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Chapter Text

Harry celebrated his four-hundredth birthday with a cup of Earl Grey tea and a green and gold frosted cupcake.

In truth, it might’ve been his three-hundred and ninety-second birthday or quite possibly even his four-hundred and twenty-third. It was unbelievably easy to lose track of time after having lived so long, especially since he hadn't exactly stayed within the same dimension or even timestream. Sometimes, he’d celebrate his birthday too soon or too late depending on the shifts in times, since he always celebrated on July 31st regardless of whether it had been a true year between the last or not, but, on admittedly more than a few occasions… he’d simply forgotten to celebrate at all. It wasn’t as if he was missing out on any milestones, considering that he’d stopped aging at a crisp twenty-five.

The bell to the café he was currently sat in rang out to signify a patron’s entrance, and Harry brushed the last of the crumbs off of the lapels of his pressed suit, taking another sip of his still-warm tea. He glanced up to see who had come in, and he could privately admit that his heart traitorously skipped a beat. 

Harry had only been in this world for under a month, having left the last after aiding a pair of brothers and - of all things - an angel in stopping the apocalypse (a task made easy when Harry was the Master of Death), and he’d decided to come to a world with a more… heroically active climate. He enjoyed these types of worlds - for a multitude of reasons. The heroes were often fascinating to observe, of course, and the worlds themselves were often more interesting because of their presence, but Harry also took a quiet relief in knowing he could bow out from the spotlight himself. That wasn’t to say that he was constantly forced into it in worlds without a superhero presence, nor was that to imply that he refused to step in if a world already had its own designated saviors. Simply, in the former situation, Harry often had no choice but to come forth should disaster strike, since there was no other who could resolve the situation as effectively as Harry himself could - if at all. However, this meant that the whole planet’s eyes turned to him as their savior, regardless if he attempted to hide his presence or not; the people searched for him, knowing an outside force had saved them, and it always seemed to end with Harry either being found and hailed as a hero or an outsider, or him having to seclude himself to not risk being discovered in the first place. 

With heroes being present, however… He could take a pause. He could waylay the shedding of his own obscurity, or perhaps halt it entirely. Even in the cases where he found himself still having to intervene when the world’s heroes were unable to win alone, it was much easier to hide his presence amongst them and to let the heroes take credit from the populace with a bemused sort of acceptance amongst themselves. 

All of this to say, Harry was quite content in this current world, which was taken care of by the apparently well-renowned and celebrated Justice League. Even better for Harry himself, the very city he lived in was watched over by its own collection of vigilantes, all of whom hailed from the famed Dark Knight - the Batman. 

Harry realized his thoughts had gotten quite sidetracked, and he blinked rapidly in the direction of the center of his attention, thoughts coming back into focus with startling clarity. 

Yes, Harry had not even been living in this world for an entire month, but he had somehow already found himself ensnared by the presence of another. 

He avidly watched as the man cordially greeted the young attendant behind the counter, who already had the order ready - just as it had been during each of the past few times Harry had seen the man come in. 

Harry’s lips couldn’t help but part as one of the gentleman’s fine, silvery strands of hair fell free from its perfectly coiffed, gelled back position, and a muted flush rose to his cheeks as a weathered, neatly manicured hand rose to smoothly push the strand back in place as if nothing had ever been amiss at all. The only other sign the man made of having noticed his slip was the slight twitch of his thin, neat moustache. 

“- that will be all, Miss,” the gentlemen farewelled pleasantly, accepting the proffered sack of selected teas and goods and slipping the straps of it up to rest at the crook of his elbow over the sleeve of his black, pressed suit.

The man turned on his heel - all swift movements with a grace that belied fitness and aged experience - and his inky black bowtie did not so much as tilt from its perfectly tied position even as its owner turned his head just so to meet Harry's eyes.

For the Master of Death, it felt as if time had decided to still itself just for this singular moment. Crystalline blue eyes that held the same depth as a bottomless spring connected with emerald greens that were not unlike a forest of rich trees in full bloom, and the fraction of a second seemed to stretch out like pulled taffy.

All too soon, however, it was over. The gentleman’s trimmed brow arched near imperceptibly, he gifted Harry with a genial nod, and then he was gone, having left through the door in three long, clean strides with only a single, forlorn-sounding chime to signify his departure.

Harry exhaled slowly, only now having realized he’d been holding his breath, and he brought one hand up to cup his flushed cheek as he used the other to swallow down the last dregs of his now-cool tea. 

What a buffoon Harry must’ve looked like, he inwardly castigated himself, his blush rising against his pale skin with an embarrassed vengeance. He couldn’t have helped himself, though - not much, at least. The feelings he had now were practically foreign to him after having gone so long without. 

Oh, that wasn’t to say he hadn’t dallied here and there during his centuries, but it had been… difficult, to form a deep, genuine connection during his times. His longest relationship had been with Ginny, and even then, it had not even lasted a decade. Practically a drop in the ocean for how long he’d been alive now. 

But there was something about this gentleman, something that had Harry’s heart thumping in his chest like a bumbling schoolgirl with a crush. It was something that gave Harry the incomprehensible feeling that, this time, there may actually be more to what he could have than an unfulfilling, ingenuine tryst. That somehow, someway, this man would be able to understand him, to accept him, to bridge the gap between them despite all odds that would suggest otherwise.

And now, thanks to having caught a glimpse of it on the package as the attendant passed it over, Harry had a name to go along with the dashing man he’s been admiring from afar:

Alfred Pennyworth.

