The rain hammered down on the windows like machine gun fire. Even with them closed, between the old wooden frames and the supposedly insulated glass, the cold night's wind could be felt as it howled outside.
Insulated. Now there was a bad fucking joke. The apartment was kept immaculately in terms of the furnishings it's occupant provided. It was clearly thoroughly and regularly cleaned, though every time it was, more of the paint had flaked from the walls. There was visible rot around those wooden frames and the cupboards in the kitchenette off from the sitting area were in similar states of disrepair.
The occupant moved from the kitchenette slowly, using a cane in his left hand to balance himself while he held a tray in his right hand, a pot of tea, a small jug of milk, a bowl of sugar cubes and a cup and saucer sat upon it. It was something he'd been given years ago as a gift from an employer. That was another life. Back when he'd been a bodyguard and chauffeur. His employer had joked that he'd make a terrible butler and given him the tray as a present. It had golden lettering embossed upon it.
'To my dear friend, thank you for everything you have done for me and our family. I can never thank you enough, so instead I remind you in words you yourself would use; black, two sugars, hold the bloody milk. Yours' always, TW.'
The occupant smiled as he read over the words while sitting down. He'd been given the gift 20 years ago, for his fortieth birthday. Three weeks later, his friend and employer was dead. Gunned down in a mugging gone wrong, along with his wife. He still remembered when he'd been told.
A young police officer, must have been in his mid twenties, with a moustache that didn't suit him at all, his red hair being far to bright against his pale complexion, had come to the door. He'd brought with him a boy. The employer's son. Ten years old and he'd watched it happen. He'd watched someone blow his parents away.
The occupant sighed, closing his eyes for a moment as a single tear rolled down his face. The boy hadn't deserved to see that. Even if he did fall in with a bad crowd later on, even if he did make some stupid choices, he didn't deserve to have watched that. No one did.
People had often questioned why he'd taken the boy in, raised him like his own. Was it for an excuse to live in that gigantic old manor? It was certainly an upgrade from the quarters he'd maintained just off the grounds before that, which had been in a similar disrepair to his current dwellings. His time in the military had made him obsessive in his cleaning, but he was not one to concern himself with the state of repair of premises. If it served as shelter, it was sufficient for him.
No, it hadn't been about the house he'd got to live in for a time. It hadn't been due to the rumours that his employer wasn't the boy's father at all; his friendship with his employer's wife was well documented, and yes, there had been times it had gone beyond that. But unless it had been an abnormally long pregnancy, lasting for well over two years, he was most certainly not the boy's father.
However, maybe that did factor in. He had betrayed his friend's trust. He knew he had, and reminded himself of it often. In doing so, he reminded himself to stay true to himself and those around him. Not to stray away from the straight and narrow path as he had in his youth.
Of course, he didn't remind others of that fact. Very few people even knew. Only his Ex-Wife, who was an Ex-Wife for that exact reason, his estranged daughter and the boy had ever found out. He remembered the day the boy had found out.
It had been a matter of days since his eighteenth birthday, and he'd just got access to everything his parents had owned. Naturally, he was curious about them, having few memories of them. The boy had read an old journal of his mother's which had recounted details of the affair she'd had with the occupant. It didn't name names, but he was a smart kid. All that time hanging out with older kids who were angling to become doctors and lawyers, and the trust fund kid had actually picked some shit up. He could hardly be called the world's greatest detective, but he was good enough to add two and two.
He'd stormed into the occupant's room, shouting about how he'd lied to him all those years, how he was a selfish bastard for not telling him, and how he'd stabbed his father in the back. All of that he'd taken. It was when the boy had referred to his mother as a fucking whore that the occupant had snapped, punching the kid in the jaw and knocking him on his arse.
Until then, he'd been the boy's guardian, but then? Then he was just another employee, one who'd just punched his boss in the face. He'd been out the door within the hour. In court a couple of weeks later for assault and left with a criminal conviction for it.
He managed to get away with community service, but the damage was done. His former employer was the heir to one of the largest conglomerates in the country, and even with him disappearing to go travelling shortly after, the occupant had had no chance of getting another job. Hell, if he hadn't been squirrelling away every nickel and dime for decades, he'd have probably ended up on the streets.
Over the years, he'd managed to get a few jobs. He'd worked the door at a dive bar down in the bowery for a few years. Dumb decision that had been. There was a fight one night and, good security guard he was, he tried to break it up. He ended up stabbed in the leg. The blade barely missed the femoral artery, but it severed several nerves. He'd got a cash settlement under the table to keep quiet about it, but a doorman who needs a cane to walk was useless to them. He was let go.
That was six years ago. He could've squandered the pay-out and his savings then and there, and certainly, the amount of booze he was buying went up. For a time, he was drinking a bottle of brandy in an evening without thinking about it. It wasn't until the seventh or eighth time he woke up in a pool of his own vomit that he'd decided to get help. He went cold turkey, hardest thing he ever did.
