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eupheme · 2 years

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Penny For Your Thoughts | Part 9 - Resilient

masterlist

Alfred Pennyworth x F!Reader

Rated E - 8.6k words

Tags: plot heavy, canon-typical violence/injury, depictions of a fictional flood (along with emotional/physical/structural damage as seen in The Batman), anxiety/worry, mentions food, and lots of found family moments

Summary: The final riddle, some hard decisions, and a glimpse of a bright, shining future.

The danger is finally over.

Alfred's vital signs have stayed level, his body slowly healing in the days since he's woken up. The thudding panic slowly ebbs from you - replaced with a tentative, hopeful relief.

A new sort of routine starts to settle in. You spend the day with him when you can, when he's not meeting with the doctors, doing physical therapy, or sleeping - his schedule somewhat erratic with the medications. Bringing more books, old movies from home. You’ve gotten good at fitting on the hospital bed together.

Sometimes, you play cards - sitting knee-to-knee, his back propped up against the upright angle of the mattress. Passing the time quietly together, trying to keep his mind off of everything.

Other times, the bright overhead light is turned down low, your ear pressed against his chest as you listen to the steady thud of his heart.

It’s then that he opens up, the snug lid cracking open at the seam - small bits of him spilling forth for you to catch with cupped hands.

Never a full recount, but more like small moments, carefully strung together. The words coming slowly sometimes, as if he’s afraid that they will be too much. The last straw.

But you don’t see them that way. To you, it’s like part of a photo finally coming into focus. One that you long to memorize, to know by heart.

He tells you of his childhood, the briefest mentions of his parents.

When he had enlisted.

When he had met them.

When he had moved into the Tower.

It’s there that the beginnings of the stories start to fade - memories that are pleasant in his heart, but make his throat go tight when he tries to speak them out loud.

There aren’t words you can say that would be of comfort. That’s something you thought about, figured out on your own.

He had loved them. He still did. Thomas. Martha. They had been his family. Bruce still was - and for a long time, all they had was each other.

The memory another scarred wound - days passing where it was bearable, then becoming a dull ache when the weather turned cold. Never forgotten, not completely.

What could you possibly say to ease that pain?

So instead, your grip tightens around him - sending a silent message.

You’re not going anywhere.

———

As the days start to tick by, you can tell Alfred doesn't take any pleasure in being so idle. Irritation prickling in his words and expression when he's told that all he should be doing is resting, and not trying to get you or Bruce to let him check his emails, to log into work.

At the Tower, you've gotten better at keeping track of some of the things he does. Dory is still on leave, so the general level of cleanliness is lacking just a bit - though honestly you don’t have the energy for that. But, the refrigerator is no longer sparse, nothing is at risk of being overdue.

But even though things have started to mend, it's impossible to forget what happened.

You're there with him when the GCPD come to talk to Alfred, asking him questions about that night. Filling in more details about their case against the Riddler, the serial killer unmasked under the name of Edward Nashton.

The coverage you’ve read says he was a forensic accountant.

Just a man.

It’s hard for you to understand how someone could stomach doing all the things he did, even if in some sick way he thought he was right. But you’re not going to even think about trying to empathizing with someone who hurt Alfred the way he did.

You’re glad he’s behind bars.

The afternoon is carefully arranged. Bruce is intentionally absent, not wanting to come into close contact with anyone from the station. You were given the option to wait outside, if that made you more comfortable.

But you wanted to be there.

Tucked in the corner as Alfred detailed what he remembered. The package, the address, the stamps. The weight and smell of it as it was unwrapped. The bright, blinking light. The note left behind, for The Batman - a photocopy shown because Alfred had never opened the fireproof envelope.

The dripping, white letters - SEE YOU IN HELL. It sticks with you, unease prickling when you think about the message.

All of his answers are answered carefully - privately rehearsed to careful perfection. With his military history, his knowledge of the C4 was not questioned. Every detail is written down, recorded dutifully by one of the officers.

It makes your stomach turn, to hear his account. Trying not to picture it, the guilt still gnawing at you.

The time seems to pass slowly, though they are not there long. Lt. Jim Gordon - who seemed kind, you understand why Bruce likes him - gives Alfred a sad smile as they wrap up.

“Thank you, Mr. Pennyworth. We appreciate your cooperation, and if there’s anything we can do for you, please let me know.”

Leaving a business card with him. His tone speaks with a silent apology, though he can’t give one.

Sympathetic. A good man, you think.

Afterwards, you curl into him. A mark settling between your eyebrows as a movie plays in the background, worry making your lips curl downward. Fingers twining with his as your cheek presses into the meat of his shoulder.

"Are you feeling okay?" You ask him, into the silence, “I’m so sorry you had to go through it all again. I am sure that was so difficult.”

A pause, you considering the words before adding, "I should have-"

"Please, love." He cuts you off, an edge to his voice. "Don't. I know what you're going to say."

His words leave you blinking, head tilting up to see his face. Where his own expression is resolute.

"I have my regrets about that night, but the only thing I am truly thankful for is that neither you nor Bruce were there."

That has you pushing yourself up, your torso twisting toward him, "How can you say that? I've been so scared-"

Scared for his life.

And then later - scared that maybe he just might run, leaving you behind again.

Sometimes you still were.

"I know." He soothes, "But I was comforted, knowing that both of you were safe. That's all that mattered."

"What about you? What if it had been worse?" Tears prick your eyes now, a flare of anger, anxiety sparking to life.

"It wasn't. It was fine. I’m fine." He counters, so sure of his answers, of his decision.

But it didn't feel fine. You had spent hours alone in the dark, hoping, bargaining. Even wishing it had been you, instead - when your exhaustion got to you, when your thoughts had turned desperate and bleak.

"I just needed you to be okay. I don't want you, us, to go through that again. Please." Your words come out resigned, regretful.

He inhales before his answers, his words slow. Like he knows their weight, how they will affect you, "I can't promise that, darling.”

Another moment, before he lays the truth bare, “There's not a world where I wouldn't have opened that letter. Even knowing what I know now, I still would have. Do you understand?”

Your jaw grits.

It's not a fight, but it feels like one. You do understand - because you think you’d want to do the same, for him. Part of you understanding just that little more about him - how deep the loyalty, the love, truly lies.

