FIC: White Knight

[mithen]

Title: White Knight
Pairing/Characters: Alfred Pennyworth, Bruce Wayne, Martha Wayne, Thomas Wayne
Notes:  A slightly belated birthday gift for icarus_chained , who inspires my Alfred!muse!
Rating: G
Word Count: 3500
Summary: Alfred Pennyworth takes a temporary break from his job in the British Secret Service to fulfill his father's contract.

The streets of London were foggy, which was of course a cliche, but one of which Alfred Pennyworth was unaccountably fond.  He found his footsteps leading him back toward the office as he rambled, and sternly forced himself to turn his steps homeward instead.  The last time he had wandered in "just to check how things were going" he had been sent away with a stern reprimand.  He missed work, he admitted it, and that he was recovering from a slight case of...enhanced interrogation and a bullet-wound to the shoulder weren't good enough reasons to stay away.

That his cover had been blown was a rather good reason.  And so he found himself on involuntary leave to give him time to recover and the Service to establish a new cover for him.

He found the telegram on the door of his flat as he let himself in.  Somehow he knew what it was going to say, and he poured himself a glass of scotch before opening it. 

His father was dead.  Alfred took a long sip of scotch.  Well, this was no surprise.  He had received a letter from Jarvis Pennyworth a few months ago that alluded, in his father's usual stilted and elliptical way, to the possibility.  The letter had asked--in the usual stilted and elliptical way--Alfred to come to America and see him one last time.

There had been work to do, a major debriefing to manage at headquarters.  And then the Kiev mission.  No time.

And now his father was dead.  Alfred took another sip, feeling the burn in his throat, behind his eyes, warm and reassuring.  There would be loose ends to tie up, arrangements to be made.  And then his life would go on as it had before.

: : :

"What?" Alfred knew his voice was raised above what it should be, but he couldn't help it.  "That's preposterous.  My father did no such thing."

"I'm afraid so, Mr. Pennyworth."  The solicitor's voice on the other end of the line was tinny but firm.  "Your father felt deep regret that he would not be able to finish his contract with the Waynes.  His will stipulates, in the most definite of terms, that if you wish to see a penny of his estate, you must complete the contract, of which three months remain."

Alfred opened his mouth to argue, to protest.  There was no way this could be legal--

"He said to tell you that it was his last duty, and it falls to you to fulfill it in his stead."

Alfred stiffened, winced.  That word again.  Duty.  Ever since he was a child it had been the circumference of his father's life, the lash with which he had driven himself and his children.

Driven them away and driven himself to America.  And now his father was dead.

Alfred opened his mouth to say No, by no means, I have no need at all for my father's legacy.

"Give me a day to make arrangements, I shall be there soon," he heard himself say.

He put down the receiver with a clang that sounded like prison doors shutting.

: : :

Martha Wayne's eyes were red as she put out a gloved hand for Alfred to shake.  "I'm so sorry," she murmured.

Alfred suppressed an undignified urge to shrug.  "Thank you," he said instead.

"My husband is at work, but I can show you around the place," Martha said.  "Your father was such a godsend," she continued as she ushered him through the opulent dining room and toward the kitchen.  "I don't know what we would have done without him.  He kept everything running so well..."

It probably wasn't meant as a rebuke or condemnation, but Alfred felt his jaw set.  "I assure you, madam, that I have been well-trained in how to run a household.  You will see no decrease in quality in the remaining three months."

"Oh dear."  Martha looked appalled, and Alfred immediately felt a pang of guilt.  "I have no doubts about that.  Jarvis always used to say that Pennyworth was the most reliable name in the world, and I never had any reason to doubt it."

They were at the kitchen doors before Alfred could respond;  Martha swung them open and stepped inside, where a tall woman in an apron was washing dishes. 

"Antonia, this is Alfred, Jervis's son.  He'll be with us for the next three months while we look for a new butler.  Alfred, this is Antonia Goodman, our head cook."

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Goodman," said Alfred with a slight bow, and the woman put a hand to her mouth in something close to a simper.

"Oh my, call me Antonia.  We'll be working together a lot, after all."  Antonia eyed his face, tilting her head to the side.  "Yes, you do look a lot like your father," she said.

"Thank you," Alfred said, quelling a stab of irritation.

The doors behind them swung open.  "'Tonia, may I have some milk, please?" said a small voice with a hint of a lisp.

Antonia's face went just a bit stiff.  "Of course, Master Bruce," she said.

"And this is my little Bee!" said Martha Wayne.  "Bruce, this is Jarvis's son, Alfred.  He's going to be with us for a little while."