Chapter Text

In the past few days, Harry had spent far too much time attempting to determine how to woo Mr. Pennyworth without referring to it as wooing. A fruitless endeavor on his part, of course, since he was, ultimately, attempting to do exactly such. 

Regardless, the relevant issue was that he was familiar with using the internet, although perhaps not as efficiently as a modern citizen may be, but the vast majority of the results he had found proved to be inapplicable - or unpalatable, at the very least - for his case. The fact of the matter was that courting seemed to have changed far more than he had anticipated in society. Admittedly, it had been several different worlds and timestreams since he’d last looked. No more was it common to see a man bringing over flowers, or opening doors, or buying trinkets and trifles that he believed his partner may fancy. No more were there formal dates where the pair dressed up and enjoyed the company of one another in a polite setting. Oh, of course when Harry said ‘no more,’ he meant not often rather than not at all, but it was still rather a disappointment to him. It seemed the more common practices now were far less focused on romancing, and they all seemed rather… lackluster to Harry. Did everyone go about believing they did not have to earn the interest of the object of their affections? Admittedly, the use of ‘dating sites’ made it a seemingly simple task to find a person who was as interested in you as you were in them, but it seemed so… clinical. Where was the risk? The effort? The breathlessness at the possibility of the ultimate reward: your love being accepted and returned in equal if not greater measure.

There was hope, however. Mr. Pennyworth was an older gentleman, and, from the crisp suits he always wore to the café, he seemed to be one to appreciate the finer things in life. Perhaps he too would enjoy a more… antiquated form of courtship. 

It was likely that Harry had read one too many books from the Black Library during his extended stint as a hermit in his first world, but he’d grown secretly enamored with the courtship rituals described within the texts. 

The more he considered it, the stronger Harry’s resolve became. Indeed, if he truly believed Mr. Pennyworth was the one for him - and he undeniably did, a shockingly large amount, considering - then it should hold true that the man would hold favor for Harry pursuing him with the utmost sincerity and truth to himself.

–

Alfred did not have many activities outside of the Wayne mansion that the family was not aware of. So much so that he could only name two such affairs that he routinely partook in. 

The first was related to his gardening, a hobby of his that the Waynes were well-acquainted with. After all, there was a reason the mansion only had a seasonal gardener to trim the hedges. 

What the family was not aware of was his proclivity to invent new flowers of his own. Oh, they most certainly observed the fruits of his labor, but none of the brood had enough knowledge of harmless plants to take note of their peculiarities. 

For the longest time, Alfred had simply enjoyed taking a quiet pleasure in his unique creations, watching each new variant bloom forth from the soil and unfurl its petals to reveal their remarkable, peerless existence to the world. It was not until his most prized creation - which he privately referred to as the Pennyworth Blue - that he considered sharing his exploits with others. 

Sparing the details, that singular thought eventually led him to one of his non-Wayne-informed activities: donating his rich blue rose blooms to Ms. Calindra’s flower shop. Oh, she had attempted on multiple occasions to insist upon paying him for his flowers, but he firmly refused each time; he certainly made more than enough as the proud butler of the Wayne residence. Truthfully, it was payment enough for him to see others admire the unique blooms. It was a secret enjoyment that only Ms. Calindra herself was aware of him partaking in.

Alfred wasn’t ashamed of his talent, of course, nor did he have any ill intentions in his subterfuge. Simply, Master Bruce tended to be… excitable, at times, when it came to displaying his appreciation. His sons too had largely taken to doing the same, no matter how much they may try to deny it.

All of this to say, Alfred was content with his quiet, weekly visits to Ms. Calindra’s flower shop to impart his Pennyworth Blues along with the occasional other fascinatingly unique bloom he stumbled upon creating, and he was content in the knowledge that his family of employment had enough respect for him to not pry into his private affairs.

Which, of course, led to the second establishment he often paid visit to. For here, the Waynes were well aware he went some place to attain his goods; they simply did not know the name of the store itself. 

A store which Alfred found himself visiting far more often than usual as of recent due to a new… addition to the shop. 

To clarify, for the past month that Alfred had been to Latrice’s Café to pick up his teas and the family’s - largely Master Tim’s - coffees, he hadn’t been able to help but notice a man.

The dark-haired stranger seemed to have created a designated spot for himself in the corner of the quaint shop, facing towards both the register and the entrance to the café. His hands seemed to be perpetually clutched around a cup of tea - of what kind, Alfred couldn’t help but wonder - and for all but one occasion - in which he wore a finely knitted, forest green sweater - the man had on a suit so dark in pitch that Alfred had felt hesitant to do it the disservice of referring to it as simply ‘black.’ 

As much as Alfred could go on to describe the minute, fine details of the man that quietly stood out from the norm, there was but a single feature that truly captured his grasp and had yet to release him from its clutches: 

The eyes.

The first thought Alfred had upon having seen them was a blunt, ‘unnatural.’ 

It was not a condemnation, however. Not in the slightest. Nor was it anything that could even tangentially imply distaste or, worse yet, disgust. It was simply a fact of the matter, one made up in two parts. The easier of the two to recognize was the hue of the man’s emerald irises; the color itself was rare but not utterly improbable, of course, but the rich shade in particular was an anomaly that Alfred had never seen nor heard of before. 

This alone may have kept his attention on the man, at least long enough to make note in the Cave in case it was ever of any importance, but it was the second aspect that truly seized his regard. 

