This little one-shot is the final scene of TYD from Al's perspective. Healing father-son relationships, we love to see it.
Al lifts his head from his hands at the sound of the door clicking shut.
"How is he?"
Arthur sighs as he steps forward and stops in front of Al's chair. "He needs rest."
With great effort, Al stands. "He—He didn't remember at first."
"That's not so surprising, Alfred." Arthur's voice is gentle, but a brief spasm of pain flashes across his face nonetheless.
"I guess."
"Did he say anything to you?"
"Not really." Al shoves his hands deeper into his pockets, fidgeting with the lint he finds there. "Hardly anything, actually. His chest. And his throat. You know."
Arthur nods, but doesn't—maybe can't—respond.
"Did the doctors say when he can come home?" The words slip off Al's tongue before he can think about them, and then he stops and swallows. "Or—go home—whatever. I didn't mean—"
Arthur suddenly reaches up and takes his face between his hands
"Alfred," he says, and his words are unbearably tender, "Stop. Mathew won't be able to come home for a few days. But you can come home tonight."
Something inside Al breaks. Every muscle in his body seems to go slack, and tears begin to spill from the corners of his eyes. Arthur pulls him close, and for the first time in a long time, Al has something to hold on to.
Maybe even something to believe in.