The little boy, no more than four at the most, looked up at Alfred from under unruly black bangs.  His eyes were a strikingly dark blue, his eyebrows steady dark lines that made him look more solemn than such a young child should.

"Bruce, where are your manners?" asked Martha.  "Say hello to Alfred."

"Hello, Alfred," said Bruce.  The slight lisp made his name sound slightly like "Owfed."  He extended his hand gravely and Alfred stared at it for a moment before he realized he was expected to shake it.  He bent down to take it.

"It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Master Bruce," said Alfred.

The boy considered the statement for a while, then nodded.  Turning to his mother, he asked, "Will you read me another chapter of Robin Hood tonight?"

Martha bent down and kissed his cheek.  "Of course, Bee.  Run along and finish your milk, then brush your teeth and get in your jammies."

Antonia handed him a glass of milk and the boy left the kitchen, cradling it cautiously.

: : :

"That boy's a strange one," Antonia announced later, after the tour of the Manor was done and Martha had gone upstairs to read to Bruce.  "He gives me the creeps, actually."  She placed a cup of tea in front of Alfred.  Alfred had watched her tea-making process with some horror, but swallowed his pride and her tea with equal difficulty.

"Does he make a lot of trouble?"  Alfred cringed inwardly at the idea of three months having to deal with some hellion placing booby traps and throwing temper tantrums.

"Trouble?  Naw," Antonia waved her hand dismissively.  "I might like him better if he did.  Be a more normal little kid, then."  She took a long, slurping sip of tea.  "No, he's just an eerie little thing.  Plays by himself for hours on end, asks the oddest questions.  Sits and watches people."  She shuddered, then caught Alfred's small smile.  "You'll see," she said, pointing at him, "He's a spooky child."

Far off the front door slammed.  "That'll be Mister Wayne coming home," said Antonia.  "He's back early tonight."

Alfred looked at the clock:  nine o'clock.  "A workaholic?"

"That's an understatement."

"I suffer from that a bit myself.  I was told I had to take some time off, rest up a little."  He stood;  Mrs. Wayne would certainly be calling him to meet Mister Wayne soon.

Antonia laughed, a loud, horsey sound.  "Butlering's no rest!  What'd you do, crack up at work?"

"Actually, I got shot in the shoulder in Kiev and ended up being nursed back to health by a beautiful and mysterious lady with hair like flame," he said over his shoulder as he left, just to make her laugh again.

: : :

As it turned out, butlering was challenging work;  less dangerous than being in Her Majesty's Secret Service, but nearly as busy.  Alfred found himself surprisingly proud that he kept the household running as smoothly as ever his father did;  after three weeks Martha declared herself "much, much more than satisfied." 

"It's a shame we'll have to replace you when your time is up," she said, with a slightly imploring tone in her voice which Alfred ignored. 

As Antonia had predicted, young Master Bruce was no trouble at all;  Alfred rarely even saw the boy.  He was given free run of the household, but seemed to spend most of his time out in the gardens, studying ants and butterflies with a gravely intent face as his mother sat nearby, embroidering.  When he was indoors, he could usually be found with a picture book about Robin Hood or King Arthur, staring at the illustrations and tracing them with his fingers.

After a month came Alfred's first test by fire:  the first party thrown at the Waynes under his tenure.  He straightened his bow tie in the hallway mirror.  Everything was in place, the glass and crystal were immaculate, and he had personally overseen the wine selection and the preparation of the hors d'oevres.  He was nervous, he had to admit to himself.  Nervous and excited.  He couldn't help but scoff at the idea;  he had infiltrated a nuclear power facility in Siberia, surely overseeing a party was no comparison!

The doorbell rang and Alfred nearly jumped.  After looking around to make sure no one caught him in the embarrassing slip, he went to the door--dignified and unruffled.  He smiled at the first guests, their faces well-known to him through studying photographs.  "Mr. and Mrs. Kane, good evening," he said as he ushered them into the ballroom to be announced.

The party was going well, he noted later as he made a pass through the room, checking on the state of the guests.  The plates of food were refreshed, there were no spills, no one seemed unpleasantly inebriated--

"Isn't he just the cutest little tyke?"

Alfred turned to see young Master Bruce caught between two Gotham matrons who were cooing over him.  He was smiling politely, but his eyes looked a bit frantic.  One of the women pinched his cheek.  "What do you want to be when you grow up, cutie?"

"I--"  Bruce seemed to be seriously considering the question, but before he could answer the other woman broke in.

"It must be fun, living in this big, beautiful house," she announced with a sweep of her arm.

"It's...it's quiet," Bruce said.

"Awww, the poor widdle boy!  He must be so lonely!"  The first patron clasped her hands together dramatically, then called to a friend with a voice that could cut glass.  "Agnes, come over here and meet the little prince, he's just to die for!"