Because the man’s eyes were so very old. 

There was nothing factual that Alfred could express to describe how he came to this determination, but every instance in which he saw the man during his unfortunately brief visits at the café only served to solidify this perspective of his. 

This wasn’t to imply that the man had ‘seen things,’ for all that Alfred was well aware of how trauma could indeed age a person far beyond their years. As much as it pained his weary heart, Alfred was well acquainted with eyes that held more than their soul’s years ought to. 

This was not the case for the man in the café. At least, not the case alone.

For all that the stranger appeared not a day over twenty-five, he had eyes more ancient than Alfred’s own.

However, despite Alfred’s admittedly growing fascination, he made no attempt to approach the man, and he had no such plans to do so.

Which made it all the more surprising when he found himself approached by the very subject of his inexorably growing interest instead. 

-

Harry chewed anxiously against the inside of his lip, an unfortunate habit he had thought he’d gotten rid of several decades ago. His hands fidgeted around the wrapped stems held in his clutches, which bloomed upwards with a mixture of soft pink oleanders and an entrancingly blue shade of rose. He’d chosen the former to signify beauty and grace, which he hoped they still meant, and he’d chosen the latter both because roses were a classic romantic flower on top of the fact that the royal blue shade of them had simply… strangely reminded him of Mr. Pennyworth.

He was hovering around the corner for his admiree to appear, as the man usually came in on Tuesdays and Fridays, the former of which today was. Harry thought it would seem far too stilted to be caught waiting inside the café itself with his bouquet of flowers, so here he remained instead. 

He was not kept waiting long, and his heart jumped in his chest as the gentleman stepped neatly out from the driver’s door of a black convertible, looking as charmingly put together as always. 

Hurrying forth so as to catch Mr. Pennyworth before he entered the shop, Harry could only hope he didn’t look as youthfully desperate as he suddenly felt he must, with his smooth, porcelain skin and thick, dark locks of hair that refused to stay in place even after all his years. Such a contrast to Mr. Pennyworth’s refined lines and smoothed back, sterling hair. 

“Ah - sir!” Harry called, managing to keep his steps even instead of rushing as he felt he ought to by only the thinnest hairsbreadth of a margin. 

Mr. Pennyworth turned towards him from where he’d been reaching for the café's door, quiet surprise splashed across his handsome features. As enviously quick to compose himself as ever, the gentleman blinked, hands gently clasping together in front of himself even as his eyes flickered curiously from Harry’s bouquet and back to meet his gaze. “May I be of assistance?” he questioned calmly, gesturing towards the door as if to hold it open for Harry’s entrance.

Harry shook his head in negation to the offer, and - careful not to thrust them forth instead - he delicately extended the bouquet in his clutches towards the man he had found himself enchanted by since he had first laid eyes upon him, taking a final step forth to close the gap between them. 

Mr. Pennyworth blinked bemusedly at the lush flowers, his gaze seeming to latch firmly onto the entrancingly blue roses for a moment too long, and he tilted his head near imperceptibly as he glanced up to Harry in wordless question. 

“I -” Harry paused, calming himself as best he could and letting a soft, shy yet genuine smile part his lips.  “I would greatly appreciate your assistance, Mr. Pennyworth,” Harry quietly replied, finally answering the gentleman’s question from before and gently pushing the bouquet to the man’s firm chest. “I would be most honored if you would accept this gift from my tired hands,” he divulged with only the slightest trace of mischievousness of which he used to hide his trepidation.

Mr. Pennyworth’s hands came up to grasp the bouquet seemingly on instinct, largely subduing Harry’s worries, and the gentleman’s eyes seemed the smallest bit wider than before. “... may I request to know the intention behind this gift, sir?” the recipient questioned, though there was an air about him as if he already knew but had yet to accept his own deduction. 

It was only then that Harry realized that he had made an utterly rude blunder and referred to the man by his name without having given his own, and he hurriedly introduced himself, preceding with, “Ah, my apologies, Mr. Pennyworth - I’d seen your name written down during one of your visits, but I’d forgotten to now give mine.” Here, he bowed slightly, one arm folding in front of him just below his chest while he rested the flat of the other against his back, dipping forth far enough to not seem shallow. “Harry Potter, at your service,” he belatedly greeted, then solidly replied, “and I have given you these flowers in the hopes that you will consider allowing me to court - to bring you on a date,” he swiftly corrected, willing away the blush that had no doubt risen to his cheeks. Oh, he most certainly wished to court Mr. Pennyworth, but he had realized that requesting a single date first would pose far less pressure on the man.

For several long, nerve-rending moments, Mr. Pennyworth did not reply. Instead, he stared into Harry’s eyes with an intensity that divulged his sharp intellect, and Harry could only hope he held up to muster.

Finally, Mr. Pennyworth’s grip on the bouquet shifted to hold them more firmly in his grasp, the stems tucked beneath the crook of his elbow while the flowers themselves were gently cradled against his shoulder. 

“I’m afraid I cannot accept at the moment,” - Harry’s heart plummeted - “but I simply do not know you well enough to say otherwise,” Mr. Pennyworth finished, and Harry’s heart tentatively lifted, a swell of hope rising within his breast. The gentleman gifted him with a slight - yet no less warm - smile, and inquired, “May I join you for tea today, Mister Potter?”

Chapter Text

Harry paid for the tea, sneakily passing over a crisp bill to the cashier before Mr. Pennyworth could suggest otherwise. Though, with the tinge of amusement in the gentleman’s expression, Harry couldn’t help but feel as if he were the one being indulged instead.