He poured the tea into the cup before picking up the milk and pouring it into the dark liquid, watching as the colour lightened. He picked up a sugar lump, dropping it into the liquid before picking up the spoon on the tray and stirring it three times. As he placed the spoon back on the tray, there was a loud banging from his front door.
"Who is it?" The occupant yelled, his voice filled with a thick east London accent.
"I'm here to see Al." Came the voice of a young man from outside "That you?"
The occupant stood up shakily, moving towards the door. He looked through the peephole, Nearly falling over with surprise at the man outside. He opened the door, looking at him for a moment.
Jet black hair. Steely blue eyes. Chiselled features. The same ones his father had had. He'd gotten taller since the last time the occupant had seen him, probably around six foot two with a lean but clearly muscular frame underneath the motorcycle jacket and jeans he wore.
The occupant didn't hesitate, throwing a punch at the man. It connected with his jaw and he rolled with it. If he hadn't, given the occupant's arthritis, it could have broken his hand. It had been bloody stupid of him.
"I deserved that." The young man said, his expression neutral "Can I come in?"
The occupant stood there for a moment, looking at the young man warily before stepping aside, gesturing for him to come in. The young man looked around, moving to a photo of the occupant and his daughter, picking it up and studying it for a moment.
"Nice place." The young man spoke up finally, his tone still neutral, apparently intent not to give any feeling away.
"It's a fucking shit hole." The occupant replied "But it's all I could get once you were done with me. What are you doing here, Mr. Wayne?"
"Bruce." Wayne corrected "You practically raised me and I… I wanted to tell you I'm sorry. For everything. Alfred, what I did to you was unforgivable, but-"
"Too right it was!" Alfred cut him off "I understood, you were hurting, same as you had been every day since they died, and what I'd done was god awful, but you needed to learn to show some respect for the dead! Instead, you sacked me and wrecked my life."
"I was wrong." Bruce replied quietly "Alfred, if I could go back, change things, I would, in a heartbeat. I can't do that but I'm here because I want to make things right."
Bruce gestured to the sitting area.
"Can we sit down?" He asked, before nodding to the cane "I can keep standing, but I'm not so sure about you."
"I don't need your sympathy." Alfred replied coldly as he moved to the sitting area nonetheless, resuming his previous position "You'll forgive me if I don't offer you a cup of tea."
"I wouldn't deserve it." Bruce replied "I'm not going to beat around the bush. You know I spent the last twelve years travelling. I got back two weeks ago and I realised, in spite of all the groundskeepers and staff, the place felt empty. It didn't feel like home."
"That's a real shame." Alfred said sarcastically "Get to the point, Mr. Wayne, I want to have my cup of tea, watch Downton Abbey, and go to bed."
"I want you to come back to Wayne Manor." Bruce said, leaning forward in his seat "I'm working on something and, in spite of everything… You're the only person I've ever been able to trust."
"I thought that ship sailed twelve years ago?" Alfred questioned.
"So did I. Until I realised what a fucking moron I was." Bruce replied with a small smile "Please, Alfred. I need you."
"I'm hardly any good as a bodyguard anymore." Alfred said, nodding to his leg "In case you hadn't noticed, I'm well past that."
"That's not the role I want you in." Bruce said "Technically the title would be butler, but frankly there are about fifteen cooks and cleaners in the place so you wouldn't be doing much buttling. More a chief of staff role. Making sure things run smoothly and keeping appointments straight."
"Like a PA." Alfred rolled his eyes "I'm a little old for that, Mr. Wayne."
Bruce ran his left hand through his hair as he sighed. Clearly he'd thought this would be easier than it was.
"I've told you I was wrong, I've said sorry, what else will it take for you to come back?" Bruce asked.
"It's not me you have to apologise to, lad." Alfred replied "It's them."
"I can't speak to ghosts." Bruce replied "There's no such thing."
"Sure there are." Alfred replied with a smirk "Maybe not the way you're thinking, but we carry them with us, I know you bloody well do. So, tell them you're sorry."
"Fine." Bruce rolled his eyes "Mom, Dad, I'm sorry."
"Like you mean it." Alfred's smirk held.
Bruce stood. For a moment, Alfred thought he was going to turn and walk out. Then, he started talking.
"Mom, Dad, I'm sorry. For everything. I've let you down so many times. That's not happening anymore. I swear, on your memory, that I'll make you proud." He said, swallowing hard as he looked at Alfred "How was that?"
"Much better." Alfred said, standing up and holding a hand out to Bruce "Congratulations, Mr. Wayne. You just got yourself a butler."
….
A/N: Okay, so this is something I've been toying around with for a while. A take on the Batman mythos where Bruce and Alfred aren't as close as they normally are. It can and probably will get dark, but we'll see where it goes. Please feel free to leave any feedback, though please try to keep it constructive. B.