As Agnes came over, Bruce suddenly shot Alfred an unmistakably imploring look.  The smile was back on his face as he said "Hello, Mrs. Patterson," but Alfred found himself stepping forward.

"May I inquire if all is going well, ladies?"  The women squinted at him as if the furniture had started talking.  "Would you like some more escargots?  Perhaps a little more wine?  And is the fois gras to your taste?"

By the time he had finished being solicitous, Bruce was nowhere to be found.

"Ah, Alfred," said Thomas Wayne about an hour later, waving him over from the corner.  "I'd like to show Mr. Page that Egyptian paperweight I got in Cairo;  it's on my desk in the library.  Would you get it for me?"

Alfred climbed the thickly-carpeted stairs to the second floor and pushed open the door to the library.  As it swung open, he heard a small voice whispering to itself.  "Galahad to the left, Percival to the right," it said.  "Robin and Little John forward two, next to Ace."
 
After a moment's survey of the room, Alfred located Bruce under the mahogany desk, sitting with a chess board in front of him.  Alfred felt a brief shock--the child was precocious, but surely not able to play chess--until he realized the pieces weren't arranged in anything like a normal game.  They were scattered in patterns about the board, idiosyncratic groupings and lines.

Bruce was blinking up from the dimness beneath the desk with owlish eyes.  "I'm sorry to interrupt you, Master Bruce," said Alfred.

"It's okay," Bruce said.  "I was just playing.  Father lets me play with this one sometimes."  He looked down at the chessboard and moved one of the black bishops--a man in robes--one space to the right.  "Edward one space more," he whispered.

"His name is Edward?" Alfred asked.

Bruce bit his lip, looking down at the board.  "Yes," he said after a minute.  "This one is Edward, he's a prince.  His brother is John," he said, touching the other black bishop.  "This one is Mordred," he said, touching the black king.  "He can go anywhere on the board unless one of the white princes is next to him, then he's trapped."

"I see."

"This is Percival," he said, indicating a white knight, a man on horseback.  "Percival protects the little boys.  Like this one," he said, holding up a white pawn.  "This one is Scar."

Alfred frowned.  "You can't give the pawns names;  they're all the same."  He wanted to kick himself once he'd said it:  contradicting the employer's son, that was brilliant.  He wouldn't even last the three months. 

Bruce's eyes blazed with sudden intensity.  "That's not true," he said.  He held the little wooden pawn up.  "See, Scar has a cut on his neck," he said, pointing to the little page's carved neck.  Indeed, there was a small scratch there.  "And Robin has a stripey patch on his shield, and Ace has this little knot on his back," he said.  "They're all different.  See?"

And Alfred did see.  "You're absolutely right, Master Bruce," he said.

Bruce cast him a sidelong glance.  He touched the white king.  "This one is Father," he said softly.  He put the white queen two spaces over from the king, leaving an empty space between them.  "This is Mother."  A pawn in between them.  "This one is Bruce."  Carefully, he put the knight he called Percival in front of the little pawn.  "To keep him safe," he said.  He moved a couple of other pieces around the board in patterns that didn't seem random.  "Thank you for earlier," he said.

"Oh dear," Alfred said suddenly, standing up.  "I need to get something to your father."  He picked up the paperweight and headed for the door. 

"Are you going to tell them that I'm here?"

Alfred turned at the door and bowed slightly.  "Your secret is safe with me, Master Bruce."

The boy smiled, a slow, deep smile that transformed all the solemnity of his expression into light.  "Thank you, Alfred."

: : :

After that night, Bruce took to following Alfred around sometimes, watching him work, sometimes scribbling on spare pieces of paper.  "Doesn't it creep you out, having him around?" Antonia asked, but Alfred found his presence no bother at all.  The silence between them was profound and polite, the respectful distance of two people who knew how to give each other space.

"I like to be here when my head is all buzzy," Bruce said without preamble one day, sitting on the floor while Alfred calculated the household expenses. 

"Buzzy?"

"Mother calls me her Little Bee, but sometimes the inside of my head gets all buzzy and I can't think.  Like there's lots of bees in there, and I have to go somewhere quiet so they'll go back to sleep a little."  Bruce drew thick blue lines on a piece of paper, his tongue sticking out just a bit.  "Then the bees feel better and I feel better too."  Bruce looked up at Alfred.  "Do you ever get things like bees in your head, Alfred?"

Alfred rested his chin on his hand for a second.  "I suppose you could say that."

"I don't feel buzzy when I'm here," Bruce said, and went back to work.

So did Alfred.