What it means to be a part of his life. Some of his worries, his previous hesitations from earlier in your relationship making more sense.

Maybe this was inevitable.

It doesn’t dissuade you.

But still, you slip into silence, your body easing back down to rest against his.

The movie you were watching ends, and the start of another begins. Later, if someone were to ask you what it was about, you wouldn't have been able to answer.

———

You had thought that things would get better - now that the Riddler had been caught. But Bruce had missed the final clue, all but hidden in plain sight.

That night was one you’d remember for the rest of your life. The plans for that evening had been watching the broadcast following Bella Reál's election announcement as the new Mayor at the Gotham Square Garden. On any other night, the two of you might have been there, amongst the crowd.

But the speech had been interrupted as the video recording shuddered - as a series of groans erupted throughout the city.

Car bombs. You had learned, after a few moments of frantic scrolling on your phone. When it was happening it had been impossible to tell - the bright bursts of light across the river, the booms that echoed in slow succession.

No one could have predicted the flood that washed over Downtown Gotham in what seemed like a matter of minutes.

Hands pressed against the window pane as all you could do is watch, while Alfred unmuted the news.

Trying to call Bruce.

Getting his voicemail.

The hospital went on lockdown, no one at the time knew if similar bombs had been planted in other parts of the city. There was no one to check, with all hands on deck downtown.

It had become apparent very quickly that all you could do - all anyone could do - was just wait. Alfred wasn’t supposed to get out of bed just yet, but you weren’t about to stop him. His hand heavy on your shoulder as you helped support his weight. Arm curling around his back, both of you leaning into each other.

Watching the flashing lights of emergency vehicles bouncing off the rows of glass buildings. A piece of the seawall you could just barely make out crumbling further, spilling chunks of concrete into the ocean.

The water, washing in after.

His expression was grim in the reflection of the glass, eyes sharp - standing still as stone beside you.

“What do you think happened?” You had asked, voice hushed, “I mean, why would someone do this?”

“I have no doubt who it was.” Alfred’s gaze was far away now, eyes unseeing, “But as to how, or for what reason, I cannot say.”

The updated headline caught both of your attention - an assassination attempt of the newly elected Mayor Reál. Figures dressed in the costume and masks of the Riddler attacking the people who were forced to seek shelter within the Square Garden.

It was terrifying.

You had pressed close to him, neck craned so you could watch the screen. Not wanting to let go. The bright glow of his phone illuminated his face in the dim room, checking his messages again.

Nothing.

“He’s okay.” You had assured him, hands smoothing against his back - but the words came out weak and hollow. Even though you had tried to be brave, to be encouraging, for him.

Minutes, hours, ticked by as you both waited. In a quiet, stunned silence - eyes never leaving the screen. Eventually you had coaxed him back into bed, but he adjusted the controls until the back of the bed sat him up straight. Glasses perched on his nose so he could see the small screen, eyes darting down to his phone, again and again.

And then finally, mercifully - he was given a break. As the people trapped inside were brought up to the roof, just as the sun started to crack over the horizon.

You could hear the helicopters as they flew by overhead, coming from all sections of Gotham. Hanging briefly in the sky before they dissapeared out of sight behind a skyscraper - on their way to airlift people out.

It was a tightening of fingers in yours, a low sigh of relief as the channel flipped to coverage of the rescue.

In the background, behind the reporter, there had been the flicker of something tall - dark. The ripple of a cape, and then you had been sagging in relief as well. Alfred had spotted him seconds before you did.

Bruce - the Batman - carrying people to safety. Carefully lowering them onto a stretcher, almost like a machine as he repeated the movements, again and again and again.

Alfred didn’t hear from him until hours later, but the glimpse had been enough to settle some of the worry. It had come as a text message, your faces pressed cheek-to-cheek as you had read it together.

“On my way.”

You had thought that meant he was on his way home.

Was done for the night - well, morning, at that time. Not expecting the door of the hospital room that creaked open a little more than an hour later. Bruce slipping inside the room, all but soaked through in his street clothes, a hand pressed across his chest.

The slightest tremble in his limbs as he sagged against the closed door, as Alfred worriedly pushed himself to his feet.

Head hanging between his shoulders before it rolled up, holding out a placating hand - palm facing outwards - halting him mid-step.

"'m fine." He had told you, but he hadn’t looked it - red-rimmed eyes, movements slowed with unseen aches and injuries, "Just needed to make sure that nothing had happened here."

Sagging into one of the seats, as Alfred slowly lowered himself back down to the bed. You could tell there were a million questions running through his mind, and there were already ones in yours as well. But you both waited, your own eyes bouncing to the clock, out the glass window set into the door.

Surely, his appearance like this would raise questions. You're not even sure how he had gotten in - the entrances were all supposed to be guarded right now.

"How is it?" You had eventually asked into the hush of the room, when you were unable to hold back your questions any longer.

He blinked, as if unsure how to answer, the words coming slowly.

"It’s bad. Almost all of downtown is flooded. It was a setup." Bruce exhaled a breath, eyes fixed on the floor, "I didn't see it. Not until it was too late."

It bothered him - furious with himself, the knowledge of how he was strung along with each step and riddle. His jaw worked, his booted foot bouncing against the ground.

"His actions and choices are not your fault." Alfred had argued, his tone firm, a frown crossing his features.

"I was a catalyst, Alfred. Bruce Wayne. Then, Batman." But he looked up then, fingers lacing together as they rested on his knees.

"You caught him, though." You had tried to encourage as well, but he shook his head.

"He knew where he was going. 'See you in hell'." Bruce quoted the last card left behind, "He meant Arkham. And that's just what I did."

You hadn’t been sure what to say. Things like “well, he can’t hurt anyone anymore” was incredibly untrue, and insulting. Instead, you had lapsed into silence, Alfred’s worrying eye turning to Bruce instead. The split skin across his knuckles, the dried, half-wiped remnants of blood settling into the grooves of his skin.

Alfred’s shifting into the role he knew well, cataloging the details, as he asked short questions about what happened. Bruce’s almost hesitant answers - an account of how he had had to take down the Riddler’s followers, to protect the Mayor, the people inside.

