"The life I think about
Is so much better than this.
I never thought I'd be stuck in this mess.
I'm sick of wondering
Is it life or death.
I need to figure out who's behind me."

"One X" –Three Days Grace

Chapter Seventeen:

Alfred and Bruce returned to Wayne Manor with Margot there to greet them. She'd even filled a vase with cuttings of flowers from the gardens and left it in the study for them to find.

She didn't see either of them much, but she did catch Bruce in the kitchen once, preparing a sandwich. He was in the middle of cutting the bread. He'd already cut three slices, but they all looked like wedges—paper thin on one side and about two inches thick on the other side.

Margot approached and picked up one of the bread wedges. "I've seen square sandwiches, and round sandwiches, but never wedge sandwiches," she said with a laugh.

Bruce smiled weakly and kept cutting.

"What is this, a sandwich or a doorstop?"

She could see his shoulders shaking as he tried not to laugh.

Taking the other two pieces of bread, she set them upright and balanced the third on top of them. "Stonehenge!"

Bruce dissolved into laughter. "All right, yes," he admitted, "I can't cut bread."

"You're using the wrong kind of knife, kid," she pointed out, grabbing a bread knife from the block and offering it to him handle-first. "Try this one."

She watched as he carefully began to saw at the loaf of bread with it. This time, the slice was straight, but so thin that it folded in on itself and broke. The boy's shoulders slumped with disappointment.

"Why don't you just get sliced bread?"

He frowned. "Alfred usually makes it himself. And he usually cuts it," he added with a hint of worry in his voice.

"Well, consider this practice," Margot told him. "If you can't slice bread, you'll never survive in this crazy world."

Bruce let out a soft snort. "That's highly improbable."

Leaning on the table, Margot watched as he tried to cut another piece. "It doesn't have to be perfect, you know."

"It does," said Bruce distractedly, focusing all his attention on cutting the perfect slice of bread.

A hint of suspicion tugged at her, and she noted, "This is for Alfred, isn't it."

"Yes."

"Right. Well, why don't I cut the bread for you, and you can tell him you did it."

"That would be cheating," he pointed out.

"True, but you're running out of bread there," she replied.

Bruce looked at the remaining half of the loaf and paused, as if he were calculating the chances of him being able to cut two perfect slices before he reached the heel of the bread. He finally sighed and handed Margot the knife.

"Even pressure's the key," she explained as she showed him how to do it, cutting off a decent slice of bread. She cut another, then handed him the knife. "Now you try."

He reluctantly took the knife and continued to cut. By the end of the bread, he seemed to be getting the hang of it.

"Good," Margot said with a smile. "Now what are we going to do with all this sliced bread?"

The boy gave her a wry shrug. "Do you feel like a sandwich?"

It was interesting, Margot thought, to watch Bruce from a distance as he cared for his butler. She found it a humorous and endearing turn of events. They really were like family, the two of them. A strange and inseparable pair.

Well, almost inseparable.

Margot was trimming the topiaries by the front door when she heard a vehicle approaching. Looking over her shoulder, she saw that it was a taxi. Frowning curiously, she took a couple of steps towards the car when the front door opened and out stepped Bruce.

"Margot," he greeted her with mild surprise.

"What's with the taxi?" she asked, noticing that he was dressed to go out, bundled up in his coat and scarf.

"I have to meet a friend. Can you look after Alfred?"

Margot eyed him suspiciously. "A friend?"

"Yes, I have friends, Margot," he informed her. "Alfred's in the study. He wasn't supposed to be out of bed yet, and he popped a few stitches. He should be sleeping now."

Margot hesitated, but didn't see what she could do. It wasn't as if she was in any position to stop the boy. "Yeah," she agreed reluctantly. "All right."

Bruce thanked her and made his way towards the taxi. "Margot?" he called back.

"What?"

"If he wakes up, don't tell him I've left."

She definitely had a bad feeling as she watched the boy leave, but she dutifully turned around and made her way to the study. Alfred was there on the sofa, sleeping with a blanket drawn up to his chest, just as Bruce had said. She sat in a nearby chair, wondering how long she'd be there, watching the sleeping man. And what would she say if he woke up?

A soft tap at the window startled her out of her thoughts. At first, Margot thought it would be Cat. She did have the habit of using windows like doors. Except she didn't usually knock first.

Margot reached for her shears, which she'd brought inside with her, and cautiously went to the window. She pulled the curtains away and felt a shock of dread shoot through her when she caught sight of Freddie standing in the planter outside.

"What the hell are you doing here?" She climbed through the window and closed it sharply behind her.

"I followed you," replied Freddie with a shrug. "What business do you have at Wayne Manor anyway?"

"None of yours," she retorted, pointing the shears threateningly at him.

He glanced down at the shears and noted, "You work here, don't you?"

"What do you want?" she demanded.

Freddie looked up at her with a hard kind of desperation in his eyes. "I have a new boss now. He heard about your deal with Fish and he wants to meet you."

"No."

The man reached for her, grabbing her by the front of her jacket. "Look, Margie, he's not asking!"

