Disclaimer: I don't own Batman Begins, despite the fact that it was an awesome film. I make no money off of this story.

A/N: Originally completed August 25, 2010. The horizontal lines inserted between blocks of text represent scene change/time passage/change in point of view. Warning for implied and no-so-implied corporal punishment. PLEASE REVIEW!

Not in the Job Description

Bruce wasn't sure why he'd invited the boys. He didn't even like them. He'd stood by his locker, encircled by them, face after jeering face, voice after shouting voice, mocking him, making jokes about his effortless good grades, forming insults about his vast inheritance. And he just couldn't take it anymore. So he began bragging about the mansion where he was king, with servants that were old enough to be his parents (or grandparents) at his beck and call. The cavernous mansion was big enough to house an army . . . well, practically, anyway. . . and the grounds stretched acre on acre, spacious and well-kept and all owned by ten-year-old Bruce Wayne. Why didn't they come see for themselves, Bruce had challenged. Offered the irresistible prospect of being guests at the famous Wayne manor, who could refuse? The boys were suddenly all grins, slapping him on the back and saying, "Sure, Bruce, great idea, Bruce, you're awesome, man." Now, they stood on Bruce's front step, staring around with glee. Bruce pulled the old-fashioned rope to ring the doorbell. Alfred soon pulled open the stately oak door. His bushy eyebrows shot up at the sight of the less-than-sterling boys on the doorstep. "Friends of yours, Master Bruce?" he asked, somewhat dryly.

"Yeah, Alfred." Bruce was attempting to inject his answer with nonchalance, but it came out rather guiltily. He lifted his chin—he had to keep up appearances in front of his guests—and ordered, "Make us some of your hors d'oeuvres, Alfred—the ones with the cherries."

The older man nodded. "Very well, Master Bruce. Would you care to invite your guests inside?"

"That's all right," Bruce replied, waving his hand airily. "We'll hang around out here." He turned to the other boys. "Come on. I'll show you around." He led them through the grounds, pointing out the horse-filled pasture, the orchards, the barn, and the old buildings that had long ago fallen out of use—the mill, the smokehouse, the granary. He loved the envious looks on their faces. He even summoned servants over to do stupid things for him, like pick him an apple from the tree, so that his guests had the opportunity to get even more jealous. Alfred brought them the hors d'oeuvres, and they sat munching on them and smacking their lips. When they had finished, they meandered over to the barn—a great place for boys of any era. Jason highly surprised the rest of them by taking a coil of rope, climbing into a nearby tree, and lassoing the weathercock.

"Where'd you learn to do that?" Bruce asked. Now he was the one who was jealous.

"From my cousin." Jason shrugged off the other boys' praise modestly, and instead of taking down the rope, yanked it tight and handed the other end to Bruce. "Can you make it to the roof?" he challenged Bruce, mischief alight in his eyes. Instantly Bruce balked.

"What, are you crazy?" he asked.

"Why, are you scared?" Jason jibed him. Everyone joined in, goading Bruce on, sneering at him. And despite Bruce's fear and his resolve not to participate in anything so insane, he found himself caving in and agreeing. He pulled on the rope as hard as he could, but the cock stayed secure. Then he looped the end in an X over his middle and tied it to make a sort of harness. There was no backing out now.

Hand over hand, he pulled himself up a few feet. Man, this was hard! Way harder than in gym class, where the rope was at least knotted. His feet scraped against the siding again and again, trying to get a foothold. His arms felt as though they might just pop out, but the cheers and whistles of his guests below kept him pressing on upward. After climbing several yards, he heard a wrenching of metal, and the rope he was clinging to yawed. Sudden terror and dizziness caused Bruce to nearly lose his grip, but he squeezed his eyes shut and held on for dear life. The boys below were screaming up at him in fear.

"Jump, Bruce!" one of them advised him.

"No, don't jump, you're too far up!" Jason screamed. "Just—hold on!"

Bruce didn't need to know that. He looked up wildly, but he was too close to the rooftop to see what was happening above. Was the weathervane about to fall? Should he try to leap to the ground, or try to get to the roof first? Or would movement only make things worse? Should he just hang here and wait for help? Making a split-second decision, he scrambled upward a few feet to a window just under the eaves. Precariously balanced, he stood with his feet on the sill and held the rope as lightly as he dared. If the weathercock fell now, it would pull him down with it.

"Hold on, Master Bruce!" he heard Alfred yell from below. "Don't move! I'm coming up!" The head of a ladder bumped against the siding near Bruce's head. Soon after, Alfred came climbing quickly up. "Get onto the ladder, hurry," he told the boy as he got near. Bruce, while pressing himself flat against the window, reached over to grab a rung and almost lost his balance. Alfred came to his aid, grabbing his arm and pulling Bruce over to him. Bruce's feet were on the ladder before he had time to think. Alfred then whipped out a knife and cut through the rope around Bruce's waist. Only a few seconds later, the weathervane slid free of the roof and crashed to the ground. Bruce was shaking as he came down the ladder just above Alfred. Jason and the rest crowded around him when he was safely on the ground.