They had both ordered Earl Grey, a fact that had Harry's lips lifting in a private smile with how the concept quietly pleased him. 

Mr. Pennyworth had let Harry lead them to his usual table in the more secluded corner of the shop, where the man carefully placed his newly gifted bouquet at his side on the plush seat of the booth. 

Harry sat at the seat across from him, and he was quick to speak so as to not allow an awkward silence invade the companionable air between them.

“I’ve only recently moved to this city,” he began, gesturing around them in way of show, “in… early celebration of my birthday,” he belatedly added, withholding a chuckle. Segueing, he hopefully probed, “May I ask, are you too of Gotham?”

Mr. Pennyworth went to answer, but an attendant arrived with their tea, momentarily pausing their burgeoning conversation. They both thanked the young lady and took their respective cups, which steamed pleasantly with the fragrant scent of Bergamot. After gently blowing against his brew - an action which Harry resolutely did not stare at nor admire in its propriety - and taking a decorous sip, Mr. Pennyworth replied, “The estate in which I live is on the outskirts, in Bristol, though I do find myself in Gotham proper more often than not during errands of mine.” 

Harry nodded amiably, taking note of the name. Bristol. Oddly befitting. Before he could make to speak again, however, Mr. Pennyworth continued with an inquiry of his own.

“My apologies, Mister Potter, if my question is improper, but may I ask which year you have celebrated turning most recently?”

Harry paused with his cup halfway to his lips. Slowly, carefully, he set it back against its saucer, pondering how best to respond. Of course, he had expected the question to come up eventually, though admittedly not so soon - his own fault, of course, with how he’d brought up his birthday all on his own. His instinctual answer would undoubtedly be to lie, as he often had to during his life’s tenure. It was awfully difficult to remain under the radar if he announced his actual age - or anything over thirty-five years old, even, for that matter. However, he did not wish to begin his relationship with Mr. Pennyworth with a falsehood, especially not one so closely tied to his very being. To give himself a moment more to consider what he wished to truly say, Harry teasingly remarked, “Ah, but that would be telling,” with a sly smile curling his lips as he gave a flourish of his hand.

Mr. Pennyworth returned his expression with a flat look of his own, and Harry’s heart would have dropped had he not sussed out the faint twinkle shining in the man’s pale blue eyes. “As much as I would normally respect such a deflection,” the gentleman dryly began, raising a brow at Harry when he grinned back in unrepentant acknowledgment, “I’m afraid I already have grandchildren, and I could not in good conscience give genuine consideration to your offer should your age not be far more than their own.” 

The words staid Harry from any further attempts at humor, and he had to restrain himself from immediately inquiring over the man's grandchildren - at least one of whom sounded to be fully grown - and over the implication of a relationship, whether past or present, that must've led to the existence of said children. Instead, he decided to soothe his gentleman’s worries, albeit vaguely. “I can assure you, Mr. Pennyworth, that it is I, between the two of us, who is the… how would one say… ah, the ‘cradle-robber,'” he grinned wryly, unable to help how he nervously rubbed his palm against the back of his neck. It was, admittedly, a bit more than he’d originally felt comfortable divulging, though he did believe it was the correct course of action. With having gone through with it, though, he couldn’t help but worry how Mr. Pennyworth would now view him. On the premise that the man believed him - which was an undertaking on its own - would he then view Harry as unnatural? Oh, it was undeniably true that Harry was just that, but would Mr. Pennyworth consider him repugnant for it? Would he spurn Harry's request immediately, discarding his bouquet and tea with revulsion stemmed from them having been proffered by something as inhuman as Harry seemingly was? Would Mr. Pennyworth leave without a backward glance, dismissing Harry either in his disbelief or his revolted acceptance of the truth? Would Harry so quickly lose the opportunity for a love he could already feel blooming in his chest to genuinely flourish and blossom?

Lost in his own spiraling thoughts as he was, he did not notice how Mr. Pennyworth’s strict gaze slowly softened, nor how the man released a quiet, almost fond sigh. He only came to when the gentleman coughed politely, and Harry rushed to take a sip of his tea to cover his lapse, cheeks flushing. Mr. Pennyworth kindly looked past his blunder, only to have Harry very nearly spit out his tea at the man’s following words. “It seems that, in light of your sincerity, I feel I must admit to you in turn, Mister Potter… that I happen to have a preference for older men, myself.”

Harry choked, pinching his lips tight and swallowing desperately to prevent his brew from splattering out and all over the tidy little table between them, thumping a fist against his chest in a fruitless attempt to subdue his own spluttering. “Ex-excuse me?” he croaked, staring at his gentleman with wide eyes.

For a fraction of a moment, Mr. Pennyworth’s thin moustache twitched upwards in one corner alongside his lip before he managed to still it, though his eyes still shone tellingly. Oh, Harry thought dazedly, abruptly having to fight the urge to unreservedly laugh with the way his chest swelled with joy as his coughing fit finally subsided. He hadn’t realized his dear gentleman was such a scoundrel.

Helplessly, he could feel himself falling ever further for the handsome, elegant and now witty man he was quickly discovering Mr. Pennyworth to be.

-

To say things went off without a hitch from there may have been too optimistic of a take, but Harry refused to believe it went as anything but.

How could he not, when their tea date - a loose term, of course - had ended with Harry receiving a phone number (which finally gave him reason to purchase a cellular device), a mailing address (something he was positive he would be making liberal use of), and a general (but inarguable!) agreement to a genuine date.