Pushed into mentioning that he had used the adrenaline shot that had been stored for emergencies, causing Alfred to swear roughly under this breath.

"If you were hurt enough to use that shot, then you should really let me look you over." A disapproving tone laced through his words, and for a moment - you felt like you were back in the Tower again.

It had been achingly familiar, a brief and almost welcome reprieve.

There was the grunt as Bruce acquiesced, and then a low groan as he rose, moving towards the attached bathroom.

"Will you watch for any nurses, dove?" Alfred asked, and you were immediately agreeing, already trying to remember when the last one had stopped by. Comparing it to the cycles you had come to know so well.

"I'll let you know." You promised, but then Bruce was glancing your way, a hesitance in his expression.

"The flood, downtown." He had begun - circling back - and part of you thought you knew what he was going to say.

Had been trying so desperately not to think about it.

Trying to focus on other things.

"It reached Gotham Village."

Where your little apartment was tucked away, just at the edge of downtown.

Your jaw gritted as you nodded, chest feelings tight. Alfred halting beside you, as he realized what you both were talking about - an "oh, sweetheart" rumbling from his chest that you forced yourself to ignore.

Swallowing the lump in your throat before answering, "I figured. It's okay.”

Immensely grateful for the opportunity to be alone, because if he had tried to comfort you further, you know you would've started crying. In that moment it had felt selfish to do so in front of them, with everyone else suffering as well.

So, seeing your expression, he had let you go. Eyes still following you as you left - watching the small smile you had sent his way, before it dropped as the door shut.

His own steps now reluctant as he made for the bathroom with Bruce, even though it had been at his own insistence.

Forcing himself to concentrate at the task at hand, clucking his tongue when he saw the cluster of the raised, reddened marks already forming from the gunshot Bruce had taken to the chest. His armor had protected him from the worst of it, but it still left the flesh horribly bruised and sore beneath.

But it was different this time. Alfred realizing this after watching the news coverage - seeing Bruce's actions himself - that this was no longer just a blind, vigilante form of revenge.

That it’s become more than that.

He saw that now.

Saw a glimpse of what The Batman could be. What he could mean, what he could stand for, to the people of Gotham. The good he could do.

Because that night had changed something in Bruce.

It had changed something in all of you.

——

It's the helplessness of watching - of not being able to do anything - that finally has you making up your mind about working for Bruce.

The little bit of peace upended - time starting to lose all meaning again. The hospital on lockdown, Alfred’s stay extended even though he grew stronger, better, each day. Until they sorted out whether there was additional danger, each day began to bleed into the next.

The catalyst of your decision came in those days after. When it's hard not to stare out the window, squinting until you can just see where the water is still being slowly pumped from the submerged downtown streets, back into the ocean. Draining into the sewers in areas where the seawall has been hastily repaired.

For now, it holds back further destruction. But already you, along with everyone else, are worrying about the approaching winter. The potential of freezing ice storms, thick snow - it would not take much to make them crumble again.

You're sitting on the edge of the bed when Bruce arrives - it's a surprise to both of you. Something is on his mind, you can tell by his distracted greeting, the way his bag thuds to the ground before he stoops to dig through it.

Pulling out a battered manila folder, handing it wordlessly to Alfred.

Who takes it without thought, his brow furrowing, "Where did you get this?"

"It was in the Tower. We found it while cleaning up." Bruce replies, and it’s then that you recognize it, too. One of the folders you had given him, after they spilled from the desk. One that he had started to read, though he had never mentioned it again.

"What are your thoughts?" Alfred's answering question is calm as he flips it open, a short hum of acknowledgement as he reads the neat script printed alongside his own.

Bruce pulls the chair closer to the bed, close to Alfred's shoulder. So he can lean over, point to some of the changes he's made.

"I want to work with Lucicus and adapt his proposal. These ideas are for the Foundation as a whole, but some of his proposal could be used to make a Relief Fund for Gotham."

A pause, before he adds, “I think we, I, could help in other ways. I’d like to bring him here and discuss it with you.”

For a moment, Alfred does not say anything. Stunned into a moment of silence, something so unusual that it has your eyes bouncing back and forth between them.

And then - after a moment - he agrees.

Calls are made, and Lucius agrees to a meeting a few days later. That morning, you make a special stop to the Tower for a few things.

So far, Alfred has denied all work-related visitors, not feeling like himself. You had protested, telling him how handsome he looked, how no one was going to think twice, but he had stood firmly resolute.

It wasn't in his nature to be comfortable with the vulnerability that all the wires, the hospital gowns, the clothing, seemed to evoke.

So, you had decided you'd bring some of his things from home, for this meeting. Some of the clothes you think are his favorite. His own shampoo, the heavy silver safety razor, his cologne.

Anything you could think of to make him feel more comfortable. To soothe the bit of irritation at the lack of independence - unsettled by the hair that has grown in, the undercut getting long, the edge of a beard that’s no longer so neat.

Another reminder of how long it's been since he's been home.

It softened him, the sharp polished edge dulled. You sort of liked it. It reminded you of early mornings together in bed, stolen away under the sheets. When it was truly just you and him - but you keep those private thoughts to yourself.

Instead, you bring everything to the hospital when you arrive, the box tucked under your arm. Taking them to the room early so he could get ready before the meeting.

Alfred is working when you get there - the sight making you smile as you lean for a moment in the doorway. Pen scratching notes into a fresh copy of the proposal, a new pair of glasses perched on the end of his nose.

Peering over them to see you - his expression going soft, leaning up to kiss you good morning when you sit on the side of the bed. The smile widening when you flip open the lid, an almost groan of appreciation when he sees what you brought him.

“Christ, I love you.” He murmurs, fingers running over the thick wool of the sweater, pulling it from the box, “Do you know that, darling?”

The words still make heat bloom in your chest, traveling up to your cheeks.

You hope they will, forever.

You hope you’ll never tire of them.

But for now, you smile shyly - offering to take them to the bathroom for him. He catches your hand before you make it too far, his expression turning a little more serious.

“I mean it, dove. Thank you. I know it’s been hard, for both of us.” His voice is low and earnest, and your stomach flips, fluttering even more.

“I love you, too.” You tell him, pulling the hand up to press a kiss against his knuckles, “And I’m happy to do it. I’d do anything for you.”

