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The front doors to Gotham Academy, despite all appearances to the contrary, did not open. A small, sun-faded sign pinned in the corner of the double-leaded glass directed Alfred to the side doors.
Despite dozens of phone calls and meetings with Academy officials over recent months, it was his first time actually stepping foot on the school campus.
He prayed to whatever higher power was listening that it wasn’t glaringly obvious. There was no dignified way to back up from a mistaken turn, but he tried regardless, nodding at a passing staff member.
“Main office is that way,” the woman pointed toward the side doors, sounding tired, “Buzz to get in.”
“Thank you, Ma’am,” Alfred said, inclining his head again instead of snapping I know, I’m already on my way, “Much obliged.”
The side doors weren’t nearly as ornate as the front. Thick, scratched metal bracketed what looked like high-quality bullet proof glass in each door, the windows barely larger than a playing card.
Alfred pressed the small buzzer on the left side of the doors, waiting patiently as it rang through to the office.
“Parents’ day?” a voice crackled through the speaker.
“Um,” Alfred said, leaning forward, “Well, it’s not quite--”
The door buzzed open before he could finish. Alfred blinked, grabbing the knob before it could close on him.
A behemoth of a security guard directed him toward a metal detector, X-ray scanner, and table, looking exceptionally bored.
“Wallet, keys, and metal items,” he said, monotone, “Any weapons?”
“No,” Alfred said, quickly handing off his wallet and keys into the small gray tray, “Do I need to take off my wristwatch?”
The security guard looked at his wrist, then shrugged. Alfred took it off anyway, setting it down on his wallet and keys.
“Through the detector,” the security guard said, “Sure you don’t have any weapons? Guns, knives, blunt objects?”
“No weapons,” Alfred confirmed for a second time, “Just the wallet and keys.”
He walked through the metal detector, gratified when it didn’t beep. He paused on the other side, waiting for the security guard to push the tray with his wallet, keys and wristwatch through the X-ray.
“One last check,” the security guard stepped after him through the metal detector. It began beeping frantically, “No sharp items? No drugs? No ropes or ligatures?”
Dear lord, Alfred thought, spreading his arms out when the security guard nudged them apart with a handheld detector, What kind of incidents have they been having?
“Hmph,” the security guard grunted, dropping the wand. “Okay, you’re fine. Office is up ahead to the left.”
Alfred thanked him as his tray was pushed through, claiming his wristwatch, wallet and keys. He donned the former, pocketing the latter two, and headed toward the office.
The second he stepped foot into the small, dim office, a tired-sounding voice called out to him.
“Last name?”
Alfred closed the office door behind him, mindful of the bell. He turned around, straightening slightly as he spotted the woman who’d spoken.
“Well,” he said, brushing a hand down the front of his shirt to smooth it, “I’m actually here because--”
“Last name,” the woman cut him off, not looking up from her computer screen, “I’m not going to ask you again, sir.”
Alfred got the distinct impression that Carla -- according to her nametag, pinned perilously above the neckline of her blouse -- didn’t want to be here.
He could, unfortunately, relate.
“I apologize, ma’am,” Alfred said, bestowing a smile on her that was clearly wasted, “It’s Pennyworth.”
There was a brief interlude of typing. Alfred watched, entranced by the way the woman’s lengthy nails clicked across the keyboard.
“We don’t have a student here by that last name,” Carla said, finally glancing up at him, “If you’re looking for Gotham Sports Academy, it’s actually down the street--”
“Ma’am,” Alfred said, holding up a hand, “If you’d let me finish, I could have told you--”
“Are you getting an attitude with me?” Carla asked, raising an eyebrow. Her hand hovered over what must have been a panic button near her knee, “Because you can be escorted out, sir. I can make that happen.”
“I apologize,” Alfred said, smiling around gritted teeth, “I meant no offense, ma’am. Only to offer clarification.”
His apology clearly didn’t impress Carla any more than his initial appearance had. She crossed her arms, staring at him suspiciously.
“You here for Parents’ day?” she asked.
“Yes,” Alfred said, “My ward, his -- my -- last name does not match.”
“Your… ward.” Carla repeated, dubious. She pronounced ward like she’d never heard the word before.
“Yes. He’s a legal ward in my custody.”
“So you’re his parent?” she squinted at him.
“No,” Alfred said, feeling slightly flushed all of a sudden, “I’m his legal guardian.”
“Oh,” Carla said, breaking off her staring with a sharp nod, “You adopted him. That’s why the last names are different.”