: : :

The solicitor handed Alfred a small envelope and slid a larger box across the desk.  "Your father's contract isn't officially up until Monday, at which point we will deposit his assets in your bank account, but I see no reason not to give you his personal effects."

Alfred opened the envelope.  A scattering of photographs:  Alfred and his brother in ridiculous bathing suits, Alfred's mother serene and smiling with a baby in her arms.  He tilted the envelope further and a wedding ring fell out, one side of it thinned nearly to breaking by years on his father's finger.  Alfred turned the gold band around in his fingers, watching it catch the light.

"You were a pretty baby," the solicitor said jocularly, indicating the photo of his mother.

"That isn't me, it's my brother Wilfred.  Mother died soon after he was born.  I was seven."

"I'm sorry to hear that," said the solicitor in evident discomfort.

Alfred forced himself to smile through the flood of memories:  sitting at his mother's bedside, holding her hand, waiting for his father to come.  His father who was always too busy.  Too busy serving another family, fetching another family's cleaning, organizing another family's household.  "It was a long time ago," he said.

"I'm sorry you didn't make it here in time to see your Dad before he passed," said the other man.

He had sworn he would be no one's menial, serve no spoiled and wealthy family.  He had thrown himself into service to his country instead.  Bullets instead of butlering.  He had said it was because his life would be as exciting as his fathers' life was tedious.

Yet in the mundane details of running Wayne Manor, after months of keeping it humming and active, he felt more satisfaction than in all the spy games he had played for the last decade.

In the end, it was all duty.  Duty to country, to family, to a boy with thoughts buzzing in his head. 

Duty--impossible thought!--to himself.

"I'm sorry too," he said, and realized for the first time that he meant it.

"Well," said the solicitor, "At least you're finally done and completed your duty.  You're free."

Alfred held the worn band of gold and stared at him.

: : :

Martha Wayne was writing thank-you cards at her little desk in the study, Bruce on the floor nearby, playing with his chess set.  "What is it, Alfred?" she asked without looking up.

"Well, madam, the fact of the matter is..."  Alfred clasped his hands behind his back.  "The fact of the matter is that my father's contract expires Monday."

Martha sighed.  "Yes, Thomas and I still have to decide between Mr. Chester and Mr. Sherwin.  I lean toward Mr. Sherwin, but Thomas--"

"Madam," said Alfred.  He took a deep breath.  "Madam, I was wondering if you would be interested in having me take the job on a permanent basis."

Martha dropped her pen.  On the floor, Bruce had gone very still, holding one of his knights.  "Oh Alfred," Martha cried, leaping to her feet.  "Would you--I mean, can you--"

Alfred bowed slightly, in part to forestall the alarming possibility that she might hug him.  "I believe my leave from work in England can be continued indefinitely."  He had told them he needed another year, but he already knew he wouldn't be back.

Martha just shook her head, beaming.  "That's such wonderful news!  Isn't that wonderful news, Bruce?"

Bruce looked up from his chess piece.  He didn't smile, but his eyes were shining.  "Yes," he said simply, then dropped his gaze back to the chess board.

"Oh dear, don't mind Bruce, he's such a little sourpuss sometimes," said Martha, laughing.  "I love him dearly, but he's my odd Little Bee, aren't you, Bruce?"

"I don't mind him," said Alfred.  "I'll just be getting back to work then, madam."

: : :

Later that night, Alfred found Bruce in front of the fireplace, staring at the patterns of the pieces, moving them and whispering to himself, making up stories about Robin Hood and Arthur and little Bruce, fighting Mordred's army.  He looked up as Alfred entered the room, gave him a brief smile, and went back to playing.

There was a piece missing;  Alfred located it by Bruce's elbow:  the white knight.  "You've left Percival off," said Alfred, handing the knight to the boy.

"Not Percival," said Bruce.

"Oh, I'm sorry.  Is that Galahad?"

"No, I mean I changed his name."  Bruce took the little knight away from Alfred and put it on the board, between one of the pawns and the massed army of dark pieces, his sword brandished high.

"What's his new name?"

Bruce moved the pawn to stand beside the knight.  "Alfred," he said quietly.

He looked up then, unsmiling, oddly vulnerable.  "Is that okay?" he asked.

Alfred reached down and rested his hand on the dark head for a brief moment. 

"Just fine," he said.

---

Afternotes:  Alfred's adventure in Kiev is a reference to icarus_chained 's "True Deceptions" series.  Martha's nickname for Bruce is from arch_schatten 's story "Little Bee's Adventures in Outer Space."  Both are highly recommended!

Comments

[mithen.livejournal.com]

icarus_chained writes some of the best Alfred with young Bruce scenes around! She inspires me greatly...I'm glad you liked the result!