𝐏𝐄𝐍𝐍𝐘𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐓𝐇

"That's not possible," Bruce said, shaking his head. He loosened his tie, fumbled at the buttons of his shirt. But his eyes met his friend's, his oldest and dearest confidant, the one person who truly knew him -- the one person he would always trust, with everything. Alfred was no fool. And Alfred would never lie to him, certainly not about something like this. He would say it if he was sure. "We should verify it," Bruce said after a moment. He shucked off his jacket and tossed it on a chair as he walked into the study. "Did he touch anything in the house? We can check the fingerprints." He set a hand on the desk, just his fingertips touching the wood. Just barely, but enough to keep him steady while the world rocked under him. He stared over at an empty, unlit fireplace. Impeccably clean and gleaming black spikes. No wood stacked in it, just an empty hole. A darkness that Bruce felt all too familiar with.

"I felt him die, Alfred. I felt the warmth leave his body. If this isn't him -- if it's some trick or trap, I.... I don't know what I'll do." He smirked, and plucked a tablet off his desk. Flicked through a few screens to call up the surveillance system. "But it won't be pretty. It might even be decidedly ugly." His eyes met Alfred's. There were so many half-strung together questions in his mind, but he couldn't detangle them all. Couldn't begin to understand it. So he pushed it down, down and away. "Why don't you start at the beginning and tell me everything?"

That's not possible. Alfred laughed a hollow laugh. "Sir, anything is possible in Gotham," he replied. He met Bruce's gaze, and could fancy he saw the professional mask flicker just for a second. They both wore masks, though Bruce's was more literal most of the time. Alfred knew it. Thomas Wayne had known it. He knew the man Alfred had been, before, back in London. All the yes sir and Master so-and-so and the pocket handkerchief and the pressed suit stuff was part of his own mask. A mixture of things he'd learned in the army, and things he'd picked up from growing up in Whitechapel, rubbing shoulders with men who were just passing through on their commute to London proper.

Bruce said they should verify it, and immediately headed for the study. Alfred followed. "I made him a cuppa," he replied. "I left the mug in the sink." He wasn't surprised Bruce wanted to check. He'd meant what he'd said, that anything was possible in this city, but he also knew from experience that things like this were usually too good to be true. Bruce put a hand on the desk to steady himself, but Alfred didn't go to his side. He knew it wasn't what Master Wayne needed. He needed distance, to think this through. He knew he would have been doing exactly the same thing, had he not seen and held Jason for himself.

"For what it's worth, I don't think it's a trick," he replied, seriously. "I couldn't believe it either, but I was as close to him as I am to you now. I drove the lad here. I talked to him --" He cut himself off, knowing he needed to explain what had happened from the beginning, as Bruce had asked. He sighed, paused, gathered his thoughts, and spoke again.

She let go of his hand. “Oh?” she said, as though the movements of Bruce Wayne actually interested her. “I hope he’s finding time to enjoy himself, at least. I assume he still works as hard as ever.” Another brief smile. She gave the plants another gentle caress, smiling with far more genuine warm as she watched them turn, so incrementally it could be from the hint of a breeze, toward her. “Oh, I work at the botanical gardens now,” she said. “They support my research.”

"When we were kids, it was a new city every week... but the same ol' fair grounds." He said, pulling back a bit and standing up straight. Placing his hands behind his back in a mocking position. Meeting Alfred's eyes as well as his pose. "Even with a dozen tents, trailers and giant cages for the elephants, you tend to feel like your world's a little small. I'm glad Dick ended up somewhere... bigger... And so regal and fancy. Now why would someone run away from a place like this?" He posed the question thoughtfully.

"Consider me offended." Jeremiah replied after a moment, "I understand the stares. I do... but Jerome slaughtered police on live television. He's a lunatic... and I will not be compared to him. You're not giving me much of a chance and we both know if I gave you my number, you would not forward it along to my friend. Could you take out your phone, Mr. Pennyworth? Surely you have Dick's number... you can just airdrop me the contact. It's either this, or I come in and wait however long I need to; to speak with Bruce."

When Jeremiah moved away a little, and copied his posture, Alfred could tell he was taking the mick. He wondered aloud why Dick would run away, and Alfred glared at him. "No offence, mate," he said. "But that's none of your business. Old friend of Master Grayson's or not, I don't know you from Adam." With every word out of Jeremiah's mouth, Alfred's suspicions and dislike only grew. Far from telling Dick his old friend had dropped by, he was now planning to warn the boy away. What Dick did was none of his business anymore, but he couldn't shake his paternal instinct.

