Beneath Wayne Tower, the metal doors of the underground terminal slowly pull apart just in time for Bruce to fly through on his bike.
The motorcycle screeches to a halt and he pulls off his helmet as soon as his boot touches the ground. His long, dirty, greasy hair stays cemented in its disarray as he makes his way over to his work table to drop his heavy backpack on its surface. His suit inside the bag clanks when it makes contact.
It's hot in the terminal—a little too hot. Bruce shrugs out of his bomber jacket with a small groan, and runs a hand through his gross nest of a head. His body aches, and the exhaustion he's been recklessly ignoring for weeks makes his eyelids heavy and his brain fuzzy. It's irritating because he's ready to dig into the files of this trafficking case, not wanting to waste a second doing anything else.
But he feels disgusting, and a shower would not only rid him of the grime caked on his body; it would wake him up a little, soften some of the grogginess.
And caffeine would help.
He definitely needs caffeine.
With those two things essential for him to continue functioning and not collapse where he stands, Bruce forces himself out of his work space and rides the elevator to the penthouse.
The shower is orgasmic. Bruce sets the water to its hottest setting and stands in the downpour until his skin was red and inflamed. He then switches the water to the opposite extreme and lets his body go numb in the cold before stepping out of the tub. The steam is so thick in the bathroom he has to fumble around to grab a towel and blindly find the doorhandle to his closet. After drying off the excess water in his hair and dragging his fingers through it until there's no more resistance, he throws on a grey t-shirt, black joggers and black socks. He's still tired, but he feels immensely better than he did before the shower.
A deep yawn creeps up on him as he heads to the kitchen. His espresso machine is already turned on and a clean cup is waiting underneath the nozzle. Thank you, Dory.
"Maybe some water to balance out the heinous amount of caffeine you insist on poisoning yourself with?"
Alfred limps into the room, stopping by one of the refrigerators to grab a bottle of water with the hand that isn't gripping his cane. The Head of Security appears on Bruce right side, plopping the bottle on the counter in front of the young billionaire.
Bruce throws Alfred a look, making it abundantly clear he's not in the mood to be bitched at. But he actually is parched, which leads him to petulantly open the bottle. He takes a swig before swirling the bottle around in one quick motion to create a vortex that drains the rest of the water down his throat.
"You look like absolute shit. In case you weren't aware. When's the last time you slept?"
Bruce punches the button on the espresso machine and it hums to life, filling his cup with the liquid gold. His voice is gruff, clipped. "Tuesday, I think."
"Bloody hell, Bruce. It's Friday." Alfred leans on the counter next to Bruce, disapproval coating his tone and his facial features. He stares him down, noting Bruce's dark under-eyes, and waits for a response. Without looking at him, the younger man just shrugs, eliciting a deep sigh from his mentor. Alfred contemplates pressing the issue before deciding to tackle another one. "Have you eaten?"
"Alfred, enough. I'm fine." Bruce drains his mug faster than he drained the water and immediately hits the button for a refill. Alfred shakes his head and makes his way to the fridge as Bruce polishes off his second cup.
"Don't bother," Bruce comments, slightly annoyed, when he hears the fridge being rummaged through behind him. "I have to get back."
But when he turns to leave, Alfred steps in front of Bruce before he can make it out of the kitchen. "I'll make you a deal. You eat, and I'll accompany you as you work through those files." He shoves a Tupperware container stuffed with chicken and rice into Bruce's chest until Bruce stubbornly takes it.
A silent acceptance leads both men down into the train terminal. Alfred sits down at the only desk in the make-shift work space, and pulls his reading glasses from his pocket before slipping them on and spreading out the paperwork in front of him. He peers up at Bruce expectantly and is rewarded with both an eyeroll and the Tupperware being opened. To Alfred's relief, Bruce shovels some food into his mouth as he stands adjacent to him and turns his computer monitors on.
"You were right. He's probably a part of a bigger operation." Bruce catches up Alfred on the trafficking case between bites of his food, suddenly ravenous after the smell reminds his body it needs fuel to survive. It doesn't hurt that it's also his favorite— butter chicken. Alfred listens and nods along, circling words on the case files and flagging important information with sticky notes until Bruce has him completely up to date. When the Tupperware is empty, Bruce wipes his hands off and carelessly pinches out one of his contacts before plopping it onto its reader. The camera footage from the past two days pops up on the computer screen.
Alfred readies himself to take notes as Bruce rewinds back to the interrogation he conducted at the precinct. "Run the numbers on that truck.," the older man instructs as he pushes the paper with all of the truck's details closer to Bruce.
On his second computer, Bruce obediently dives into information about the U-Haul truck. He nods to himself as what he reads seem to support their suspicions. "Seems the U-Haul was a cover. It was originally an ice-cream truck...by Custom Mobile Foods. Serial number was scraped off, but I still tracked the initial purchaser. Says it was sold to a John Doe who paid cash, five-thousand over what it's worth." Bruce is quiet for a few minutes as he reads through the rest of his search before adding, "No impounded trucks from the past year are traced back to the same manufacturer. Either this is a one-time deal, or someone's being very careful…very calculated."