And you would - even though you wished desperately that things had happened differently. That the evening could have ended with dinner, dessert, waking up together the next day with nothing happening. Just a plain old regular day.

Still, you reminded yourself how you were lucky, the little pep talk long memorized now - and pushed on.

You were needed, there wasn’t time for that now.

His hand flexes in yours when he feels the touch of your lips, a victim to his own wishing and wanting. Lingering as long as he can until he’s realizing the time - leaving you reluctantly so he can clean up.

Instead of waiting, you make a run for coffee from the little cafe downstairs. Sighing when you see the long line, but waiting anyway for three coffees, a hot tea for Alfred.

Balancing the cardboard cup holder when the barista hands it over, carefully heading back up to the room. Almost bumping into a neatly-dressed man standing just outside the elevator, murmuring an “excuse me” as you scoot around him.

Pausing a couple steps away, turning around when you realize he looks a little lost.

“These hallways get confusing.” You smile at him, and he looks away from the small map stuck to the wall, “Where are you headed?”

When he gives you the room number, you realize who you’re talking to - realizing you’ve seen him before, coming out of Alfred’s office the day you had all but begged for him back.

You hadn’t really been paying attention that day, too busy trying to keep it together, but there were things that you recognize now - like the choice of a neat, cream-colored bow tie. An interesting detail, in a sea of the plain, black dress ties that seemed popular in Gotham.

And how kind his smile had been, in contrast with the blank faces and scowls of the people in the lobby, scurrying off to work.

Juggling the coffees to your other hand, you extend your right as you give him your name, “You’re Mr. Fox, right? I’m heading that way, too.”

“Just Lucius, please.” He smiles, and you let him take the coffee from you when he offers, following you back through the hallways, “And thank you, I appreciate the help.”

A beat, before he asks, “I feel like I’ve seen you before at Wayne Enterprises. Have we met?”

“Not officially.” You glance his way, slowing as the door comes into view, “We just sort of bumped into each other. Outside Alfred’s office?”

His brow furrows, whether remembering or at your casual use of his interim-boss’s name, you’re not sure.

“That’s right, I remember now.” Lucius nods, as he explains, “I never forget a face. Do you work for him, too?”

That makes you laugh, though you swiftly try to turn the sound into a cough, “No. Definitely not-”

Hearing the chatter, Bruce is opening the door before you could explain further - a flicker of surprise in his eyes before he steps back, ushering you both in.

You smile in thanks as you move through the doorway, feet stumbling to the briefest stop when you get inside, making Lucius almost bump into you.

Distracted by Alfred, sitting on the edge of the bed, dressed in the clothes you brought for him. Looking so close to how he did at home, an ache forming in your stomach from the memory.

For a moment, you don’t want to look away.

"There you are." He smiles when he sees you, and you can't help but match it. Rising to shake Lucius's hand, adding, "Mr. Fox. I see you've already met my better half."

His words seem to shoot straight into your chest, making it feel tight. They steal both your breath and your tongue, leaving you unable to form a response as the ache drops down low - turning warm and pleasant instead.

"Ah, yes." Lucius's smile dimples as he places the cups down on the overbed table tucked off to the side, "Lucky that I did, or I'd still be wandering those halls."

You move to the side then, as they pull up chairs - Bruce throwing a look your way. There's a gap in the half-circle they make around the hospital bed, you think it's left intentionally.

But you're still not sure how you feel - still undecided about the so-called job offer. Your mind has been too busy just trying to put one foot in front of the other.

So instead, you tuck yourself in one of the plastic seats along the wide window as they start. Watching the waves outside, trying to see from here if they're letting people downtown yet, or if it's still blocked off.

Unable to help listening with one ear to the meeting.

It's almost fascinating to hear Bruce be the one that's the briefest step behind, though Alfred had done his best to catch him up over the past few days.

Impressed with how he still tries to keep up with the easy back-and-forth of the other two, his brow furrowed in concentration.

And then again - while hearing Alfred's quick answers, his knowledge of the company - reminded just how much he does. How busy he has been, is still.

As you listen, you realize you’re impressed. Your initial impression, all those weeks ago, is that his interest was perfunctory, no more than a necessary obligation.

But when he’s taking now, there’s intent behind his ideas - shaky, still forming - but it’s there.

The small nods from Alfred giving him confidence, the small upward tick of lips as Lucius smiles.

Together, carefully reworking the proposal to fit Bruce's vision, turning the general structure into something that would benefit those affected by the disaster. The suggestions are thoughtful, and you gradually find yourself getting pulled in.

The briefest of ideas flickering in your own mind, your teeth biting into your tongue to hold them back. But it's then that you realize, that this is how you can help.

Perhaps in more ways than one.

"I'll handle the applications. I am sure with the company’s name attached the forms will be expedited." Lucius is offering, a quick flick of his wrist as he jots down notes on his own pad of paper, "Especially if it's submitted through the Wayne Foundation. We'll have to draft up a press release to spread the news, when you're ready."

And then you're unable to hold back the little noise of disagreement in your throat. One that turns heads, heat creeping up the back of your neck.

Plucking up courage, before explaining.

"If this is to help the people of Gotham, you should tell them directly. Press releases are good for journalists, but your everyday person isn't reading them. Not right now." You suggest, turning in your seat until you're facing them fully, "We could give Bella Reál a call. It's a win-win for her, maybe she could set something up?"

There's a moment as they absorb what you said, as your eyes turn to Bruce. Remembering what he had told you, in the hallway, those weeks ago, "You said she wanted to work with you, right?"

"She did," He nods.

"It's a good idea." Lucius adds, and you're catching the look on Alfred's face. The shine in his eyes, and you think he understands what you're considering agreeing to.

How you could still help Bruce, help them - without being in the direct danger of those connected to the Batman. Keeping yourself safe, for both of your sakes.

Your eyes are still on his when you offer, “I could get a hold of her, when you're ready. See what she thinks.”

“Thank you." Bruce's voice is genuine, "Are you sure?”

“Yeah." There’s a beat, before you add, “I’m your publicist, after all. Right?”

There’s the hint of a smile, a huff of amusement.

“Right.”

And when you stand, pushing your chair closer - the little half-circle around Alfred’s bed is complete.

