"Well I won't ever tell the world
that I don't belong.
Please don't ever tell the world
That I don't belong."

"Don't Belong" –Cold

Chapter Five:

"Are you terribly busy, or do you mind if I borrow her for a bit?"

It wasn't often that Alfred came down to the garden shed, and it was even less frequent of him to ask things of Mr. Harrison. This time, however, he did both, indicating Margot with a nod of his head.

Mr. Harrison frowned thoughtfully, pondering the request before he gave in. "All right then. But she's a gardener, Alfred. Not some spoon-polishing maid."

Alfred's brow creased a little, and one of his rare smiles flashed across his face. "The butler polishes the silverware, mate, and don't you forget it." His attention suddenly landed on Margot like a rock, the amused smirk gone. "Come on then."

She followed reluctantly, still feeling like an outsider, though she'd been working there for more than year. She'd always felt distant from the Waynes—that was to be expected. She'd barely even met them, perhaps a smile and a casual greeting as one or both of them passed through the gardens, offering a pleased compliment about managing to coax the wisteria back to life or her choice of flowers in the planters.

As for Alfred, well, she knew he wasn't a cold man, which made it even more infuriating that he treated her so brusquely. He could joke and play with Bruce—she'd seen them through the window, fencing with canes the other day. He could even share a smile with Mr. Harrison. But Margot, for some reason, was different. It wasn't that he seemed to dislike her.

Worse. He was indifferent.

"Wipe your feet," he reminded her gruffly before they entered the house, actually glancing back to make sure that she did.

"What do you need me for?" Margot asked, trying not to sound annoyed, even though she was.

Alfred didn't respond, leading her silently through the house. He stopped in front of a door and swung it open, indicating that she enter. It was a storage room of sorts, if Margot had to guess. Boxes were stacked upon boxes, documents lining shelves of bookcases.

"Master Bruce has requested all of the files on the Arkham plan. We need them moved from storage up to the study," Alfred explained.

Margot glanced back at the boxes and their labels. Arkham. Arkham. Arkham, Arkham, ARKHAM.

"There must be at least twenty boxes!" she exclaimed softly.

"Now you know why you're here," said the butler, already slipping out of his coat and draping it neatly over a pile of boxes. He rolled up his sleeves. "Shall we?"

Margot sighed and rolled up her own sleeves. She grabbed two boxes and hefted them into her arms, carefully carrying them from the room. Alfred followed with two boxes of his own.

She could feel his eyes on her from behind, and she wondered what the hell he was staring at and why.

"Is that a war injury?" he asked.

She assumed he was talking about the limp. "Yeah," she replied curtly. "Bomb. They say I'm lucky to still have a leg."

They reached the study. The door was closed, and Alfred set down his boxes to open the door. "If you need a break—" he began, his hand on the knob.

Margot reeled a little bit. Was he showing her concern? It was the first time he'd ever seemed to care at all. "I'll be fine," she replied.

He nodded and opened the door.

She entered.

Bruce glanced up from a file he had open on the coffee table, smiling slightly when he saw them enter with their boxes in tow. "The Arkham plan files?" he inquired hopefully.

"Yeah," responded Margot.

"Good," he said in a pleased tone. "You can set them over there," he added, pointing towards an empty place by the sofa.

She dropped the boxes with a grunt and dusted off her hands, stepping aside to make way for Alfred.

"How are you, Bruce? Did you get the CD I left for you?"

Bruce nodded. "I liked it," he said, "though I think they tend to overuse the metaphor between alcohol and blood."

Alfred straightened and shot a questioning, disapproving look at Margot.

"It's got a good beat to it though, don't you think?" she responded with a smile.

Before Bruce could reply, Alfred stepped in, interrupting in quiet reminder, "Boxes, Miss Vallant. Piles of them."

"Right." Grimacing at Bruce, she apologized and muttered, "Duty calls."

"I could help," the boy offered, tentatively getting to his feet.

Alfred opened his mouth, but it was Margot that got to it first.

"Ha! Like you could lift one of these with those twigs for arms," she teased.

"Hey!" Bruce protested.

"I believe what Miss Vallant so crudely attempted to say is that we'll manage fine on our own," interjected Alfred. He jerked his head at Margot, indicating that she follow him from the room.

Out in the corridor, he turned on her, whirling around so quickly that she had to back up against the wall to avoid colliding with him. "The boy has enough bloody nightmares as it is without you sharing your death metal shouting rubbish with him," the man hissed. "He's a twelve-year-old boy, in case it slipped your mind—not a Marine."

Margot frowned. "I'm not treating him like a Marine," she told Alfred quietly, using all of her energy to remain calm. "I'm treating him the way I wish somebody had treated me when I was fourteen and lost my father. Now," she continued in a crisper tone, "there are more boxes, and I'd like to finish before dark."

Then she pushed past him and left.