thatta boy. And don’t worry about Leslie. You’ll like her. She’s a good doctor and an old friend of the family. She used to work with my father.”

“Was she your doctor?”

“Still is,” Bruce replied with a smile. “There’s no one I trust more to look after you. Except Alfred.”

Alfred grunted his acknowledgment of the praise, flashing Richard a toothy smile. “High praise from his lordship.”

He chuckled when Bruce stood up and gave him a light whack with the back of his hand.

“What else are we doing tomorrow?” Richard asked. “You said we had lots to do.”

Both men hesitated at that.

“Well, first we’ll see Leslie. And then maybe go to the park again for lunch,” Alfred said, trying to sound as casual as possible. “And the Commissioner Jim Gordon is going to pay us a visit so he can talk to you.”

If Alfred thought the boy had looked uncomfortable at the mention of a doctor, he grew positively ashen at the mention of Gordon. “Police? Here?”

He looked around the kitchen, looking ready to bolt, and Bruce dropped to his knees again, hands outstretched but stopping short of holding him in place. “Just the one,” he soothed. “Just Jim, only Jim.”

“But why?” Richard asked, still sounding on the verge of panic. “I already told him what I could.”

Bruce shook his head. “I’m sure he just wants to verify some things…” He hesitated, then added, “Away from the other police officers.”

Richard seemed to take that in, then nodded. “Will you be there?” he asked shakily.

“Of course,” Bruce replied, finally closing the gap between them and letting his hands rest on either side of Richard’s shoulders, rubbing his arms soothingly. “We both will, won’t we, Al?”

“Just try and stop us,” the old butler replied, closing the door on the dishwasher and turning to look at both of them. “You’ll be all right, Richard. I promise. No one can hurt you in the Manor.”

Because I’ll kill them, he didn’t add, but he knew it was implied from the sideways glance Bruce gave him.

Alfred respected Bruce’s no-killing rule, but Bruce knew better than to try and enforce it on him. The butler would do whatever he deemed necessary to keep his people safe. Martha and Thomas had known that— it was why they’d entrusted him with Bruce, and Alfred would be damned if that now didn’t extend to Richard as well.

There must have been some of his determination in his face because Richard nodded and released a shaky breath. “Okay,” he said. “Okay.”

“Good lad,” Alfred said, rinsing off one last plate and putting it in the dishwasher. “Now, let’s get you ready for bed.”

It was amazing how quickly the expression on Richard’s expression changed from fearful to petulant in the blink of an eye. “But I’m not tired,” he protested, the hint of a defiant whine entering his voice. He didn’t stamp his foot, but from the mulish jut of his jaw, Alfred could well imagine it.

And so, it starts, he thought.

Fair play to the little tyke; if Alfred had been in his situation, he’d have been an ungovernable hellion from the start. It didn’t bear thinking about how Bruce would have reacted if someone had tried to place him in the care of strangers.

Willowood orphanage would have been naught but ash and embers if he’d been left there for more than five minutes.

Frankly, given the circumstances, he was amazed Richard had taken this long to protest anything they said or did.

He consoled himself with the knowledge that if Richard was going to start acting out, it was because he felt safe to do so. At least he and Bruce had managed that.

Richard glanced imploringly at Bruce, who, for all his physical prowess and mental aptitude in the face of mortal danger, froze like a deer in headlights. “Please, Bruce?”

Still crouched at Richard’s eye level, Bruce’s gaze skittered guiltily up to Alfred, who arched a stern eyebrow at him.

It had been Bruce’s idea to enforce a strict bedtime to get around the Batman problem. It’d be bloody useless if he didn’t follow through on it and made Alfred into the bad guy by going back on it now.

Bruce cleared his throat and looked back down at Richard. “Alfred is right. It’s time to get ready for bed.”

Richard’s face fell, and Alfred decided he wasn’t above some gentle wheedling of his own. “Come on, young sir,” he said, drying his hands on a clean dish towel and giving Richard’s shoulder an encouraging squeeze. “We spent all that time doing laundry. Don’t you want to have a bath and put on your new pajamas?”

Richard gave him a sidelong glance that was vaguely mutinous, arms folding defensively over his chest as he pulled away from both of them. “I had a bath at the orphanage,” he muttered sullenly.