———

While you all work to iron out the details, you get the news that the streets have been cleared enough for you to make it back to your apartment. You want to cringe at taking Alfred’s expensive car - one that still makes you uneasy to drive - back through the damaged streets.

But you don’t have another option, so you do, at his insistence.

When you had picked the place out, years ago, being semi-close to downtown - where surely you’d run into affluent people - had seemed like a good thing.

Now, you wish you had stayed in Midtown, where you had grown up. Or even Uptown, though there’s no use thinking about “what if’s.”

When you arrive, you’re half expecting ruins, your windows broken, or even the whole place just - flushed away. Instead, you go through the door in the back. Sliding on gloves, armed with trash bags and just a smidge of hope.

Alfred had wanted to go with you. You could tell it hurt him that he couldn’t - that he felt guilty, even embarrassed. Feeling like he couldn’t support you when he needed him - though he had no reason to be. He was still recovering. You couldn’t ask that of him, wouldn’t want to.

Your hands had been on your hips before his mouth could open, reminding him to save his strength for Bruce. He had been cleared to leave for the afternoon of the speech, provided a nurse accompanied him.

That was more important, you had told him.

“I’ll be fine.” You smiled, “Don’t worry about me.”

He had done enough over the past few days, his shirt darkening with tears when you finally broke down. The feeling spilling over - that yes, they were just things, but they were yours. That of course you knew how lucky you had been, but that the loss still aches.

So instead, you promised to take the offer up from your friends for help. They had reached out, that morning after - a relief in your heart when you were reminded that their apartment was on the second floor. That they had been lucky, too.

That morning you kissed him goodbye, and then blew him another from the doorway. Pretending not to catch the worry in his expression, the subtle slump in his shoulders.

But as you enter the living room, things aren’t as fine as you had hoped. Too much time had passed, though you’d gotten there as soon as it was safe.

The landlord had been there recently - there’s a carpet dryer parked in your living room, the cord thick and curling across your couch. The laminate floor of the kitchen swollen and splitting at the joints, the cabinets already stained at the bottom.

Your steps slow as you move throughout the rooms, figuring out what to pack up, what you could do without. It’s not long before your friends meet you - both of them wrapping you into hugs, your nose crinkling as you tell them, “it’s okay, really.”

Putting on a brave face. Because - what else is there to do?

Sympathy still in their eyes as Hazel takes over, it’s the planner in her. Moving from room to room, all three of you eyeing furniture to see what can be cleaned. Some of it can, with a little bit of work.

Others - the pieces you picked up a long time ago, made from pressed wood and particleboard - are slowly brought outside, set on the curb, the bit of front yard.

You’ll call someone tonight - have them pick it up. For now, you just want it out.

Some of the damaged pieces are difficult, your muscles straining as you try to maneuver an old armchair backwards through the doorway. Rowan carries the bulk of the weight on the other side but even then, you don’t have a good grip.

You’re afraid you’re about to drop it, when you’re being bumped out of the way by a hip, a set of stronger arms replacing yours. Lifting the front much easier than you did, and with a joint push and tug, it’s through the door.

“Where’s this headed?” Bruce asks, and Rowan’s nodding towards the front door.

Throwing you a “what the fuck” face, one that matches Hazel’s when you finally turn around.

“Is that Bruce Wayne?” She asks you, her eyebrows raised, watching as they step carefully through the front door, “He just sort of, walked in.”

“Yeah.” You’re a mix of amused, exasperated, and honestly - a little bit touched.

They both knew the story, well - most of it. But you get where she’s coming from. It was pretty weird to see the young billionaire just showing up in your kitchen, wearing an old worn hoodie and jeans. Carrying that beaten up old armchair through the door.

You almost have to corner him, motioning him into the kitchen the next time he comes through. Bruce follows, his arm swiping across his forehead, wiping away sweat even with the November chill.

“What are you doing here?” You ask him, more out of sheer surprise than anything else.

“Helping you.” He replies, voice flat, as if he’s not sure why you’re asking.

“Thank you.” You are, and you don’t want to make him feel like it’s unwelcome. It was just unexpected.

A moment, before you ask, “Did Alfred ask you to come?”

“He told me about it.” His arms cross, as he leans against the counter, “But no, he didn’t ask me.”

“Oh.”

It’s all you can manage. You had assumed Alfred had asked him to come in his stead. And maybe he sort of did - a tiny, verbal push.

But Bruce was stubborn. So if he was here, then it meant that he really did want to help. The realization feels like a weight - a tightness in your throat, the earlier thanks now not feeling like it was nearly enough.

Before you can think of a way to voice your thoughts, he’s changing the subject - gesturing to the boxes stacked on the counter, scribbling descriptors like “books” and “clothes” onto the side.

“Are those going to the Tower?”

His question makes you freeze, not fully expecting it. Your answer comes out slowly, as you frown, “I’m not sure.”

When he had figured out what happened, Alfred had offered to let you stay, for as long as you needed. But you felt a little funny about it. Guilty, you supposed, though you had been sleeping over more often than not.

It wasn’t the way you had wanted to take that step, even if it was only temporary.

“I think I might leave these here?” Your voice tilts up with nervousness, and he shoots you a strange look. His expression makes you want to clarify, “I’m uh, still thinking about it.”

Which does nothing, other than making his eyebrows lift. Your gaze drops, until his shoulder lifts in a half-shrug, and he leaves you be.

Going back to Rowan as they go in the study again, this time grabbing the empty bookcase. With four sets of hands it goes more quickly, and soon - a large dent has been made in the rooms.

You spend the afternoon thinking about it, still unsure. Carefully folding your clothes into boxes, other into bags to be washed. Clearing the dresser to be taken outside - the particle board swollen at the bottom.

Trying to decide what you can tackle tomorrow, as this certainly won’t all be done today. Exhaustion creeping in, along with a numbing grimness at the situation.

Another box on the table, another trash bag filled to the brim and taken outside.

Hazel disappears and comes back with sandwiches, after pitching everything in your refrigerator. It feels like almost too much then - tears pricking at your eyes as you all sit and eat together on the stoop outside. Her hand resting on yours, gently squeezing.

A silent message. They’re here for you.