Margot raised the blade of her shears to his neck, pressing the point against his jugular, staring him down until he slowly, tentatively let her go. "Now you leave, Freddie," she growled, "and you tell this new boss of yours that my deal is with Fish, not with him." The man made no indication that he was leaving, so she added, "If I see you again, I'll kill you, Freddie. Friend or not. You stay away from me, and you stay away from Wayne Manor."

He hesitated, glaring at her, his fists clenched and his body shaking. But then he turned away and went running across the grounds, disappearing beyond the gate.

Margot watched, wanting to be sure that he'd gone before she stepped back inside through the window.

Alfred was stirring when she returned. "Margot?" he inquired hoarsely, lifting his head to look at her. "Why are you climbing through the windows? That's what the bloody door is for."

"Right," she retorted, trying to keep her voice steady. "I'll just walk a half mile to the door and a half mile back here to the study. How are you?"

"I'm fine," he grumbled, trying to sit up with a wince. "Where's Bruce?"

"Studying outside," she lied, sitting down on the armrest by his feet. "He's fine. He sent me in to check on you."

Alfred peered at her with narrowed eyes, and for a moment she worried that he wouldn't believe her.

"Do you need anything?" she asked, hoping to distract him.

He pulled himself further up into a sitting position and winced painfully. "A good stiff drink," he gritted through his teeth.

"I'm not sure you're supposed to—" she stopped herself, seeing the look he shot her. "How does scotch sound?"

"Perfect," he growled.

She nodded and got to her feet. She went down to the cellar, ignoring the wine, and brought up a bottle of single malt scotch that looked like it would be good. Not that Alfred would be picky, she thought. Not in his condition.

She poured three fingers of scotch into a glass, sipping some of it out as she returned to the study, where she found Alfred still trying to sit up. Margot simply approached and handed him the whisky with one hand while she pushed him back down with the other hand.

When he started to protest, she interrupted, "You don't want to leak all over the sofa, do you?"

He grimaced wryly and settled back down again, taking a long sip of scotch. "God, I needed this."

"Now don't try to move anymore," she said with concern as she sat on the end of the sofa. "Bruce needs you in good health, and you're never going to heal if you keep ripping yourself open."

Alfred looked up at her with the kind of expression that usually preceded one of his sarcastic remarks. "And I suppose you're going to keep hovering."

"If that's what it takes," she responded.

He simply regarded her over the edge of his glass, stretched out on the sofa, his hair ruffled, his shirt half unbuttoned, the fresh bandages around his torso peeking through. "You're like a prison warden, you are," he noted.

"I didn't realize you were so whiny," she retorted.

"Just keep the scotch coming."

"Are you on painkillers?"

"No."

"…"

"Yeah, all right, I took one this morning."

"That's what I thought." She stood and removed the glass from his hand. "You should rest."

"I've had enough bloody rest," he grumbled, but she noticed he made no other attempts to move. In fact, he seemed more tired than anything. Margot hung around, absently straightening up, and the next time she glanced at Alfred, he was sleeping again.

She let out a sigh of relief. She'd been worried that he'd insist on getting up, looking for Bruce, catching her in her lie. When that kid returned, she was going to let him know that he'd better not depend on her to cover for him again.

Of course, when he actually did return—well into the evening—he looked so upset that all of Margot's irritation melted away.

"Bruce," she said, rising tiredly from the chair in which she'd been dozing. "Where have you been?"

He shook his head and didn't answer, staring instead at Alfred, who still slept on the sofa. "How's Alfred?"

She sighed. "He'll be fine. He's a complete nuisance as a patient, though. I don't know how he hasn't managed to put himself back in the hospital yet."

Bruce smiled wanly. "He's not used to sitting still for long." His gaze dropped a bit, and a heavy sigh shook its way out of his narrow frame.

"Is everything all right?" Margot asked him.

He nodded. "Yes. Thank you." He sat down in a chair and looked up at her. "I'm sorry to have kept you here so late. You can go home now, if you'd like."

"Are you sure you're all right?" she pressed, but the boy didn't break.

"I'm fine. Goodnight, Margot."

She bid him a reluctant farewell and left, telling herself she didn't want to know what was going on. She had enough to worry about.

That was a lie, though.

Margot was distracted by classes for the next few days, and by the time she returned to work, she found that Alfred was up and about as usual. If his wound was still troubling him, he showed no sign of it. In fact, he came all the way out to the far east end of the gardens in search of her that afternoon.

"Margot!" he called to her, beckoning her towards him.

"What is it?" she asked as she approached.

"I was hoping you'd be able to stay a bit once you finished your work. I'd like a word."

She regarded him with a hint of worry. Having a word with somebody was almost never good. She felt a bit of panic. Had he found out that Bruce had left? That she'd lied to him? Or worse, did he know about Freddie's visit? Had he discovered that dark little secret?

"Of course," she answered, forcing herself to remain calm.

He nodded and left, and Margot returned to work, but she was distracted the rest of the day.