Besides that, there had also been a rather curious question on Mr. Pennyworth’s part before they parted ways. The gentleman had asked, of all things, what had spurred Harry to select the gorgeous blue roses for the bouquet, though he did not inquire the same regarding the more obscure oleanders. 

Not having expected the question, Harry had at first stumbled to explain his reasoning, beginning with his more defined reasons of the rose in general being the flower of romance and the color blue signifying fidelity and loyalty, of which he then hurriedly assured Mr. Pennyworth that he meant to follow through with the utmost sincerity. Somehow, however, he had felt as though his explanation hadn’t been enough, so he had bashfully admitted that the striking blooms had unexpectedly - but undeniably - reminded him of the very object of his affections he had acquired them for: Mr. Pennyworth himself.

Harry could’ve sworn that there had been the faintest tint to his gentleman’s cheeks before the man had quickly turned away with a hurried farewell, but he was quick to brush aside the observation as a willful fantasy. 

Regardless, nothing could have taken the joy away from him of how his day had culminated, and he nearly skipped his way home to his outwardly quaint apartment, feeling as though he were walking on clouds.

Upon entering his magically expanded flat, he hurriedly shut the door behind him and rushed over to his desk, dropping himself into his seat with abandon and gesturing with his hand in such a way that had a thick piece of parchment and an inked quill darting into his grasp. He positively thrummed with anticipation to solidify a date and time for his and Mr. Pennyworth's first genuine date, and he set the nib of his quill against the parchment to begin writing a letter to secure just that.

Chapter Text

For Jason, it started with - of all things - flowers.

Now, flowers weren’t all that uncommon to the Wayne household - couldn’t be with the fucking humongous gardens out back. And hell, Jason even recognized the specific blue ones in the vase from those out in Alfred’s private plot. 

The weird thing was that these flowers were inside. 

Sure, when they had guests over or parties in the Wayne ballroom, Alfred and the hired staff would bring in real pretty ones (usually lilies or those red ones if it was near Christmas - what were they called? Pointies?) to decorate the tables and whatever, but, apart from that, there was practically an unspoken rule about not bringing flowers in the house. Probably ‘cause Tim had seasonal allergies or something, the little shit. But the reason why not didn’t really matter.

What mattered was that, for whatever reason, there were flowers in the house now, and they weren’t just anywhere, either: they were in the kitchen. As in, the one place where only Alfred and Jason were allowed into. And Jason sure as hell wasn’t the one who brought the damn plants in. 

He didn’t bring it up to the others though, ‘cause even he knew what a fucking nutjob he’d sound like if he did. Like, ‘oh no, there’re flowers in the kitchen, whatever shall we do?’ Yeah, thanks but no thanks; he’d prefer not to get laughed outta the room. And he couldn’t bring himself to mention it to Alfred either, not after he’d accidentally spied the man carefully rearranging the stems while wearing this… weirdly soft smile that Jason’d never seen before and immediately felt like he’d been intruding on for having done so. 

So.  

It started with the flowers.

It sure as hell didn’t end there, though.

No, next came the letters. Alfred’d been real busy recently - basically since the flower incident less than a week before - ‘cause a buncha different Wayne-family mandated events got clustered together like they always did in early August, and, whenever Jason’d happen to bring the mail in ‘cause he was driving by the box at the entrance to the manor anyways, he started finding letters addressed to Alfie mixed in with theirs too.

And hell, he wasn’t saying Alfred didn’t ever get letters or that - god forbid - he wasn’t allowed to get letters or anything like that, but they all seemed to be coming from the same person, some H. Potter - whoever the fuck that was.

Which was also weird as hell. Sure, obviously Alfie had a life outside of them - every damn Bat had a life outside the others - it was just… unexpected, maybe, to finally get some tangible proof of it. Jason guessed he hadn’t realized how much he’d thought of Alfred as kind of an extension to the manor, which probably sounded shitty as hell, but he didn’t mean it in a bad way - just… like, for a while, the manor meant home for him. And that meant Alfred was home for him. And even after the manor stopped being home for him for a while, Alfie still was.

Which was besides the point. Back to the real important stuff, the letters, Jason’d never opened them himself, because of course he didn’t. He always left them on the counter for Alfie to grab ‘cause knew better than to invade his sorta-gramp’s privacy just like the rest of the Bats did too.

Didn’t mean it didn’t eat at him, thinking about those letters, about what was in them, about whoever the fuck this H. Potter was to be sending their Alfred all these goddamned letters.

He couldn’t even say why it bothered him so much. He felt petty as hell getting all worked up over Alfie apparently enjoying hearing from some random girl or guy that Jason didn’t know anything about; it was like he was some rotten kid whining about losing his parent’s attention just ‘cause now they’ve got a second kid too. And it wasn’t even like that either, since - as far as Jason knew - whoever H. Potter was hadn’t ever invaded the sanctity of the manor with their presence.

Jason paused, then shuddered in revulsion, taking a second to also toss away that particular spoiled kid comparison back into the hellhole it belonged.  

Still, it didn’t get rid of his shitty thoughts over those letters, always signed in a real loopy font with the same H. Potter, H. Potter, H. Potter, over and over and over again - there was practically a letter waiting for Alfie every other day!