Just like you had always tried to be there for them.

Later, when you’re moving back through the living room, you almost miss it - the mail scattered under the slot to the side of the door.

Crinkling in your hands, the ink bleeding in spots. Most of it is junk, bills you keep meaning to switch to paperless. Almost pitching the entire stack into the bag of trash you’re holding, until one catches your eye.

It has your name on it, with no address. The letters typed like they were made with an old-fashioned typewriter - and remembering what happened to Alfred, you hesitate.

But surely a letter -

And you’re nobody.

That’s different, right?

You slip outside to open it, standing on the tiny bit of porch. The paper sticking together where it had been soaked, then dried over hours, days. Ripping the edge of the envelope open, a single news clipping inside.

The ink has run there too, the water yellowing the paper, turning the edges pulpy.

It’s a photo. The one of you, and Harvey, and Bruce, from the night of the party. Though it’s been clipped, Harvey cut out of the frame, leaving just the two of you remaining.

A smudge of ink at the margins, writing you can just barely make out.

THOSE WHO HAVE LEFT THE NEST MAY NEVER RETURN

Then, beneath.

WE’LL BE WATCHING

It makes your heart thuds in your ears, body going still as you read the words again as ice floods your veins. You haven’t been back since that night - had just stopped showing up.

Thinking that maybe they’d forget, would just leave you alone. Wondering if you had made the right decision. Wondering when this letter had been left.

The door bangs open behind you, Rowan and Bruce carrying out the empty drawers of your dresser. It startled you, making you jump as the photo crumples in your fist. The briefest second before you’re shoving it deep into the trash bag - tying it tightly shut before tossing it with the others.

Trying to keep your breath steady, as you head back into the house to grab one of the boxes on the counter. Bringing it outside, shoving it into the bed of Bruce’s truck, parked near the curb.

Letting him know you’ve changed your mind.

That you’ll stay with them, after all.

———

It turns out that if you drop the Wayne family name, getting through to the Mayor proves to be easier than you thought. She seemed surprised to be talking to you, and you understand - trying quickly to explain while you still have her attention.

And as you predicted, she's on board.

With one, teeny, tiny, little catch.

"I can't do a speech." Bruce is protesting, as you hover at the end of the hospital bed.

You've been dreading telling him, half-cringing when he asked how the call went.

"Sure, you can." You encourage, glancing towards Alfred for help.

Who is looking supportive, a calm nod of his head as he agrees.

But Bruce remains unconvinced, his eyes dropping to the floor. Silently running through a million scenarios, until Alfred's voice finally cuts through the silence.

"Your father never enjoyed speaking, either.”

His words transfix Bruce, his eyes lifting. Staring at him for a long moment, his brow creasing, "But he was so good at it."

"He was." Alfred's smile is wistful, reminiscing, "But you were too young, already in bed. You never saw him the night before. How he would pace for hours."

"How did he do it, then?" Bruce looks at him like he's wishing for some sort of magical solution. A miraculous quick-fix.

The smile turns knowing.

"Practice."

Bruce's face falls then, his eyes shifting away in disappointment.

But Alfred is still encouraging, "I can help you. We can help you. I know you can do it."

It takes a lot of convincing.

Even more practice.

Hours of notecards, late evenings at the hospital - until he's donning the cape for the night. Working a few more hours in when dawn hits.

But finally, Bruce agrees to Bella Reál’s suggestion of a live announcement. Broadcasted on all the local news, across Gotham.

A date is set, the notification of the time and place already gathering traction online. The days have seemed slow, but now - with this looming on the horizon - they fly by.

Until that morning is finally here.

Even though you arrived early it still feels like you're scrambling. Double-checking the sequence of the note cards for the speech, though they are more of an insurance than anything.

Trading a set of worn travel boots for the nicer ones you stashed in your bag, shoving them beneath the chair that sits under the large window.

Both of you fussing at Bruce's suit jacket, his cufflinks, the shine of his shoes. You're in the middle of asking him if he's ready, if he needs anything else - when he's swatting Alfred's hand away from fixing the crooked knot of his tie, saying that he'll meet you outside.

You know he's anxious, too.

It's a big day.

Even more so for him.

The last few minutes are spent quietly together in the bathroom, your hip leaning against the white porcelain skin as Alfred’s comb smooths his hair back one more time. Buttoning his jacket, his eyes focusing on the mirror as you watch him, eyes drifting across his face.

Across the healing pink marks, new scars that will litter his face. A small reminder, every time you look at him. Not that you mind them. Not one bit.

"How are you feeling?"

You've been trying not to pry. Happy that he's getting better so quickly of course - but there's a small twist in your guts that worries that he's pushing too hard, even though today means so much to him.

Stubborn, even still.

His eyes flick your way, and you wonder if he can tell what you're thinking. He always seems to have some idea. The edge of his lip curve upward, his answer soft.

"Proud."

It's not what you're expecting. You can't help but smile, leaving the sink to circle around him, your chin resting against his shoulder, cheek pressing against his.

Faces side-by-side in the mirror as you look at yourselves together, the smile lingering.

"Yeah." You answer, "Me too."

There's a knock soon after, an alert from Bruce that it's time to leave. It pulls you out of the moment, a “to-do” list already pushing forefront into your mind.

Alfred grabs your elbow as you go to step away, drawing you back. Eyes tracing over the curve of your dress, his arm sliding around your back to gather you carefully to him.

Your own hands splaying across his chest, as he tugs you a little closer. Until his nose is brushing against your temple, followed by his lips.

“You look beautiful.” His voice dips, pitched low and quiet, “I haven’t been telling you enough.”

It’s unexpected - your heart thudding in your chest. Small moments like these were precious.

Even though the two of you were sometimes left alone, there was always the looming knowledge of where exactly you were that drew you back out of the moment.

“You tell me plenty,” you argue, his eyes dipping down to your mouth. Before he cuts off any other retorts with the press of his mouth, soft and warm against your own.

Stealing you away, the stress and worry that’s been building disappearing for the briefest moment. The points of your concentration narrowing down to the places where you connect, lips and carefully wandering hands.

Until another knock comes, more insistent this time.

It’s harder than you expect to pull away.