Finally, when evening came, she made her way to the kitchen—which had somehow become their usual meeting place—and found Alfred at the table with a glass of scotch in hand. He seemed unusually pensive, which for Alfred was saying quite a bit.

He glanced up at her and offered her a seat. "Take a pew." Without asking, he rose and grabbed a second glass, pouring her a couple of fingers.

Margot accepted it quietly. "You wanted to talk?"

Alfred sighed, his gaze distant, his mind probably even farther away. Finally, he murmured, "There's a bloody war in the streets."

She frowned slightly. By now, it was all over the news, the gang war between Falcone and Maroni. But everybody in the city proper had been well aware of the building tensions for weeks. As strange as it must have seemed for people like Alfred and Bruce, who lived on the fringes of the city, to Margot, it was just another day in Gotham.

"There's always been a war," she replied calmly, taking a sip of scotch. "It's just that everybody's noticing it now." She peered at the man, catching a hint of deep sadness and regret in his eyes. "What's wrong, Alfred?"

He shook his head. "Times like these, I wonder…" He trailed off, as if he had just run out of air and the effort of breathing was too much for him. Turning his glass over in his hands, watching the dim light play through the last dregs of his whisky, he sighed heavily. "I've never raised a child before."

Margot didn't like the melancholy that seemed to hang over the man. He'd always struck her as being fairly serious, but he wasn't one to wallow in self-pity. Something was wrong, she thought.

As she had done so many times with Bruce, she tried to tease the man, joking, "Well that's obvious."

Instead of wringing a wry laugh from the man, though, it only earned her a reproachful stare.

"Sorry," she apologized quickly.

They were silent for a moment, before Alfred spoke again. "Master Bruce… He wants so badly to grow up. He keeps dabbling in things—dangerous things. I don't know that I can protect him from it anymore. Especially not with the city in a shambles. Everything's bedlam, Margot."

She frowned. "Dabbling?" she inquired. "What's Bruce dabbling in, Alfred?"

The man looked up at her, staring for a moment before he stated plainly, "Reggie's dead."

"Your friend that came by?" she inquired in shock.

Alfred nodded. "Bruce told me this afternoon that he was there when it happened. It was that lairy girl that did it."

"Cat?"

Again, the man nodded.

"Why?" she asked in stunned disbelief. She'd only been gone for a few days, and yet it felt as though so much had happened in that short span of time. Of course, in hindsight, she'd suspected Reggie of stabbing Alfred, but nobody had confirmed her suspicions. Maybe that's where Bruce had gone those few days ago, disappearing to meet a friend and not returning until late.

"Does it matter?" Alfred responded.

"Well what are you going to do about it?"

"There's nothing to do, is there," he said with a defeated sigh. "Master Bruce is going to do what he does, and I suppose I'll go on doing what I know to do—protecting him the best I can."

Margot still felt slightly confused, but there was one thing she was sure of. Reaching for Alfred's hand, she placed hers over it and reassured him, "You don't have to do it alone."

The man stared down at their hands quietly before he slowly shifted, pulling away. "Thank you, Margot, but I'm certain you have troubles of your own to worry about."

She wasn't sure what had changed, but she suddenly felt a bit of distance between herself and the butler. Had she said something wrong? Or was he just trying to keep her out of business that wasn't hers?

"How's your mother?" he asked, changing the subject tactfully.

It felt a little strange to be talking about her mother when there was a war on the streets of Gotham. Of course, here, far away across the bridge, everything seemed so much quieter, safer, even though she knew it wasn't true. And making conversation…maybe that was just Alfred's way of trying to maintain the illusion of safety.

She shook her head. "Belligerent."

"And your studies?"

A shrug. "Nearly over."

"Your literature class?"

At this, she smiled a bit. "I'm scraping by with a B, thanks to you."

He smiled wanly. "Once I got you to do your reading, the rest was easy. When is your graduation?"

"A week from Saturday."

"I expect you'll want the day off."

"No," she told him. "I'm not going."

"Too dangerous with the crime war? I didn't think it was affecting Burnley district."

"It's not," she replied. Burnley was the district that housed Gotham University, and most of the fighting had remained in Gotham's East End. At least for the time being. "I just don't want to sit through a boring ceremony. They'll mail me my diploma."

Alfred snorted softly. "And what, may I ask, will you do with your newfound freedom?"

She considered the question. "Well…I was considering working full-time, if that's all right with you."

"Of course." He sat back, musing on something before he said, "It's a pity, though, you missing your graduation and all."

"Trust me, it's not," she assured him.

"Still, perhaps we should celebrate," he suggested.

"Why?"

"It may be good for Master Bruce to take his mind off of things. Tell you what, you stay after work Sunday night. I'll make you dinner." He smiled tentatively, watching her expectantly.

Margot laughed softly and looked down at her hands. Dinner at Wayne Manor. She'd enjoyed it the last time. Her mother wouldn't be happy about it, but then again, there was a lot she wasn't happy about these days.

"All right," she gave in.

"Good," Alfred murmured, and he actually looked pleased about it.