At last, Jeremiah asked him to take out his phone and give him Dick's number. It's either this, or I come in and wait however long I need to. Alfred knew a threat when he heard one, and he half wanted to tell the boy to try it. It would have been stupidly unprofessional, and he couldn't even understand why he was so angry. It wasn't just that the lad looked like Jerome -- though that had started it. His pushy demeanour, his insistence, his mocking stance, all rubbed Alfred up the wrong way. He met the boy's gaze, and considered telling him to just try to get into Wayne Manor. But it lasted for only a split second. He was considering decking a teenager? Bloody hell. He put it down to the stress of seeing Jason again, and pushed the feelings aside.

So. This is fine, actually. At least in regards to his plans continuing the way they should. He can have tea with Alfred and crawl back into one of his safe houses without compromising anything. He's not sure what Alfred is expecting from him. He'll probably be quickly disappointed, regardless. Nothing can go back to the way it used to be.

He still considers bolting here and now. He shoves the feeling down, and manages a lopsided smile as he climbs into the car. "...Thanks. Sounds good, Alf."

"Pull yourself together, mate," he muttered to himself. "Time and place." He sniffed once, and walked around the car to the driver's side, got in, and pulled away from the pavement. Jason didn't say anything as they drove off, and Alfred decided not to break the silence. The lad clearly needed to think. He held in the countless questions he had, about where Jason had been, what had happened to him, why he hadn't come home. It could wait.

They spent the ride in silence. Alfred didn't put on the radio, or make conversation. He could sit in silence for hours. The army had taught him that. When they drove up to the gates of Wayne Manor, Alfred rolled down his window and typed in the code to open the gates. They whirred to life and slid smoothly open, and Alfred drove down the long path towards the house, trying not to think about the last time he'd done this with Jason in the back of the car. How he hadn't known, then, that it would be the last time. Until now.

"All in all, it was a successful venture, and Wayne Enterprises looks forward to collaboration with other major Metropolis businesses in the future. I think that's all the shareholders wanted me to say." The reporters laughed, and Bruce smiled at the cameras the way he had practiced all his life. Then he held up a hand. "Thanks everyone, but I've really got to go. I've got a lot of work left to do at home -- like sleep." It wasn't, strictly speaking, a lie. But most everything else he said was, along with the casual grin and wave of his hand as he strode inside Wayne Manor.

Inside, his demeanor changed. Once the door shut, his face grew stony, unreadable. His posture straightened, he cracked his neck. The vapid gleam left his eye, replaced with a brooding look. He had planned to find Tim first, a quick check-in before he went down to the Bat Cave to get the scope of what he'd missed while away -- but the look on Alfred's face made him pause. "What happened?" he asked simply. "Is everyone okay?"

Alfred waited for Bruce to return from the press conference, standing to attention in the lobby of the manor, letting the loathing and grief and fury eat him. He deserved it, didn't he? Just because the lad wasn't dead, that didn't undo what had happened to him. When Bruce finally walked through the door, Alfred knew he didn't need to say anything for the other man to see something was wrong. It was written all over his face.

"Valeska." He said plainly. "But you knew that. Didn't you?" He dipped his head a bit, staring at him over the frames of his glasses, unblinking. "You look at me and you see that lunatic. Jerome. I must say, as much as I take great offence, I do understand. I'm his spitting image. Or maybe he's mine." Jeremiah said with a bit of a smile. "Dick's not just my acquaintance. He's my dear friend. We met when we were children, back when we both lived in Haley's Circus. You don't know me because after I fled the circus in fear of my brother murdering me, I directly went into hiding. Regretfully, I didn't have it in me until now to check back up on Dick. I'd like to get close to him again. Perhaps you could give me his new address?"

The boy kept talking, explaining that he knew Dick from before Dick was orphaned. Said he went into hiding because Jerome had threatened to kill him. From what Alfred knew of Jerome, that was likely, but he couldn't muster up any sympathy. The alarm bells were still ringing. When the boy had finally finished talking, ending by asking for Dick's new address, Alfred replied. "I'm afraid I don't have it. He didn't leave a forwarding address. Left in a bit of a hurry, y'see."