You break apart reluctantly, hurrying to grab your bag, your coat, as the nurse - one you adored, a young woman named Tilly, she had been there from the beginning - escorts the three of you down to the car that Mayor Reál sent over.

A podium is already set up outside the massive double-doors of the Gotham City Hall when you arrive. The space set-up hastily, a crooked line of metal safety barriers lined up at the foot of the stairs, manned by members of the GCPD.

There had been brief talks of broadcasting this afternoon from somewhere inside, somewhere safer. But Mayor Reál has disagreed - the bandages from the attempt at her life still visible under the neckline of her blouse.

I’m not afraid, she had said. I want Gotham to know that.

You’re all escorted up the steps, to where she’s waiting for you - a hand extended to greet each of you in turn. Guiding Bruce off to the side for a quick conversation, Lucius gesturing from his spot off to the side for the three of you to join him.

“How’s he doing?” His voice is low, his brows furrowed in concern, throwing a glance Bruce’s way.

Alfred’s answer is equal in pitch, his words firm, “He’ll be fine.”

You find yourself on the end, Alfred’s hand slipping into yours. Fingers squeezing comfortingly, his skin warm and familiar against yours.

It feels important - purposeful - that the first significant public event you went to together is this one. Supporting each other, supporting Bruce.

Your eyes shift, glancing out across the crowd. From up here, your view is just a sea of faces. But every one of them had lives touched by the disaster. Their daily routines upended, their homes damaged - leaving them feeling as lost as you did.

Even more.

It makes you hope that they will listen - and that what Bruce is trying to do will really help.

There’s the short burst of feedback from the mic as Mayor Reál steps up to the podium, Bruce moving back to stand beside Lucius until he is introduced.

You’re reaching into your purse - catching his eye as you lift the edge of one of the note cards, asking a silent question.

He gives a minute shake of his head.

You smile as you carefully stash them back away.

Trying to listen to the Mayor’s speech, a variation of the one she gave the night of the attack. Saying that together, we can rebuild the city. Doing it right this time, making its roots strong and just - building a solid foundation for generations to come.

The words start to buzz in your ears, your mind on more personal thoughts. Worrying, hoping, wishing. And then it seems like in no time at all, she’s taking a step back - looking over towards Bruce expectantly.

His jaw is tight, teeth clenching so tightly they could crack. She's waving him forward, and there's the briefest hesitation - his shadowed eyes flitting to Alfred's, then yours.

You give him a small nod, your smile encouraging. He glances at Alfred again, you know in your heart that his expression mirrors your own.

Then, he's facing forward, stepping up to the podium. Hands splaying flat against the wood, carefully leaning forward towards the microphone, a section of hair slipping out from its careful styling to sweep across his forehead.

His eyes taking a second to drift over the crowd. Almost as if searching - finally landing on a spot that he almost has to tip his chin up to see. Whatever or whoever it was seems to give him courage - there’s the bob of his throat as he swallows, before beginning.

“Mayor Bella Reál believes that we can make a real change in Gotham. And I do, as well.” His voice starts quiet, even with the mic - no more than a soft rasp.

Eyes flicking across the crowd again, and then back down as he clears his throat, starting again, “I believe in her, and I also believe in my parent's vision.”

The crowd is all but silent, the mere appearance of Bruce was a novelty - hearing him speak had them all captivated.

There’s a tiny part of you that had half-expected him to use his voice - drawing upon the power it gives him, the sound pitched down for confidence.

But it’s Bruce’s clear tone that rings out now, strong and sure. His hands now steady against the podium, even though his knuckles are white as they grip the wood.

“My father started the Gotham Renewal Fund to help the people of Gotham. To help you, your friends and your neighbors, directly.”

The hand in yours squeezes tightly, almost enough to hurt. Your head tilts the slightest bit, catching the way Alfred’s jaw clenched, his eyes focused on Bruce. A shine that tugs at your heart, seeing the emotion in them.

Proud doesn’t even begin to cover it.

You squeeze back as he sniffs quietly, your eyes shifting back to Bruce - giving Alfred a moment of privacy. Catching the tail end of Bruce’s segue into the new project - the whole reason for this appearance.

“I know that I am not my father, or my mother.”

Because he's not - in many ways he falls short. But he will - in even more ways - surpass them. It's the only reference to the Riddler's message he wanted to include, nothing else was needed.

“But I also know my parents loved this city, and would have done everything they could to help if they were here. So, in their stead, I will now. I’m here to announce with Mayor Reál a new project that Wayne Foundation will be heading, the Gotham Relief Fund.”

It had been discussed. He could have changed the initials of the project, but he didn’t want to. Considering it a quiet tribute to his parents intentions. How they hoped to help the city - how he hopes to do the same, now.

A redemption, in a way.

Mayor Reál steps forward, until they are side by side. Together, they explain Bruce and Lucius’s ideas - how they will use the fund to set up temporary shelters, to aid in funding repairs to people's homes. Expediting insurance, providing food, covering medical expenses.

Opening the door for other companies to step up and donate, as well.

The anxiety in your chest ebbs, the toughest part now over. You know their words by heart - knowing he’ll be wrapping up soon, having helped him practice, again and again.

But there’s a moment of clarity as you realize - as Bruce is standing there, speaking with such earnestness and honesty….

That you truly believe in him, too.

Thank you so much for reading! It means so much. 💖 If you missed the note, I am hoping to have the next part out on Thursday, and the then finale the Thursday after that.

(Taglist: @rescuethewretched, @slavicwitchling, @zinzinina, @bacarasbabe, @kakashibabe02, @princessxkenobi, @maskhoper, @thelastemzy, @celestianstars, @squidlywiddly87, @queensgirl718, @obiknights)

#thank you for reading 💖#alfred pennyworth x f!reader #alfred pennyworth x reader #alfred pennyworth x you

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dreamofmetoday · 1 year

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PICK A CARD #1: WHAT DO PEOPLE THINK OF YOU

this is to tell you what common impression you give most people 💖

how to participate:

ask yourself, “what do people think of me?” and “how do people see me?”

choose the photo you feel most drawn to.

take as long as you need to choose, you can check more than one if you feel drawn to do so. however, if you are having trouble feeling called to any then this pick a card is not for you. these readings will be honest.

tip jar

1. people think you are shy and distant, that you have trouble standing up for yourself and that you hang back and stay invisible while other people shine. people will suspect that you act in underhanded ways to compensate for how you can’t stand up for yourself - manipulating others, acting smarter than you are, copying others to try and seem more appealing. they think you are giving and patient with others but work best behind the scenes and that you could be suited to teaching and guiding others in a quiet way. they think you hide your emotions, have deep thoughts and prefer to do solo activities.