"Listen, Bruce, I'm really sorry," Jason said right away, sounding close to tears.

"Hey, it was nothing, thanks to Alfred here," Bruce said, determined to be casual about it. "Want to see me climb the mansion next?" His words got a shaky laugh out of the boys, but they seemed to make Alfred angry.

"Master Bruce, I'll not allow you to do something so senseless ever again," he told Bruce flatly.

"You can't tell me what to do," Bruce pointed out. He intended what he'd said to sound merely factual, not insulting—just another way to sound impressive in front of his guests. But Alfred must have taken offense, for he did something he had never done before. He reached out and slapped Bruce. Pressing a hand to his stinging cheek, Bruce stared at Alfred, bewildered and hurt. Alfred stared back into his eyes and spoke with earnest sincerity.

"If you go rappelling up more buildings, I'll be forced to hit you again, Master Bruce. It may not be part of my job description, but you can't expect me to stand back and watch when you go putting your life in danger."

Bruce's face had gone red with anger and humiliation as Alfred was speaking, to be lectured by his butler in front of his semi-friends. Made senseless with anger, he screamed words he never dreamed he'd say. "You're fired!" It was Alfred's turn to look shocked and betrayed. Bruce continued to glower at him, but Alfred had stopped being the disciplinarian and simply stood quietly. Then he nodded and turned away.

Alfred packed his things and left the manor. The other boys went home. Bruce sat miserably at the kitchen table, waiting for a dinner that, for the first time, Alfred wasn't cooking for him. What had he done? How could he have so callously dismissed the man who had been with him for as far back as he could remember? "You don't look like you have much appetite," a kind voice commented. Lucius Fox smiled down at him. Bruce shook his head in answer. "Why not?" Lucius asked.

"Alfred's gone," Bruce whispered.

"Well, yes, he is," Lucius agreed. "But you fired him yourself, didn't you?"

Bruce nodded. "But," he began.

"But you're having second thoughts, aren't you?" Lucius guessed.

"Yeah," Bruce mumbled.

"It's understandable," Lucius remarked, nodding. "After all, he has been working here for . . . how long now?"

"Forever," Bruce muttered, causing Lucius to chuckle.

"Yeah, it does seem that way, doesn't it?" he agreed.

"Mr. Fox?" began Bruce tentatively. "Do you think . . . you could ask him to come back?"

Lucius smiled but shook his head. "I don't think so. It wouldn't mean anything coming from me." His smile was gone now as he stared, almost severely, at Bruce. "You see, Alfred's feelings were hurt pretty bad when you kicked him out like that."

Guilt made Bruce sick to his stomach. He had to fix the mess he'd so stupidly caused. Wetting his lips with his tongue, he asked, "Do you know where he is?"

"Yes, I do," Lucius answered mildly.

"Then . . . can you take me there?"

Lucius smiled again. "Sure, I can."

Fox drove him to an apartment on the other side of town. Bruce had been hoping that the kind black man might accompany him to the door, but Lucius was adamant that he remain in the car. So Bruce went to ring the doorbell alone.

Alfred pulled the door open and, unflappable as always, didn't bat an eyelash. "Good evening, Bruce," he greeted his ex-employer stiffly.

"Alfred, will you come back home?" Bruce asked quickly, before his could lose his nerve. Alfred looked down at him inscrutably, then asked simply,

"Why?"

Bruce tried to work out the specifics of the question. Why, as in, "Give me one good reason to go back with you, you brat"? Why, as in, "Why should I come back when I can get a lot more money working for someone else?" Or simply, why, as in, "Why are you asking?" He thought about telling Alfred how he missed the cherry hors d'oeuvres, or how there was no better butler to be found in all of Gotham City. But suddenly those things didn't seem to matter anymore. So he just said what was in his heart. "It's not the same without you. It's empty." He threw his arms around Alfred's waist. "Please come back, Alfred."

Alfred ruffled his hair, and Bruce could hear the smile in his voice as he answered, "All right, Master Bruce, I'll come back. But I'd better not catch you doing anything foolhardy again."

"I won't," Bruce promised him with a grin. He ran past Alfred into the tiny living room to find a suitcase and help Alfred pack. Lucius came in behind him and shared a secret smile with Alfred.

"So you never told him that your contract is binding until he's eighteen?" he asked in a low tone so that Bruce wouldn't hear. Alfred shook his head in amusement, and Fox chuckled. "He can't legally fire you any more than he can legally smoke cigars."

Alfred's smile was mischievous. "Perhaps I'll tell him that—when he turns eighteen." Both of them laughed outright, causing Bruce to look over and wonder what splendid joke they were sharing.

The End