God, it gnawed at Jason’s damn bones, the need to know, and he found his fingers just itching to snatch up one of the envelopes and tear it open to reveal its tantalizing secrets for his eyes to see, but he always held himself back by the skin of his teeth. Imagining the look on Alfred’s face if - when - he caught Jason always helped. 

-

Tim already knew something was going on long before Jason confronted him (and by ‘long,’ he meant about six days). Of course he did: the others always seemed to forget that Tim spent multiple years stalking them without detection before finally inserting himself into their midst. 

In fact, Tim had even known something was up with Alfred in particular. He’d restrained himself from digging into it - for the most part - but just barely. Respect was such a burden, he lamented, even if Alfred obviously deserved it.

Anyways, when Jason came up to him, Tim could tell right away that the nineteen-year-old was just as close to tipping over the edge into satisfying his no doubt burning curiosity over what was going on with Alfred as Tim was. Which, obviously, wasn’t at all acceptable, since this was Alfred’s personal matters they were talking about. 

That didn’t mean they couldn’t gossip about what they already knew to ease each other’s burdens.

“So you caught on too, huh,” Jason grunted, not even having to elaborate on what. 

Tim nodded firmly, glancing around surreptitiously despite knowing for a fact that everyone except for them was out right now. Bruce was at a Wayne Enterprises meeting (for once), Dick was in Bludhaven, Damian was at an after-school club (something with art, Tim was pretty sure), Cass was in Hong Kong, Steph didn’t live here (technically), Barbara also didn’t live here (also technically), and Alfred was… out. Where, exactly, he’d gone out to was still an unknown, but he always seemed to be conspicuously absent on Tuesdays and the occasional Friday too as of late at around three o'clock in the afternoon. 

Jason groaned, collapsing onto the sofa perpendicular to Tim’s in the manor’s library. 

“So you’ve also noticed how Alfred’s been smiling roughly four times more often compared to previous weeks?” Tim questioned, gesturing smoothly with his hand. Admittedly, it was maybe a little odd for him to have that statistic down to that much detail, but he had a few quirks about each of his family members that he tried to keep meticulous track of. You never knew when there was a mind control situation on hand, after all.

Jason stared at him incredulously, his expression then shifting into something vaguely affronted. “No, dipshit, I noticed the damn flowers and fucking letters,” he fired back, still giving Tim the side-eye.

“Oh,” Tim noted succinctly, blinking. Admittedly, he’d also noticed the letters for Alfred when he scoured through the pile for his own mail; he probably should have led with that. “I saw the letters too - from H. Potter, right?” 

“Yes,” Jason growled, slamming a fist down against the sofa. It lost some of its oomf factor given that the sofa was, as a state of matter, pretty soft. “You know who the hell that is?”

“No,” Tim reluctantly shot down, clicking his tongue in frustration. He’d even toed the line of invasion of privacy and searched on his tablet for any local ‘H. Potters’, but it was a surprisingly common name, so it didn’t narrow his results as much as he’d have liked. 

It almost made his skin crawl, not knowing, especially with how many letters Alfred was getting from that one person - and without showing any signs of being upset about it all. Tim’s parents used to get mad at him if he even sent a single text message at the wrong time of the month. 

Tim shook off that unproductive train of thought, his memory snagging onto something else Jason had mentioned. He perked up. “What’d you mean about flowers, though?” he asked.

Jason flapped his arm in the vague direction of deeper into the manor. “Alfie had a whole vase of ‘em in the kitchen about a week an’ a half ago. Kept ‘em ‘til the damn things wilted - wilted!” he exclaimed, squeezing his fist for added emphasis. “Like, I swear a buncha the lil’ pink ones even got all yellow and shriveled up!”

Tim’s eyebrows rose in his surprise, and he brought a finger up to tap thoughtfully against this chin, eyes narrowing in contemplation. That certainly didn’t sound like their meticulously impeccable Alfred. 

Jason leaned forwards closer to him, lowering his voice as if he were telling an important secret, and Tim couldn’t help but lean in too, his own curiosity piquing. “Get this - I saw ‘im smilin’ at ‘em,” the older teen whisper-hissed, eyes wide in disbelief at his own words like he’d just revealed Alfred drank tap water - something that just wasn’t done in Gotham if you didn’t want to risk lead poisoning, radiation exposure, Joker Toxin, Fear Toxin, or… well, the list really does go on.

Tim’s eyebrows continued their ascent towards his hairline, and he fell back against the sofa cushions, crossing his arms. That definitely didn’t sound like Alfred. Except, it sorta did. With how much more the Wayne family butler (and Tim meant that job title in only the most technical of ways) had been smiling around them as of recent, it really wouldn’t be that strange if he was smiling more at other things too. 

Wait. 

Other things. 

Tim practically shot up out of his seat and thrust an accusatory finger in Jason’s direction, ignoring how his brother jerked back in surprise.

“It’s connected!” he exclaimed, curling his finger in and shaking his fist with the realization. Oh gosh, it should’ve been obvious, but Tim hadn’t had all the dots to connect before. The letters, the flowers, the fact that Alfred was smiling more? 

Somehow, someway, he just knew that all of it must be related to whoever this H. Potter was! He could’ve smacked himself for not having seen it before.

It made so much sense. Of course there had to be a reason Alfred was smiling more, that was just common sense, but now the whole lump of reasons had landed themselves on Tim’s lap. He wasn’t exactly sure what the flowers meant since he hadn’t gotten the chance to see them himself and research possible meanings behind them, but the letters… Geez, obviously the letters were the biggest factor here. Tim resolutely ignored the little curl of jealousy that poked at his sides at the thought of some stranger to him making his honorary grandfather figure happier than he apparently was before. Tim definitely ignored that. Yeah.