2. people think you lack real direction in life, that you prefer to go wherever life takes you and that you are not stable. they think you are restless and that it causes you to act agitated, frustrated, strung out and even argumentative. they think you worry a lot and that you focus too much on missing out on things or focusing on what you don’t have and not appreciating what you do. despite the chaotic nature of your energy, people think you always land on your feet and have the energy and skill to keep yourself afloat. people think you keep many secrets and don’t trust your stories, believing that you lie a lot. they think you’re afraid to be alone.

3. people think you are magnetic, well put together and likely physically attractive. they think you rely on praise a bit too much for your own good and that you may not be as confident as you try to portray or wish to be. people think you are talented or pick up on things easier than others. they also think you have a good sense of timing and things seem to go your way even when you don’t deserve it. people think you indulge in gossip often and don’t trust you to be honest or be loyal. they think you don’t make good romantic choices or that you are too focused on waiting to be saved romantically.

4. people think you have a big head and that you can’t see yourself clearly, that you act more arrogant and entitled than you deserve. however, people do respect that you have good leadership qualities and don’t always mind that you put yourself in the position to be the boss, trusting that you will at least try to be fair when you feel you are being treated correctly. people fear your anger, thinking you are easy to get along with and then all of a sudden your mood switches and you are too angry - a volcano randomly erupting. they think you have good social skills and people may open up to you randomly and confide in you, but at the same time they think you are also cold and can become mean.

5. people usually like you easily, finding you warm, charming and approachable. people think you are a good conversationalist, a good listener and think you have high emotional intelligence. people think you are generous, giving and patient. they think you are good at being considerate and people often want to confide in you and think they can trust you. however, people also see you as slightly arrogant and self-centred and that you kind of wait for others and the world to come to you, that you don’t make the effort to be proactive and go after people or things yourself (that you can be lazy and lack purpose). people will also think that you can be fake and that you change your personality to fit certain situations or that you tell people want they want to hear and not what you really feel or think.

6. people think you are romantic and desire this strongly. they think that you hold onto toxic things, can’t let go of what’s not working and that you don’t stand for anything real. but at the same time, people think that you are never satisfied and always searching for greener grass - that you complain and self-victimise. people respect that you try and be empowered but think that you go about it in a way that lacks humility and integrity - that your “boundaries and standards” are sometimes just created in an attempt to get people to cater to you. people think you are anxious to please people you admire and can be overly loyal to them. people think you have trouble seeing things clearly and also think you are indecisive.

7. people think you are highly resilient and clever. people see you as someone who cannot be taken down easily and that you’re very switched on and street smart. people see you as highly loyal, responsible and dependable and think you easily connect to others and inspire trust in other people. people also think you have a childlike, playful and innocent quality so they are not walking on eggshells around you, but at the same time they find you judgmental, serious and think you have the ability to be very cruel. people think you are observant and know many secrets about people. you’re seen as heavily burdened but that it could also be your fault to an extent, this makes you also seen as a bit closed off and people think you prefer keeping to yourself.

8. people see you as very dramatic and that you “always have something going on”. people think you complain a lot, that you are depressive and mentally weak. they think you daydream about a better life but don’t really put action into it. people think you’re insecure and that you prefer to be more of a wallflower and watch people rather than participate in life. people think you lack common sense and the stuff you say seems very ungrounded. people think you prefer focusing on creative activities in your spare time and assume you may be into art, writing or consuming a lot of media.

9. people think you are someone who is very anxious and overthinks. people think that you easily get yourself into a rut and have periods of very low self-esteem and drive but that you manage to pull yourself out of it and make sure you get done what needs to get done - people see you as very up and down and unbalanced. people also think you don’t know what you want and you seem lost. people think you’re very secretive and that you are shy, nerdy and studious. people think you are not stubborn or arrogant and that you remain open to listening and learning. they also think you’re messy, don’t do chores and that you’re also likely unkempt.

10. people think you are a go-getter and that you don’t let life pass you by, that you take it upon yourself to earn money or create solid foundations to expand upon and that you can be a rock in others’ lives too - that others depend on you. people think you are a good worker but sometimes ruthless and amoral. however, people often believe you have your heart in the right place and that you have a lot of people you care about. people think you have a naive and unpredictable side, that you are attracted to “bad” things and have a tendency to indulge in things or people that could result in harmful consequences later (without thinking it all through properly). people think that you try hard to be the bigger person but that you only do it to be praised for being the bigger person and not out of true care for others or the situation.

11. people think you are always running away from problems, when things get tough (especially romantically) you just leave and start over and don’t see things through - you can’t settle in one place. people see you as fake happy and that your joy and positivity is a mask for deeper sadness. people think you are lonely and that you enjoy searching for answers and deeper meaning in things and hate superficiality - people may think you’re into things such as tarot and astrology and take it seriously, hoping it will give you all the answers.

12. people assume you have been hardened a bit by life but they think that you are generous, giving and wise (that you truly try to learn from your experiences). people believe that you are giving in an honest and true way and that you do it because you are a good person, but people think you can be overly submissive and that people try to take advantage of you - especially romantically or in the sense that people will sleep with you and then leave you after having gotten what they wanted because you overestimated them. people think your boundaries and standards are unclear and you don’t know when to give more and when to give up. people think you’re pretty emotional. people think you’re a bit awkward and have trouble maintaining a stable sense of identity (that you don't really know yourself).

#pick a card #pick a pile #tarot #tarotblr #melody tarot #pac #what do people think of you #how do people see you #please reblog if you appreciated this pac 💖#also if you're curious and don't know the person in the photos is the model #jung hoyeon #also please remember these are honest! please don't feel the need to participate #anyway...#thank you for reading i hope to do more pick a cards in the future so let me know what type of questions you'd want answered #sorry about tumblr photo quality too 😅

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