Chapter Text
Oh, bloody hell.
Bruce arrives at the Wayne Manor late into the night. The double entrance door slams behind him, the sound resonating through vast halls. Alfred winces – he'd settled in a study close to the main entrance, just in case Bruce decides to act like a normal human being and use it instead of sneaking in from underground or descending down a building with his grapple hook.
Alfred had been perusing quite the lovely new issue of his favorite crossword magazine. The editors had always provided him with a welcome challenge, it's almost as if many of these were created to suit his personal brain teaser needs. But, ah well. No matter how comfortable his arrangement is at the moment, duty calls, and the comfort of his master is leagues above his own comfort in priority.
Alfred sighs and rises from the velvet armchair. Its vintage form whines in response, already missing him.
"I'll be back in a jiffy," he quietly says to the armchair, making sure Bruce won't catch this awkward moment.
It gets just a tad lonely here is all. An old man's got to humor his whims and his boyish side once in a while, eh?
Though Alfred would prefer to be knocked dead instead of having Bruce find out about his silly habit of talking to objects.
As Alfred exits the study, he notes wet trails on the wood parquet and quiet shuffling steps in the depths of the dark corridor. Sighing, Alfred makes a mental note to clean up the messy aftermath of Bruce's nocturnal by-time.
"Master Bruce? Pleasant night?" he calls out. He is met with silence.
Well, it's not like Alfred expected any different response.
The door – bathroom door – slams shut. Alfred walks up to it, and the leftover smell hits him – the stench of booze, tobacco and sex .
Oh. Right, then.
"Master Bruce, you alright in there?" Alfred calls out to Bruce through the door. "I have painkillers and can brew you a cup of chamomile tea, to calm your nerves and… other parts of your body, if you wish."
Quiet, yet again. Alfred is used to this. He knows better than to pry.
"At least I hope you'd had enough common sense to use rubbers," Alfred says louder, to make sure Bruce hears his wise words. Too late to make sure his master got proper sex ed, but Alfred couldn't help leaving a snide comment.
Just as he's about to take his leave, a faint voice comes from behind the door. "Some painkillers would be nice." Well. Alfred makes haste. He's glad he stocked his study with medications.
He bypasses the need to knock – after all, it sounds like a pressing matter. He's sure Bruce will forgive him.
"Sorry I didn't knock, Master Bruce, had a feeling in me gut that this is urgent." Not paying any attention to the glower he got from Bruce, Alfred approaches him, only to stop in his tracks as he glances over his master's back.
"Might I have the audacity to inquire as to what happened, Master B?" Alfred asks, a bit sarcastic. He doubts Bruce will disclose which predicament he's gotten into that his entire back is covered in scratches, but it is worth a shot.
Alfred can only hope it wasn't an encounter with a stray cat.
Bruce turns around to take the pill from Alfred and pop it in his mouth, and that's when Alfred notices the bites and hickeys covering his upper body and thighs. No, that definitely wasn't a cat.
"Had a bit of a tussle, I presume," Alfred continues to prod, a bit worried. Just a bit. He could guess the reason of those marks judging by Bruce's late appearance and the smell of sex, but he wants to hear it from Bruce. To make sure Bruce wants to talk about it and is comfortable with sharing his misadventures.
Bruce sighs under Alfred's inquisitive look, rubs at his neck, picks at the red scab on his chest. Alfred senses quiet hesitation coming off of him.
When Bruce starts talking, his voice is croaky, like it hasn't been used properly in a while. Or it's been used so much tonight that it went hoarse. "It's fine. My partner for the night just got a bit rough. That's all."
Saying nothing, Alfred just raises his eyebrows, as if saying " really, Master B? You're sleeping around again? "
Miffed, Bruce whips around to face away from Alfred, and starts undressing. "I did what I did, Alfred. Don't give me the damn look."
"Your wish is my command," Alfred smoothly replies.
Bruce climbs into the bathtub, and that gives Alfred an opportunity to survey his wounds and marks more. Dear, that someone really did a number on him, didn't they? The scratches were deep and crusted with dried beads of blood, and the hickeys were a deep, deep purple.
How his master spends his nights is none of his business, but Alfred couldn't help but worry. This distress goes beyond the boundaries of their master-manservant relationship, he knows that. And despise that, the emotions that fill Alfred are similar to fatherly concern.
Alfred squashes them down, shaking his head. He makes a point of staying in the bathroom with Bruce, showing both worry and chagrin at Bruce's actions. Vocalizing his thoughts would be crossing the line, so Alfred hopes his silence and stare will speak for him.
Already naked and standing in the bathtub, Bruce catches Alfred's glance, and for a second, he looks guilty. But he seems to have made up his mind. He clenches his jaw.
"That's all I'm willing to share, Alfred. Goodnight." Bruce closes the shower curtain, indicating that their conversation is over.
Knowing better than to overstay his welcome, Alfred sighs and quietly retreats from the bathroom, giving Bruce some space.