And then another recollection struck him, and he fell back into his seat in shock, Jason still staring at him like he’d lost it - probably since Tim had jumped up out of nowhere and then proceeded to explain absolutely nothing at all. 

That didn’t matter though; what mattered was that Tim had just remembered the idle, admittedly unusual little detail he’d noticed on Alfred just before the man had left like he usually did on Tuesdays: his bow tie. It was just as solid black as his always were, but, unlike every other time, there was a gleaming, dark green gemstone embedded right smack dab in the center of it, splitting the two frills. Come to think of it, the gem matched with those on Alfred’s cufflinks - yet another thing the butler didn’t usually wear. 

“Jason…” Tim said slowly, tapping his fingers quickly against the cushions of the sofa. “Why was Alfred wearing a gemstone inlaid bow tie and matching cufflinks today?”

Jason stared at him blankly. “Why was Alfie wearing what!?”

-

Somewhere, in the silent space between dimensions, the self-restraining willpowers of two of the famous Bat brood could be heard snapping clean through.

Chapter Text

Harry could freely admit (to himself alone) that he was feeling more than a bit anxious.

Even as he finished clasping the topmost button of his dress shirt and began the process of selecting a suit, he doubted the nerves of his would soon fade.

The simple fact of the matter was that it had been quite some time since he’d last been on a genuine, refined date such as the one he and Mr. Pennyworth would soon be sharing. With Ginny, he had faint memories of more than one disastrous occasion in which he’d attempted to take her to some fancy place or other only to have her complain the whole way through over the stuffy rules and her no less stuffy dress. Which, of course, meant they did not go on very many formal dates at all. That was not to say that he blamed her, not at all, as much as it had privately disheartened him; it had simply been their shared reality. 

It was true that Harry had gone out with others since then - it had been well over three hundred years since his and Ginny’s relationship, after all - but he was ashamed to acknowledge that he had often asked his dates out not on the premise of genuine attraction and budding interest but... simply for the sake of it. 

It was a lonely existence of his, at times; could he truly be blamed for desiring company in his romantic solitude? 

All of this to say, preparing for his date with Mr. Pennyworth was unlike any Harry had ever prepared for before, largely stemming from the fact that he was quickly falling head over heels in love with his gentleman and therefore had much higher stakes resting upon everything going well.

During their last shared tea outing, he’d already gifted Mr. Pennyworth with a pair of emerald cufflinks as well as a matching emerald-embedded bow tie, using the excuse that the presents were in early celebration of the man’s birthday (since his gentleman’s day was now just over a week away on August fifteenth), but in this moment Harry still slipped a small tin stored in a silk sack into his pocket despite no longer having the same justification available. However, the other day, Mr. Pennyworth had idly mentioned how his hip had been feeling rather sore, which would just not do. Harry had spent the rest of the very same evening whipping up the highest grade of a topical potion he could create, and he would gratefully bequeath it to his gentleman this very night. 

Harry had, of course, also purchased another bouquet of flowers for this evening since it would be their first formal outing together. For their tea dates, he simply brought a single blue rose as always (since Mr. Pennyworth seemed to appreciate them - albeit with a… rather peculiar yet fond expression each time - and Harry couldn’t help but think they matched the man unbelievably well), but for tonight, he’d selected the very same stunning blue roses as before, and he’d intermixed them with lilacs - to subtly signify his burgeoning love - and red chrysanthemums - as a wordless admittance to how quickly he had fallen for his gentleman.

-

Harry arrived at Clisque’s - the five-star restaurant where he and Mr. Pennyworth would be dining - just over half an hour early, and he stood outside for a short while, patiently waiting for his date to arrive. It was pleasantly warm for the time - approaching seven forty-five in the evening, now - though perhaps a bit too warm considering the multiple layers Harry was wearing. 

Just as he had the thought, a familiar, sleek black car pulled forwards towards the valet, and Harry hurried to intercept the attendant who made to approach the car’s driver door as it came to a stop.

“My apologies,” Harry quickly said to the other man, hurriedly passing over a crisp one hundred as he slipped past and took the handle of the car door himself, smoothly opening it for his gentleman inside.

“Ah, Mr. Potter,” Mr. Pennyworth greeted up to him, fluidly stepping out and giving him a nod of thanks, the action of which was entirely lost to Harry, with how absolutely stunned he was. 

His breath caught as he took in his gentleman and his attire for the evening, from his agelessly attractive features to his breathtaking eyes, to his striking as ever silver locks of hair to his neatly trimmed moustache, to his stunning, sharp suit and to his perfectly matched slacks, to his polished black shoes and to his gleaming belt, and finally to his glittering gold buttons that complemented the gold of his emerald-embedded cufflinks which in turn paired gorgeously with the conspicuous emerald stone set in the man’s posh black bow tie. 

Oh, Harry could’ve swooned.

As it was, he managed to choke out a salutation of his own, stepping aside to allow Mr. Pennyworth to pass the keys off to the valet. Only then did Harry pass over the bouquet he’d been clutching, his gentleman taking them with a flash of fondness that shifted into interest as he observed the additional blooms. 

“Lilacs and chrysanthemums, Mr. Potter?” he questioned knowingly, and Harry flushed even as he nodded through the dichotomy of feeling abashedly unashamed. They came up to the steps that led to the entrance of the restaurant, and he held out his arm in offering. Mr. Pennyworth deftly took hold of him, placing his hand over the crook of Harry’s arm even as he dryly remarked, “I’m not a damsel.”