“Doctor,” she corrected without hesitation, straightening up from her attentive hunch over the wildflowers. “I remember.” She shook his hand, though her grip was light and perfunctory. Pam brushed a strand of copper hair out of her eyes, looking over at him. “How is Master Wayne?” she said, though her tone was a little dry. She hadn’t forgotten Bruce’s response to her attempt to boost advertising revenue at Wayne Enterprises.

Alfred could have sworn the flower responded to Pamela's touch. It seemed to turn more vivid. The sun was terribly bright, though, so it was probably a trick of the light. He turned away from it when she corrected him, and straightened up a little. It sounded like she was scolding him.

Tim stuffed the rest of the yellow fabric into his backpack and swiftly moved past Alfred towards the kitchen and to the coffee maker. "Do you think he'd mind if I used the Bat Computer for a bit?" He asked.

T did warn him, didn't she? He's such a fucking idiot.

"I—"

I'm not the kid you knew me as. Not anymore. He's still buried under the ground along with the rest of the magic that used to make Robin something special. I've done things I know you'll hate to hear. You'll hate me for not being that same little boy. Hate me for not regretting the things I do now.

Jason agreed to get out of the rain, and Alfred nodded. "Right you are, Master Jason," he said gently. "Wayne Manor it is. Come along." He placed his hand on Jason's arm, this time carefully, and guided him down the street towards the waiting car. He didn't say anything else, just walked, keeping his hand gently on the boy's arm as he did so, mostly to reassure himself that Jason was really here.

"I'm here for Dick Grayson." He told the butler. "Where is he? I want to speak with him."

It wasn't supposed to be like this. His throat clicks as he forces himself to look at Alfred. Horrid scars across his face, the shock of white hair in his bangs, the unnatural gleam of his eyes in the low-light. It's a struggle, not to panic.

Talia was right. He can't do this.

He should've just quietly slipped into Arkham, slit the clown's throat, and slipped out before anyone would see the body come morning. He should've just let Talia do it herself. There is a part of him regretting not taking her up on that offer, once again.

"You—" He starts, stops, looks around instead. Anywhere but at the man in front of him. "Youse goin' senile on me, old man? I know we must all look the same to you white folk, but that ain't me. Ain't that the little orphan Annie that's worm dirt 'bout now?"

He hates this. Hates the look on Alfred's face, the way the old man's voice sounds right now. Hates how he's frozen in place with his heart in his throat. Hates the sound of his own voice especially. He scowls, bares his teeth like a dog. Maybe he'll bite.

He won't. But the violent impulse to snap his teeth presses insistently at the forefront.

The boy accused him of going senile, said that Jason Todd was worm dirt, and Alfred stared at him. He was putting on a voice, but beneath it, it was Jason. Plain as day. Why would the boy try to deny it? He was looking right at him. Jason bared his teeth, but Alfred still didn't let go of his arm. He wanted to pull the lad into a hug, to hold him close and apologise over and over again, but he knew he couldn't. Whatever the lad had been through -- whatever had happened to him after the Joker had beaten him to death -- must have been horrific. The boy wasn't ready for that kind of closeness. The only reason he wasn't letting go of him was to keep him from running.

"What happened to you, Jason?" he asked softly, ignoring the boy's pointless denials. "You died, son. I buried you --" He cut himself off, his voice breaking. The boy didn't need that right now. What he needed, what he'd always needed, was a father. Alfred had failed to be that. He'd let the lad die. He'd let him die. The enormity of it had weighed on him every single day since then. He thought about Jason every time he saw Master Drake don his own Robin suit, every time he heard the lad had been out on a mission and come back successfully, every time he looked at the empty seat at the huge dining room table that used to be Jason's. No one sat there anymore. Alfred wouldn't let them. A day hadn't gone by when he didn't think about Jason. Of course it didn't.

spotting wayne enterprises chief billionaire’s butler was something of a twist of fate. it hadn’t been long since penguin had crashed mr. wayne’s charity ball - after all, the owner of the most nightclubs in gotham should make an appearance, and with coin to spare. he can tell by the other’s demeanour that his presence is unwelcome - but alas, the bar alfred sits at holds the alcohol, and the alcohol holds a semblance of pain relief. penguin mirrors that tight smile, head tilting just slightly with the full stop at the bar, weight leaning onto his walking-stick. “ fancy seeing me here, indeed, ” he chuckles, the laughter false. “ i would tell you that consuming what one intends to sell is antithetical, and therefore i don’t, but i would be lying. ”