And I’m sure it was bloody awful, Alfred thought, letting his hand drop as he envisioned tepid water and the harsh chemical soap used to kill lice being poured over Richard’s head. He had caught a faint whiff of it on his hair earlier when he’d lifted the boy down from the railing in the park—the same awful, stinging smell he remembered from his army days. It had brought tears to his eyes as an adult to use it; he couldn’t begin to imagine how much Richard’s scalp burned. Nor did he imagine whoever had been left in charge of him at the orphanage had been gentle— especially if they followed it up with the dreaded scrape of the lice comb. Which was all the more reason to dunk him in a hot bath and work some olive oil into his scalp, but he doubted that reasoning would work. Not when the boy was looking for something to rebel over.

No, Alfred amended to himself, something to have control over. The boy could hardly be blamed for wanting that. But he still needed a bath.

“That’s a shame,” he said lightly, turning to rummage through the cupboards, feigning indifference. “I was keen to see what them fancy bubble bombs did if you dropped them into the water.”

“What fancy bubble bombs?” Richard asked, angling back to face him and sounding intrigued despite himself.

“Oh, didn’t Bruce tell you?” He jerked his head toward one of the shopping bags that had been brought into the kitchen and left on the counter. “The store gave us some to try out. They turn the water all sorts of colors.”

Bruce had spent so much money in The Robin’s Nest the shop clerks behind the counter had shoved an abundance of complimentary gifts into the bags—presumably hoping Richard would like them and they would order more. There had been an entire bag dedicated to bath and bedtime products, including a colorful array of bath bombs that, after a brief look at the ingredients, Alfred deduced were meant to fizz and bubble when they hit the water. Slightly more entertaining than a regular bubble bath, he thought, though, to his mind, you could never go wrong with a good old bottle of Matey.

Already following Alfred’s lead, Bruce got up and reached into the bag. He rummaged through it momentarily and then pulled out a clear plastic box containing several colorful spheres.

“Fizzing Bath Bombs.” He made a considerate face, turning the package over as he read the label. “Bursting with mango, strawberry and banana. Sounds like a smoothie.”

“An explosive smoothie,” Alfred supplied, smiling to himself when Richard snorted.

Bruce pulled out another box. “Soothing lavender—”

He didn’t get to finish reading the description before Richard made his opinion known. “Yuck.”

“Okay,” Bruce said, putting the box on the counter. “No lavender. Let’s see what else we’ve got. Oh.”

Alfred turned to find him holding another transparent box containing four rows of black spheres, a familiar yellow symbol embedded in the center. He glanced at Alfred, his expression genuinely confused. “They make Batman-themed ones…”

“Let me see!” Richard demanded, holding his hands up. Bruce obligingly handed the box down to him; his brow knit together like he was trying to solve a puzzle with half the pieces missing.

Alfred knew he struggled to conceptualize Batman as anything other than violence and primordial fear. It would never occur to him that it might be something children thought of as fun—not like how they flocked to Superman's bright, primary colors and cheery smile. But that didn’t mean Batman wasn’t growing in popularity—especially in Gotham.

Alfred had lost count of the number of kids he’d spied recently sporting scraps of black fabric trailing around their shoulders like a cape as he drove around the city. Not to mention the teenagers wearing black t-shirts, the bat emblem stenciled across their chests in the pink and white telltale lines of a homemade bleach job. To Alfred’s mind, it had only been a matter of time before ‘official’ Batman-themed items started cropping up in shops. Though he had to admit, he hadn’t expected a bubble bath to be among the first.

“They should have called them Bat Bombs,” Richard said to the room at large, earning an inelegant snort of laughter from Bruce and a chuckle from Alfred. The boy almost sounded offended at the lost opportunity to make a pun.

“What do they even think Batman smells like?” Bruce wondered aloud, still visibly perplexed.

Of course, neither he nor Alfred had to guess what Batman smelled like. There was a distinctly chemical quality to the armor lurking in the cave—a synthetic mix of Nomex, Kevlar, and the grime of the city embedded in the rubber soles of the boots. Hardly something a person would enjoy bathing in.