"Your form looks sloppy there," Alfred comments snidely when the footage shows the gruesome portion of the interrogation. "Probably because you're dead on your bloody feet."
The Wayne's Head of Security stands with a grunt and brings his notes along with him as he goes over to turn off the footage's audio— sick thuds, cracks and a man screaming himself horse blasts through speaker.s.
"Bastard's loud," Alfred huffs after muting it. He tosses down the stack of edited documents after standing to Bruce's left and points at the pictures taken of the girls when they were found. "That's professional, routine. The compartment they stored the girls in, the way they're tied up. This…" Alfred blows out air with a regretful shake of his head. "This is something big you've stumbled into. The driver probably doesn't even have information outside of what he gave you. Operations like this have big dogs at the top pulling strings until it trickles down to the bottom of the barrel. Makes them untraceable, untouchable."
"You have experience with cases like this," Bruce comments as he fans out Alfred's notes on the table before him. His brows are puckered, looking stressed, tired and worried. This is his first investigation of an organized crime of this nature. He wonders how long this has been going on, right under his nose. How many victims have been snatched and sold on his watch. It makes him angry, and his shoulders tighten up as his hands ball into fists.
His mentor nods and tucks his glasses back into his pocket."Unfortunately. My Albania days," the former British Intelligence officer sucks his teeth before tapping one of sentences he circled. "Guarantee there are more trucks. My guess is probably all U-Haul. Makes it easier to store them all in the same location without drawing suspicion. We find a pattern on that, and we can trace who bought them all. When you find a fisher, I'd wait until he coaxes out one of his trucks before you intervene."
"I'll snuff out 44 Below." Bruce sighs, thinking about the group home being targeted. There isn't a way he can investigate without drawing attention. The Batman meeting with Penguin isn't going to invite any second looks. But the Batman hovering around the group home most definitely will.
"I see that pretty friend of yours is back in town."
Alfred's sudden change in tone pulls Bruce out of his head in time for him to see Selina on the monitor staring into the camera. He reads her lips asking, "Miss me?"
Bruce quickly pauses the footage, and to Alfred's utter disbelief, the billionaire's neck and cheeks heat up to a blushed red.
The younger man's anger has visibly shifted to an undeniable bashfulness. "She heard about the case. Offered to help." While his tone is dismissive, Bruce avoids looking at Alfred as if his mentor was suddenly brighter than the sun. He can feel the Brit staring him down with a searching look, but ignores him.
"Bruce," Alfred chuckles softly, a warm undertone to his mild ribbing. But then he's suddenly standing up straighter, a realization abruptly shifting his energy to urgent.
"She could find the fisher working the home."
Bruce looks at Alfred now, the sudden urgency making him alert. "What do you mean?"
Alfred uses his cane to hustle over to one of Bruce's filing cabinets, throwing over his shoulder, "She'll know how to navigate."
Bruce follows Alfred, now growing annoyed at his lack of understanding. "Navigate?" Alfred pulls open the bottom drawer and starts digging through the files. When he still doesn't answer, Bruce growls at him. "Alfred!"
"The home. She can navigate the system, from her time in foster care."
This stops Bruce in his tracks as he stares down at Alfred while the older man finds the file he's looking for. "How the hell did you know that?" He doesn't receive an answer. Instead, Alfred hands him a file with Selina Kyle written on the front.
Bruce reads Alfred's face for a moment before flipping the manilla folder open to reveal photos and a background check on his feline-loving peer. His eyes cut to Alfred's and his face is scrunched up in confusion. "You did a background search on her?"
The two men just look at each other for a while, sharing an unspoken conversation that wipes Bruce's confusion from his features. Finally, Alfred says quietly, "Gordon's file is in there as well."
Bruce takes in a deep breath and releases it, setting the open file down before half sitting, half leaning on the table. He stares at her picture in thought. It's actually is a solid plan. He could work 44 below without raising any eyebrows. And Selina could go undercover at the home to track down the second fisher while also making sure no other kids were taken.
He usually wouldn't give this a second thought. Six months ago, he would pull her into this eagerly, just as he had pulled her into the Riddler case. He'd do anything to solve a case. But now...now, he finds himself hesitant.
Working with Selina would be complicated. For one, he'll be pulling her into possibly dangerous situations. She had pointed that out to him last time. You really don't care what happens to me, do you?
And he'd have to spend time with her. A lot of time, depending on how this case unfolds itself. It might lead to something he's not even sure he's capable of.
"I don't...know if I should...ask that of her."
Alfred searches Bruce's face, and suddenly the air between them is foreign; it's intimate and vulnerable. Something they haven't encountered since all those years ago, when Bruce was just a boy mourning the loss of his parents. But Alfred isn't going to make the same mistake he did last time. He grips his cane a little tighter and swallows.