“I--” Alfred paused, restraining himself from elaborating further on the legal overlapping of adoption, legal guardianship, and foster care, “Yes. Something like that.”
“You should get around to changing that,” Carla said, returning to her computer, fingers poised at the ready over her keyboard, “It’ll make pickup easier if they match.”
Alfred winced. “I…suspect he might like to keep his.”
“Hmph,” Carla said, “Last name?”
Oh, Alfred thought, this again.
“Wayne,” he said, feeling a pang of grief -- ever present, hardly dulled by the months that had passed -- as the name hung in the silence of the office.
Carla must have recognized it, because her fingers continued to hover over the keyboard. After a moment, she twitched slightly, typing one-handed in an impressive keystroke.
She didn’t need his first name, for obvious reasons.
“His class is down the hall,” she said, glancing up at him, “Room 212. They’ll be starting in a few minutes. There should be some other parents waiting outside in the hallway.”
Her voice was much softer, almost as if in apology. Alfred nodded, swallowing around the sudden lump in his throat.
“Thank you, ma’am,” he said, “I appreciate the assistance.”
Carla squinted at him again, scanning his face for something Alfred couldn’t determine. After a moment, she leaned around the computer, handing him an identification badge.
“Badge stays on the whole time you’re in the building,” she said, back to dismissive, “Check in here before you leave. Understood?”
“Understood.”
He left the office with the badge pinned to his collar, following the signs for the 200 block of rooms.
Room 212 was indeed easy to find. Several parents stood outside the door, tapping their feet or looking anxiously at their watches.
He recognized several important faces -- local businessmen, a few doctors and lawyers -- and swallowed down his sudden anxiety before it could show on his face. A few glanced up as he approached, quickly dismissing him after a cursory scan.
He wasn’t supposed to be here. Not when Thomas would have been at home among the crowd, shaking hands and schmoozing his way to casual dominance. Even Martha would have dazzled more than him, with her charity work and obvious accolades trailing after her like a fine, silk cape.
It wasn’t his place -- far from it -- but Bruce had asked. One of the first requests he’d voiced in months, ever so quietly over the previous night’s dinner table.
You don’t have to come, he’d said, not meeting Alfred’s eyes, But the other kids -- they said --
Alfred had been able to fill in the blanks. He’d plated Bruce’s dinner carefully, waiting for the boy to continue with bated breath.
Would you? I mean. Would you come, Alfred? If it’s not too much trouble?
Bruce had asked, and here he was. Dressed in his best suit, pressed within an inch of its life. Ready to captivate an entire class with his stories of…cleaning and driving.
Perhaps the children would become bored with the other parents long before he had to speak, and merely showing up would assuage the concerns of Bruce’s fellow students.
After a few minutes of awkward silence, a harried-looking teacher poked her head out of the classroom, gesturing them in.
“Please, line up at the front of the classroom,” she said, directing them through the door, “Everyone, let’s welcome our guests!”
Alfred ducked inside as the children began clapping, furiously tamping down on the flush he could feel creeping up his neck. He found some space behind one of the Kane son-in-laws -- some investment banker -- and tried to make himself unobtrusive.
Bruce managed to find his eyeline with little difficulty. Alfred didn’t miss the way the boy brightened slightly, clearly relieved.
He watched as Bruce tapped the boy next to him, gesturing toward Alfred. The two spoke quickly, then the boy turned to follow Bruce’s pointed finger.
That’s him, he could see Bruce saying, the words clear as day, even though he couldn’t hear them. A pang went through his chest, hot and sharp.
The teacher redirected the class’ attention, welcoming the parents for a second time. She handed off the introductions to the first parent -- one of the lawyers -- and took a seat near the door.
Alfred stood awkwardly through several parents’ presentations, hands folded in front of him. After each introduction, the students were encouraged to ask questions, though the overall curiosity seemed to have dimmed by the second parent.
By the seventh parent, it was clear the only person asking questions was the teacher, or the child of the parent. Alfred couldn’t blame them, really. It was hard to get adults interested in tax law, much less eight year-olds.
Before he’d realized, every single parent in front of him had presented, reluctantly parting to allow him to the front. Alfred stepped forward, glancing at the clock.
It was close to lunch time. Perhaps they would let him off easily.
“Hello,” he greeted the class, carefully reciting the short introduction he’d memorized the previous night, “My name is Alfred Pennyworth. I manage Wayne Manor and its properties. I was a field medic in the British Army, a stage actor, and now serve as a butler and caretaker.”
He inclined his head as he finished, stepping back. A flurry of hands had him pausing, bewildered.