Richard squinted at the box, his finger trailing over the letters on the front. “Black raspberry and vanilla,” he said. “What does black raspberry smell like?” the boy asked.

“I don’t know,” Alfred replied, “why don’t you open it and find out?”

Despite the fiddly seal on the box, he got it open and tipped one of the black spheres into his hand. Even from here, Alfred could see how it glinted in the light. Richard’s smile was viciously delighted. “It’s got glitter in it!”

“Has it, indeed?” Alfred asked, struggling to maintain his composure, torn between riotous amusement at the expression that had flitted over Bruce’s face—like he’d just bit into a lemon— and the absolute dread that consumed him at the thought of trying to get the glitter out of an antique porcelain bathtub. But still, needs must for the greater good.

“Shame you don’t want a bath,” he said, still pretending to fuss with items on the bottom shelf of the cupboard and unearthing a tin of hot chocolate. He set it aside for later bribery. “We could have seen what it looked like.”

He saw Richard bite his lip from the corner of his eye. “If I have a bath,” he began hesitantly, “can we play Clue after?”

Alfred and Bruce shared a look—or rather, Bruce gave him a look that said, you started this, which Alfred thought was obliquely unfair given the circumstances. It hadn’t been his idea to bring Richard home. He’d merely shamelessly encouraged it.

“One game,” he said sternly. “And only if you get into your pajamas and straight into bed.”

“Okay, I’ll start the bath!” Before Alfred could tell him to wait, Richard darted off, his sneakers thudding up the grand staircase as he made a beeline for his bedroom.

“I’ll go after him,” Bruce said. “Make sure he doesn’t flood the place.”

“See that you do,” Alfred replied. “I’ll get his things put away and make sure we’re ready for tomorrow. And here.” He held out a bottle of olive oil. “Try and get some of that into his scalp before he gets in the tub.”

Bruce took the bottle and eyed it curiously. “Olive oil?”

“They put lice treatment on his hair in the orphanage. I could smell it on him earlier,” Alfred explained. “Standard practice, I presume, but his scalp is probably raw. The olive oil will help.”

And smother any lice he might have picked up in the orphanage, which was far more likely, Alfred thought, though he doubted the boy had enjoyed a chance to rest his head anywhere for long before the police tried to abduct him.

“I’ll see what he’s amenable to,” Bruce replied, taking the bottle with him and leaving Alfred to potter around the kitchen alone.

Assured that Richard (probably) wasn’t going to flood the house under Bruce’s watchful eye, Alfred began pulling out everything he’d need to prepare for Gordon’s arrival.

He’d only been partly kidding about making fresh donuts, but now he’d set his mind to it, Alfred was determined to make sure the Commissioner left with a full stomach. If Bruce was right and the other man was going through a divorce, he’d likely been living on cigarettes and that awful black tar Gothamite police insisted on calling coffee. While Alfred wouldn’t usually go to such lengths for a plod, Jim Gordon was a unique case.

Alfred would never be able to forget the image of the then-young Lieutenant Gordon balancing Bruce on his hip like a much younger child, murmuring softly to him as Bruce—drowning in a borrowed trench coat—clawed at his shoulders with bloody hands, trying to reach the lifeless bodies of his parents on the ground. It had only been when he spotted Alfred that Gordon had loosened his grip, relinquishing Bruce into Alfred’s arms like offering up precious cargo from a sinking ship, his gaze was sharp and sorrowful as Bruce cried and shook in his arms.

Alfred would never be able to repay him for the kindness he’d shown Bruce in that awful, awful moment, but he could damn well make sure he was fed.

Alfred snorted, shaking his head as he fussed around the kitchen. To think, all that time he’d spent worrying about turning out like his father, and here he’d gone and turned into his mother instead. At least he hadn’t started hiding his guns up the chimney.Yet. Bruce would probably find him a nice nursing home with a sea view once he started doing that. 

He pulled out his sourdough starter to check on it, figuring you couldn’t go wrong with a spread of sandwiches, when the watch on his wrist began to beep. Alfred clamped a hand over it, the steady red light blinking under his fingers.

“Al?” Bruce’s voice floated, questioning down the stairs.

“Already on it!” he called back, moving quickly from the kitchen into Bruce’s study at the back of the house.