He'll talk about it with Alfred if he feels the need to. At least, that's what Alfred tells himself, as he settles into his armchair and pours himself a shot of whiskey.
A cut finger is never a pleasant occurrence.
The little diddy of a carrot, hardened in its winter slumber underground, has been giving Alfred quite a hard time. He got overzealous in trying to cut through it, and paired with his morning grogginess, it was a recipe for disaster.
Cradling his finger to his chest, Alfred rushes to the closest first aid kit – the one stashed in the bathroom.
As Alfred swabs at his cut with a hydrogen peroxide-covered cotton ball, he busies his mind with checking if any of the drugs and remedies need to be restocked. Nimesulide: check, 26G injection needles: check, surplus of Bruce's neuroleptics: check, sterile bandages: check, pregnancy tests–
Oh.
Huh.
Guess he should stock up on those.
Alfred kept one or two in the first aid kit out of habit – you never know when you might need it. However, as for using them recently…
The more curious and nosy part of Alfred couldn't help but run through the list of suspects. And this list was quite short.
Since Bruce continued to have encounters with his mystery partner, judging by the bruises appearing on Bruce from time to time, it would be fair to assume that those situations are linked. Alfred sighs and rubs the bridge of his nose.
He really should continue with the breakfast preparations, but his mind dwells on the possible explanations.
Could Bruce have gotten that certain someone pregnant?
Fate must be taking the piss with this one, huh?
Alfred sighs again and smoothes his palms over his face. He makes quick work of bandaging his cut and returning to the kitchen.
He'll ponder what this all could mean later, Alfred consoles himself. He definitely should ask Bruce about the meaning of this, though.
Only during the day, Alfred doesn't see Bruce at all, which is incredibly odd. Either he slinked off to somewhere, or is simply making himself scarce and avoiding Alfred. Alfred isn't sure which scenario is worse, considering what he'd found moments ago.
He gives Bruce time. If his gut is right and what Alfred suspected has indeed happened, Bruce will come to him eventually when he is ready.
And fortunately, it doesn't take long for Bruce to do so.
Bruce awkwardly shuffles into the kitchen where Alfred has been resting for a while, poring over crosswords – he knew that he might cross paths with Bruce if he stays in the kitchen. Probably not expecting to see Alfred there, Bruce jolts, but doesn't run off.
The bags under his eyes look even darker, Alfred notes somberly.
Bruce plucks a blueberry from the fruit plate on the table – so Alfred has been expecting him. He lets out a shaky sigh as he chews the juicy berry.
Alfred studies him with an unreadable expression, then asks, "Something wrong, Master Bruce? You've been absent for a bit, and you usually don't make a habit out of that." Taking a blueberry and eating it too, Alfred continues, "or is there something that's weighing you down?"
Bruce immediately shrivels, curls his shoulders inward. It pains Alfred to be the one dragging this reaction out of Bruce, but his worry gets the better of him. "I cannot do my best to help you if I don't know what the matter is, Bruce," he gently but firmly reassures, dropping the honorific title to get through to Bruce's feelings.
Like a fish blown out of water, Bruce opens and closes his mouth a few times, inhaling the air he needs to confess. "I… I had to take that pregnancy test. In the first aid kit."
Alfred puts a hand on Bruce's shoulder to put his charge's mind at ease, but his brows are still slowly creasing. "Right, go on."
"I've made a mistake," Bruce wheezes out. "This wasn't supposed to happen. I thought it would be a one-time thing, but I just let it go on. I might have done something irreversible, Alfred…"
"Oh, Bruce…" Alfred wraps him in a tight hug strengthened by the marine training. "Whatever happens next, you know I'm always here for you. And I'll support your decisions."
They stand like this for some time, Bruce quietly shaking and Alfred holding him together. Ever since he was a baby, Bruce enjoyed being pet on the back of his head, it always pacified him when he cried. So, Alfred did just that, smoothing his hand over Bruce's slightly dirty hair again and again.
Once Bruce stops trembling, Alfred clasps his shoulders and looks him in the eye to assess the situation. Seems to have calmed down a tad. Alfred smiles. Bruce doesn't return it, not even a slight crinkle of crow's feet around his eyes. He doesn't smile anymore, or show any warm, positive emotion.
It pains Alfred to think how much Bruce hurts day in and day out, and that he can do little to help with that. Right now, Bruce is with him, but his mind is somewhere far, far away – thinking only of his alter-ego, and cowering from his public self.
"So, who's the lucky person to be carrying the Wayne heir?" Alfred asks, chipper, trying to dissipate the mood and maybe cheer Bruce up, raise his spirits, and get him talking.
Bruce blanches. "Uh… Alfred, what do you think happened?"
"Well, you got someone pregnant, it should be obvious, innit?"
Bruce places his face in his palms, as if wanting to smother himself. His voice is muffled as he speaks. "Alfred, it's me who is pregnant."
And Alfred can only stare at him in utter bewilderment.