Bruce hadn’t even raised his hand. He was grinning slightly as the hands began to wave more urgently, several students making various noises of protest.
“Um,” Alfred said, quite dignified, “Yes? You in the front?”
“You were in the army?” a small boy asked, eyes wide, “Like, the actual army? Did you kill people?”
By the door, the teacher winced. Alfred cleared his throat, frowning.
“I was a field medic, which meant I was in many combat situations where people died, yes,” he said, “Normally, I was trying to save them. Or evacuate them to a safer location.”
Alfred paused, weighing his next words carefully.
“But,” he said, leaning in with a conspiratorial wink, “I only ever killed people who didn’t take their medicine.”
The room dissolved into nervous, childlike laughter. A few parents shifted awkwardly on their feet behind him, clearly displeased.
“Me next!” a girl near the back cried, “Please call on me!”
“Ellen, we talked about this,” the teacher chided, turning to the back, “You have to wait your turn.”
“It’s fine,” Alfred said, unbothered, “Yes, ma’am?”
The students tittered at the honorific. The girl -- Ellen -- blushed a red almost as vibrant as her hair.
“Mr. Pennyworth,” she said, carefully sounding out the last name, “Does Wayne Manor have horses?”
Alfred nodded. “We have several stables on the property. The house horses, some other livestock, and, as of last week, a new family of barn cats.”
Several new hands went up at the mention of cats. Alfred suppressed a grin, calling on the next child.
“Have you jumped out of a plane?” a boy near the front asked, as if his entire life hinged on the answer.
“I have,” Alfred said, frowning as he recalled his last jump. Somewhere over Vietnam, if he was remembering correctly, “It’s very loud. And hard on the knees.”
The boy who’d asked him leaned back in his seat, star-struck. “Were you… scared?”
“Only a little bit,” Alfred said, trying to be reassuring. He didn’t want to crush the poor boy’s dreams, “It got easier with every jump.”
He called on another girl near the back. She was slightly taller than Bruce, with curly, deep black hair.
“What do you do every day?” she asked, rushing into her second sentence, “It’s just -- Ms. Jessica was too busy to come, so you must not be too busy.”
Alfred could only imagine who Ms. Jessica was to the girl. He winced internally as one of the parents behind him growled something under his breath. It was probably her father.
“I help delegate several tasks on top of my normal duties,” Alfred said. Seeing the teacher’s slight frown, he quickly reworded, “I, um, have lots of people to help me. Maids, cleaners, chefs and the like.”
“You tell people what to do?” the girl asked, “That’s a job?”
Alfred grinned. “Sometimes.”
It was underselling how much work he did, on a day-to-day basis, but Bruce’s classmates didn’t need to know that. And the parents definitely wouldn’t be keen on hearing a servant’s tasks.
The next boy he called on was the one Bruce had nudged earlier. Alfred braced himself, praying he would be ready for whatever question came next.
“Did Bruce pay you to come today?” he asked, haughty and sharp-eyed.
Next to him, Bruce had gone utterly still. Alfred took a mental breath, the hands he’d folded behind his back tightening briefly.
“Of course not,” he said, smiling sunnily at the classroom, “I wanted to come. I’m grateful that so many of you are interested in what I do.”
At the gentle, if pointed, reminder, several hands flew back up. Alfred glanced at the clock, making sure there was still time, and called on the next raised hand he saw.
At dinner, Bruce was characteristically quiet. He poked at his food, pushing one green bean around the entire circumference of his plate.
Alfred waited patiently for whatever he was mulling over, slowly cutting his chicken into individual bites. It was telling that Bruce hadn’t even noticed his obvious stalling, even when the pot of gravy went cold and their water glasses were empty.
“It was,” Bruce coughed awkwardly, breaking the silence, “It was really cool that you came today.”
Oh, Alfred cooed internally, watching Bruce’s cheeks grow pink, You sweet, sweet boy.
Externally, he smiled as much as he dared, setting his silverware down.
“I was happy to attend,” he said, “Thank you for inviting me.”
Bruce wrinkled his nose, not meeting his eyes. He laid his fork across his dinner plate, momentous thought clearly finished.
“May I be excused?” he asked.
“Of course,” Alfred said, “I’ll be upstairs in a few minutes.”
He returned to his cold, delicately mangled chicken as Bruce’s footsteps headed toward the kitchen.
Before he could debate taking another bite, small arms closed around his back, hugging him briefly against the chair.
Quiet, childlike footsteps hurried away, disappearing around the corner.
After a long moment, Alfred touched the phantom warmth around his shoulders, throat burning.