He paused by the chessboard, lifting the knight from its customary position, and headed toward the bookcase. Alfred set it down next to a heavy tome of short stories by Edgar Allan Poe and waited.

There was a faint metallic ‘shink’ noise as the chess piece moved, connecting with the hidden magnet inside the wood. This was followed by another soft sound like the swing of well-oiled mechanisms moving behind the wall. Alfred waited, counting to thirteen, then gave the bookcase a gentle shove. It parted silently from the wall, revealing the hidden passage within. Dim lights flickered on as he stepped inside, taking care to close the door behind him as he descended into the bowels of Wayne Manor.

The cave flickered to life as he approached Bruce’s workstation, the giant row of screens illuminating the space with an eerie blue glue. Alfred ignored most of them, focusing instead on the flashing screen, a call waiting sign blinking on and off.

“About time,” Lucius’s voice filled the quiet of the cave, his gaze focusing on Alfred through the screen. “I was about to call the landline. Where’s Bruce?”

“Putting Richard to bed,” Alfred replied brusquely. “What do you want?”

Lucius raised a skeptical eyebrow but let the comment pass. “The computer found a match for the description Bruce gave me.”

An image popped up on the screen of a grainy CCTV still; the focus was on a man in a dark suit and hat heading into a restaurant in Gotham’s Little Italy district. It was accompanied by a smaller but much clearer image of a mugshot that was almost precisely the spitting image of the man Richard had described at the circus.

“Anthony ‘Tony’ Zucco,” Lucius said, naming the man on the screen. “Thirty-nine years old. Former foot soldier to the Maroni family. Did some time in Blackgate for armed robbery and a murder charge that was reduced to manslaughter. He got out early on good behavior. He’s spent the last seven years in Delaware. Resurfaced in Gotham a few weeks ago. I don’t have any specifics, but he’s been moving through Maroni’s territory uninhibited, so it’s a safe assumption he’s back in with the gang.”

“Or he never left,” Alfred murmured, pulling up his own file and scanning through it. “Maroni’s got reach in Delaware. Drugs mostly. Waste management, too, if I remember.”

“You’d know more than me,” Lucius said dryly. “I’m just the tech guy.”

Alfred snorted. “Yeah, and I just make the tea. What else have you got?”

“That’s it so far, but I thought you ought to know we had a name and a face. Now that we know he’s still in the city, I’ll ensure the network tracks his movements, though maybe Richard could confirm the likeness first. We don’t want to waste time on the wrong man.”

Alfred hummed thoughtfully. “We’ll see how he is in the morning. Rather not potentially show him the bugger who killed his parents right before we turn the lights out and send him to sleep.”

“No, I could see how that wouldn’t be kind,” Lucius agreed, his expressive mouth twisted into a dour line. “He’s a sweet kid. Smart too. Reminded me a lot of Bruce at that age.”

Alfred couldn’t help but smile. “You noticed it too?”

Lucius arched an eyebrow at him. “Hard not to. Although Bruce didn’t smile so much. Not after…”

He trailed off, but Alfred knew what he meant. “After Tommy and Martha died,” he finished for him, nodding sadly. “Yeah, I know.”

“You did your best,” Lucius said solemnly, and Alfred snorted.

“I didn’t ask.”

“No, but I’m telling you, anyway.”

Alfred nodded, not quite sure what to say to that. “You’ll let us know if you find anything else?” he asked instead.

Lucius nodded. “Always. Although the sooner you let Bruce get back to being the world’s greatest detective, the sooner I can get back to finishing his new suit. Deployable glider wings won’t build themselves, you know.”

“Oh, don’t they now?” Alfred asked with mock contrition, walking his fingers through the air. “And here was me thinking little elves delivered his gear in the night. Go on, hop it, you. Get back to your nano-whatsits and your gizmos.”

Lucius’s mouth twitched in a rueful smile. “Don’t you have dusting to do?”

Alfred flipped him off and closed the connection to the sound of Lucius’s dry laughter. He checked a couple more things while he was down here—making sure everything was in its place—then headed back up to the Manor at a brisk pace.