"You care for her."
It's not a question, and Bruce doesn't bother to deny it. It's written all over him. Alfred nods and looks down. "That must...frighten you." Bruce visibly tenses up, but doesn't move otherwise. It's a silent invitation for Alfred to continue. So, he does. "I imagine that's quite hard for someone like you, who can't stand to be afraid."
Bruce is quiet. His eyes flicker to Alfred and he forces himself to try and hold them there. His instinct is to dismiss this conversation and run far, far away from anything like it. But he can't this time. Because he remembers the feeling of Alfred's hand holding his own. He remembers what it felt like to think he had lost the only family he had left. And for reasons he doesn't understand, he felt something similar the day Selina set off. The way she stepped away from his kiss. The way she didn't look back. Someone he had just met a week before. But he felt it, and it's lingered with him for the past six months.
Who am I kidding, you're already spoken for.
Alfred is right. It makes his stomach twist and he's extremely uncomfortable.
If there's one Bruce Wayne is not, however, it's a coward.
"It's...easier. To be alone. Like I told you at the hospital. I haven't' gotten past that fear, of losing the people I care about. So, I don't get close. I focus on this ," Bruce gestures around to the empty terminal they're standing in. "and not much else. But with her..." he sighs and can't find the right words to express how he feels. "With her, it's different. I feel...different. She can see me. And most of the time, I can't even see myself."
Alfred's eyes glaze over, and he has to work hard to stay composed. He swallows and nods, seeming to think very carefully about what he wants to say. And then he surprises them both by breaking their unspoken rule about talking about the Waynes.
"Your parents...they use to tell me stories. About how hard it was for them. Growing up, in a world like this, with the elite. Being soul heirs to the two most powerful families in the country." He pauses to assess if Bruce is okay with the direction he's going, and the younger man is very still. But he's listening, so Alfred continues. "And I don't know if you knew this, but the Waynes and the Arkham's were a bit against Martha and Thomas getting on the way they did."
Bruce looks at Alfred now, stunned. He always thought his parents were the best-case scenario for an arranged marriage. The elites joined together two powerful houses, and they just so happen to be in love. He had no idea the two families weren't on board with their union. "Why would they be against it? That doesn't make sense."
Alfred chuckles dryly, almost bitter. "They thought your mother...they weren't sure how stable she was." Understanding lights up Bruce's face, and it's followed by both hurt and anger. Alfred shakes his head in solidarity. "She used to have this anecdote, about drowning."
"Drowning?" Bruce questions softly, his voice strained.
The older man nods. "All her life, she felt like she was drowning. Barely able to hold her head above water. A metaphor, for how she felt. And the doctors, her parents, they'd throw lifebuoys at her, try and shout directions to find the shore. But nobody could truly save her. Nobody knew how to swim. Until she met your father." Alfred smiles softly, emotion breaking through in his voice as he remembers his dear friends. "He knew. They both understood each other in all the ways the rest of the world never could. The two of them...they had endured the same things. They were shaped in the same way. Your father always said, it truly was love at first sight. And I'd tell him that was horseshit."
Amazingly, Bruce cracks a smile, and Alfred laughs before running a hand down his face. "But what the hell did I know? I never loved anyone the way those two loved each other. Before them, I had never known anyone as true, as good as they were. Unbelievably good , especially for two people who came from a world of corruption and greed." Alfred pauses again, and waits for Bruce to meet his gaze.
"I see them in you, Bruce. I do. You say you haven't gotten over the fear of losing the ones you care for. But I don't think that's something you should be aiming to do. Because that's the part of you that belongs to them, that comes from them ." Alfred tenderly puts his hands on Bruce's shoulder and gives it a squeeze.
"It means that rambunctious, beautiful boy I met all those years ago is still in there. And he might...he just might have found someone who knows how to swim."
Bruce's eyes well up as they steadily hold onto Alfred's. He has to swallow while he struggles to find the right words to express himself, and then inevitably settles for a simple, "thank you, Alfred." His voice is barely a whisper, but Alfred hears him all the same. The two of them sit in the moment for what seems like a long time. What started out as uncomfortable has become comforting in a way they didn't expect. Bruce finds himself reminded about how deeply he cares for the man before him. And he relishes in how it feels.
The Head of Security's watch starts beeping, and he silences it as he checks the time. "Shit. I've got to go prep for your meeting with the investors." Alfred gives Bruce's shoulder one more meaningful squeeze before readying his cane. "It's in 6 hours. Try and get some rest before then, yeah?"
"Yeah." Bruce answers, and the two share a small smile before Alfred heads back up the tower.
Bruce's eyes slip down to the open file on his table.
He studies Selina's picture there, his heart hammering in his chest. A warm feeling follows, threatening to become all-consuming. And instead of pushing it away, he allows himself to see what it's like to wade in it.
Because he doesn't want to struggle holding his head above water.
He wants to learn how to swim.
