"Oh, you're in my veins
And I cannot get you out.
Oh, you're all I taste
At night inside of my mouth.
Oh, you run away
'Cause I am not what you found.
Oh, you're in my veins
And I cannot get you out."
"In My Veins" –Andrew Belle
Chapter Thirty-Four:
Even under the circumstances, Alfred was thrilled, no, positively ecstatic that Bruce had returned to the manor. The boy insisted that it wasn't for good, that he would leave as soon as Detective Gordon recovered. But Alfred was determined to make the best of it.
Once he'd seen to the detective and left him sleeping, Alfred descended into the kitchen, where Bruce was waiting. He joined him at the table, under the warm glow of the lights, and found himself thinking that it was almost as if the young man had never left.
"How is he?" the boy asked.
"Patched up, sleeping it off," Alfred replied. "He'll be a fair sight better after a good night's rest." He regarded the boy curiously, saw the deep concern in his eyes, noticed the circles under them, the hollow cheeks, the skeletal angles in his face. It was obvious he hadn't had a good meal in days. For the moment, though, Alfred refrained from mentioning anything. He'd wait until morning. Right now he was tiptoeing, afraid of making a misstep that might send the boy scurrying back to the city.
"Shall I fix you something to eat?" he inquired after a slight pause.
Bruce, who had been gazing around the kitchen, letting his eyes linger on the familiar surroundings, glanced at Alfred. He considered the question for a moment before nodding. "Yes, Alfred. I'd like that."
The man smiled and rose, happy to prepare something for the boy. They hadn't said much since Alfred had met Bruce and Selina in the city and given them a lift back to the manor with the wounded detective in tow. Most of their conversation had been about Detective Gordon, in fact. Still, as the butler began to collect the ingredients for a quick bowl of hot soup, he couldn't resist mentioning softly, "It's good to have you back, Master B."
"I won't be staying long," the boy reminded him.
"I know," said Alfred, avoiding Bruce's steady gaze.
He picked through a bit of leftover chicken and tossed it into a pot of broth, chopping vegetables quietly, each cut of his blade more than audible in the silence. He'd never felt awkward in Bruce's presence before, and even now it wasn't so much an awkward silence as it was a concerned silence.
Finally, he broke it. "Where's Miss Kyle?"
"Looking for Margot," replied Bruce. A small furrow formed between his eyebrows and he inquired, "Where is she anyway?"
Alfred felt his face fall, though he quickly disguised it. Turning to scrape the last of the carrots into the broth, he answered, "She left, Master Bruce."
"Left?" echoed the boy. "For good?"
The man nodded. "We decided that it was best."
Bruce frowned. "That doesn't sound like her at all."
Sighing, Alfred turned to the boy and grimly stated, "Right. Well frankly, sir, it's none of your business now, is it?"
His answer earned him a disapproving stare. "I didn't realize it was such a touchy subject."
"It isn't," he reassured Bruce.
The young man shrugged and seemed to let it go, falling silent and letting his gaze wander around the kitchen again.
"Perhaps you should see to Miss Kyle," Alfred suggested after a moment. "She may be lost, or worse, pocketing your valuables."
Bruce didn't even grace the suggestion with a response. "You didn't send her away, did you?" he asked suddenly.
"Who?"
"Margot."
"And if I did?"
Bruce seemed perturbed by the butler's cool demeanor. "Why would you do that? I thought things were going well."
Alfred considered not answering, but then he looked at the boy, sitting at the kitchen table, watching him fixedly. He deserved a little honestly. "They were," he replied. "But I have other responsibilities."
"Like shadowing me."
"Protecting you," he corrected.
"Hovering."
Irritated, Alfred snapped, "I don't hover."
Bruce sighed. "I appreciate your concern, Alfred, but I don't need you constantly protecting me. If anything, these past few weeks have proven that."
He knew the boy didn't mean to hurt him, but the words still stung. "Right," he responded quietly as he turned back to his soup. "Because I'm just the butler."
"You know that's not true," Bruce scolded the man sternly. He absently scratched at the table with a fingernail, adding in a softer voice, "I'm certain you had a good reason for sending her away. That's fine. But don't use me as an excuse."
They were both quiet for a bit, lost in thought.
Maybe the boy was right, thought Alfred. Maybe he had just used Bruce as an excuse. It was easier to tell Margot he was cutting their relationship short for the sake of the boy rather than admitting that it was because he was worried about getting too close, too attached. Because getting close to people meant letting them hurt you, deliberately or not.
Margot would one day hurt him. He knew it. And suddenly he knew not only why he pushed her away, but why he felt so protective of Bruce.
He'd let others in before, lowered his guard for them, grown close to them, even considered them family. And then they had died, leaving him alone with their only son in his care and a wound that had never quite healed.
It was too late for Alfred to guard himself against the concern and the love he felt for the boy. He could only do his best to protect Bruce so that he wouldn't lose him as well. But he had a chance with Margot, a chance to avoid the pain and the loss that would inevitably come. Even if it hurt for a while. Better to suffer a little now than excruciatingly later.
"I forgot how quiet the house is."
Alfred looked up at Bruce, meeting the boy's gaze. "Yeah, well you're out of the city now, aren't you, you little rake," he retorted. "Anything's quiet compared to that bedlam."
He tasted the soup after a few moments and, satisfied that it was done, prepared a bowl and served it to the young man. Bruce eagerly ate. Alfred couldn't help but feel pleased when he noticed the small, grateful smile that brightened the boy's face as he ate.
After a moment, Bruce glanced up and asked, "What was that song?"
Alfred frowned. "What?"
"Just a few minutes ago, while you were making the soup," the boy explained between bites. "You were humming something. Margot used to hum it too, I think."
"Just filling the silence, I suppose," Alfred replied softly, though he knew better. Bruce didn't seem to believe him either.
It was quiet again. Quiet because she was gone. And they both didn't like it.