Stepping out from behind the bookcase, he was met with Richard’s delighted laughter echoing through the empty house. He smiled as he heard Bruce’s answering laugh, the sound easing something sharp and brittle in Alfred’s chest as he made his way through the Manor to collect Richard’s bags—along with the box of Clue—and climbed the stairs up to his room.

One,” he heard Bruce say sternly as he approached the end of the corridor where the bathroom door was ajar. “Richard, no. You don’t need—” There was a series of splashes, followed by Bruce’s weary sigh and Richard’s mischievous cackle.

Alfred decided he didn’t want to know, and pushed open the door to Richard’s room.

The space was much as it had been when Bruce was the same age: the walls painted in a pleasant eggshell blue, the furnishings themed to match, soothing and calm in theme for a small child—for all the good that had done. Bruce had been six the first time he’d wanted to look at the stars and decided the brass telescope in the corner would no longer suffice and climbed out the window above his bed in just his pajamas. Alfred had almost had a heart attack.

He could only pray that Richard, with his seeming propensity for scaling heights without a care, wouldn’t attempt a similar feat. At least not while Alfred was watching.

He busied himself with putting Richard’s clothes away in the dresser—pointedly removing the lavender sachets used to keep the empty drawers smelling fresh and moth-free—then turned to the task of stripping and remaking the bed with fresh linens.

Alfred hadn’t fussed too much about it last night, more focused on getting Richard safe and into bed than making sure he was clean, but the thought of letting him climb into a bed that smelled like the clothes he’d been given from the orphanage (mothballs tinged with the acrid scent of dry rot and sweat) didn’t sit right with him.

It’s the little things, said the ghostly voice of his mother, not as strong as it had been in the car, but definitely present at the forefront of his mind. You can fix the world with little acts of kindness…

Alfred wasn’t sure about that, but he’d learned over the years that trying didn’t hurt. As an afterthought, he went into the hallway to fetch another blanket from the linen closet—just in case Richard got cold later on—and promptly walked into his two charges.

“Good heavens,” Alfred exclaimed, looking down at Richard, who was swaddled in a cozy-looking blue bathrobe and absolutely covered in glitter, his golden-tan skin glowing with it. “That’s a lot of sparkle,” Alfred commented mildly.

“The whole box of bath bombs,” Bruce supplied ruefully, mussing a towel over Richard’s still-damp hair, which also glittered faintly in the hall light.

“Bat bombs,” the lad piped up instantly, attempting to swat Bruce’s hands away and running his hands through his hair until it stood on end.

Bruce sighed. “Bat bombs,” he corrected, sounding thoroughly resigned.

“Well,” Alfred said weakly as he envisioned the mess waiting for him in the bathroom. “At least we can say you’re sparkling clean. Come on, into bed with you, and here, take this with you.” He handed the heavy blanket to Bruce.

“My game—” Richard began, but Alfred cut him off with a placating hand.

“Is waiting for you at the foot of the bed. Do you want me to bring you up anything to eat or drink before you go to sleep?”

“Can I have some cereal bars like last night? Just in case.”

“All right. Oh, Bruce? If you’ve got a moment, the office called.”

“Oh,” Bruce said, feigning admirable surprise as though he hadn’t been riddled with curiosity since both of their watches went off, alerting them to a call on the supercomputer downstairs. He leaned down, handing Richard the blanket Alfred had just given him. “Why don’t you go set the board up? I’ll be right in.”

Richard dutifully bounced into his bedroom, clambering up onto the bed and latching onto the box of Clue with eager intent. Both men watched him for several seconds, then took a handful of steps away from his door.

“And?” Bruce asked, lowering his voice to a whisper.

“Lucius called,” Alfred replied, mirroring his tone. “That fancy surveillance network you two built found a facial match for the man you and Richard saw. Tony Zucco. Foot soldier for Maroni, like we thought. He’s still in Gotham, hiding out in Maroni’s turf in Little Italy—former convictions for armed robbery and murder. Lucius has got the network set up to notify us if he moves or goes anywhere. He suggested we get Richard to identify him, but I said we should wait until morning.”

Bruce nodded, tapping his bottom lip with his thumb, a hard glint entering his eyes. “So, he’s still in Gotham. That’s good. Well, for Batman. Not so good for Richard…”

“You think he’s waiting around to finish the job?” Alfred asked, following with dread where Bruce’s line of thinking had gone.

Usually, after a high-attention murder case like this, scum like Zucco would make themselves scarce for a bit. Lay low and let the fingerprint dust settle. That the gangster was still in the city and walking around in the open either meant he was stupid, or so openly unafraid of the police he knew they were on his side. Either way, his presence was a threat.

“I think it would be wise to assume so, don’t you?” Bruce asked, turning to look at Richard, the hard, glacial glint in his eyes melting into something soft and protective. “Maybe we should keep him home for the next few days. Limit movement around the city.”

“I’ll call Leslie,” Alfred said. “See if she can make a house call instead. Maybe take a walk and check the security perimeter before I turn in for the night, too.”

Bruce hummed thoughtfully and very politely, didn’t tell Alfred how pointless that would be.

They had some of the best security in the world surrounding the grounds of the Manor. A rabbit couldn’t so much as fart in the woodland to the far west of the estate without Bruce getting notified. But still, Alfred felt the need to stalk the grounds and make sure for himself, a long, ingrained instinct that would never settle within him, no matter how much security and technology they installed. Alfred was like a dog with a bone when it came to ensuring the safety of his people.

His lip twisted as he recalled the few times he’d accompanied Tommy to visit Carmine Falcone under the guise of doing business to gather information. The Roman had found Alfred’s presence endlessly entertaining: the Wayne’s tea-pouring guard dog, he’d called him, which wasn’t wrong. Simply annoying when it came from those smug lips.

We should get a dog, he thought suddenly, not sure where the thought came from, only knowing that it was right. A dog and a cat and…

“Hello?” Richard’s voice echoed through the empty hall from his bedroom, pulling Alfred out of whatever spiral of nonsense he’d been about to tumble down.

A dog, really? As though he didn’t have enough on his plate. Why not just get a cow while they were at it? Chickens too. Make the Manor totally self-reliant.

“Coming!” Bruce replied, smile slipping neatly into place as though he hadn’t just been scowling hard enough to burn through the floorboards. He raised an amused eyebrow at Alfred. “Time to solve murders with an eight-year-old, I guess.”

“Now you know how I felt,” Alfred replied, smiling at Bruce’s inelegant snort. “Here, before you go in.”

He reached for the bag he’d left out in the hallway and stooped down to retrieve the stuffed elephant from under the cover of several heavy sweaters.

“Her name is—”

“Zitka,” Bruce finished for him, accepting the toy with a quirk of a smile. “I remember. Thanks, Al. Sure you don’t want to give it to him yourself?”

Alfred held his hands up. “He’s your orphan, sunshine.”

Bruce hummed and gave him a skeptical look. “You’re an old softie; you know that, don’t you?”

“Say that again the next time I box your ears in training.”

Bruce snorted, shaking his head. With one last fond look at the old butler, Bruce turned toward Richard’s room, the elephant hidden behind his back. “Oh, good job, you’ve got all the pieces set up. Is that notepad for me?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Is there a third pen in there? Only I think someone else might want to join in.”

Alfred leaned around the door just in time to see the look of delighted shock break over Richard’s face as Bruce revealed the stuffed elephant behind his back. “I am told her name is Zitka.”

Richard stared, looking between the elephant and Bruce like it was some sort of magic trick, then reached out to take it in both arms, squeezing it tight against his chest, eyes shining with bright, unshed tears.

Alfred walked away before he could hear anything else that was said. For privacy's sake, of course.

It certainly wasn’t because his own eyes were watering…

Notes:

Hey, long time no see. Sorry for the prolonged absence. If you’re following me on Tumblr you likely already know, but I’ve been a bit too Symptomatic to edit.

Turns out the body/brain can’t function so good when your ferritin levels are in single digits 🫠
I’ve got an appointment with hematology in December to hopefully give me some relief but also figure out why this keeps happening. I’d like answers if I can get them, but I’ll take solutions if that’s all they can offer.

Anyway. Hope you enjoyed this filler fluff with a bit of plot shoe-horned in. Bonus points to anyone in the comments who can spot the comic and video game Easter eggs 💖

Hopefully I’ll be back sooner with the next update. Wish me luck at hematology ✌️