Harry hummed agreeingly, cheeks dimpling with his smile before he made it still. “Certainly not, sir,” he replied seriously, only then letting his grin lift up to reveal his gleaming teeth, “You’re far too handsome to be mistaken for that,” he smoothly concurred, slipping forwards just enough as they cusped the stairs to pull the door open for Mr. Pennyworth without having freed his own arm from where it blissfully remained in his gentleman’s grasp.

“You exaggerate,” Mr. Pennyworth reproached, regrettably taking his hand away as they entered and approached the attendant’s desk. 

“I’ve understated, if anything,” Harry quickly retorted, preventing any retaliating response by greeting the young woman behind the counter, cheerfully ignoring the look he could feel his gentleman sending his way. “A reservation under Harry Potter,” he informed her, blatantly sliding his brand-new credit card across the desk to her despite how the glare against the side of his head returned twofold. 

-

“I am more than capable of paying for my own meal, Mr. Potter,” his gentleman informed him once they had taken their seats, raising a reproving eyebrow from where he sat across from Harry. 

“And I am more than able to pay for yours too,” Harry smiled back unrepentantly, chest swelling with unrestrained contentment. Ah, how he enjoyed their banter so very much. It had taken him more than one meeting with Mr. Pennyworth to truly grasp the particular sort of humor and repartee he now knew the man to be fond of, and Harry himself had been quick to become enamored with his gentleman’s way of speaking, gaily returning every quip with one of his own.

In some cases - such as the one at present - Harry even managed to ‘win’ the miniature tiffs between himself and Mr. Pennyworth, and he subtly preened as his gentleman subsided with an acquiescing huff. 

-

After having indulged in a congenial dinner and now finding himself standing on the steps outside of Clisque’s restaurant, Alfred made to remove his gift from his front trouser pocket only for Mr. Potter to first pull out something of his own.

“A home remedy,” the man demurred, outstretching his hand towards Alfred in which lied a glossy, golden pouch that held an indiscernible shape within it. “For your hip,” Mr. Potter hesitantly added, placing the gift in Alfred’s own palm, which he had unconsciously extended.

“My hip?” Alfred echoed bemusedly, gently rubbing the pad of his thumb against the small pouch and absently admiring the high-quality, silken texture of it. 

Here, Mr. Potter blushed, his hands clasping together in front of him and his fingers interlocking with one another in a nervous gesture. “You had mentioned it had been feeling rather sore, as of late, and I knew of a… salve, which ought to alleviate any cause for such discomfort,” he explained.

Alfred’s eyes widened minutely, and he gazed upon the thoughtful gift - just as every other presented to him by Mr. Potter had been thus far - with a new light. Truthfully, he hadn’t even recalled having told the other man such a thing. He was at least certain he hadn’t informed any of his Wayne family of this minor hitch of his, lest they worry too much or - more than likely - blow the ache out of proportion with some nonsensical belief that it was a sign of his ailing health or such rot. 

As he considered it, Alfred could now faintly recall making an offhanded comment to Mr. Potter regarding the matter. For whatever reason, he had not felt any burden in having told the other man such a thing, not even now when Mr. Potter had clearly gone out of his way to - by the sound of it - create this healing salve on his own in order to aid Alfred. 

It was such a... peculiar thing, really - in a way that made his chest fill with an unfamiliar type of warmth - how quickly Alfred had become comfortable in the presence of a man who had been naught but a curious stranger hardly more than a week before. Comfortable enough, even, to share trivial details regarding his life that he would have otherwise kept to himself lest he cause undue concern over his welfare. 

Yes, it was rather strange indeed that he did not feel as though he had placed a burden upon Mr. Potter by having informed him of the paltry affliction despite the excessive response it had led to. No, in fact, the man’s actions felt as though they were the obvious choice, as wouldn’t Alfred have reacted none too dissimilarly if Mr. Potter had informed him of a comparable plight? Perhaps it was due to his knowledge that the man too - despite his contradicting appearance - was old in age and therefore understanding.

Belatedly, given by the mounting concern and trepidation he could see in Mr. Potter’s gaze, Alfred realized he had taken too long to give a response, so he offered the man a genuine, thankful smile and in turn removed his own gift from his pocket.

It was almost comical how surprised Mr. Potter seemed to be at the sight of the neat, black package roughly the size of a ring box, so much so that it nearly startled a laugh from Alfred even as he slyly murmured, “In return for your last gift to me, Mr. Potter,” subtly delighting in the way the man’s eyes now widened twofold. “I do hope you will make use of them on our next outing together,” he suavely proposed.

-

Alfred slid into the driver’s seat of his Chevrolet, looking up to the side to meet eyes with Mr. Potter as the man leaned down below the lip of the car to do the same. 

Fingering his keys, Alfred momentarily stalled, then entreated, “Do call me Alfred." 

Mr. Potter's responding grin was positively blinding with the sheer joy in it - enough to nearly make Alfred blush - as he gaily returned, “Then you must call me Harry, Mr. - Alfred,” he corrected himself, placing a palm to his chest as he bowed further from where he was already hunched to look inside.

“Harry,” Alfred readily agreed, unable to resist the smile that quirked his own lips even as he made a shooing gesture at the man, feeling all at once discomfited by the blatant affection in his date’s viridescent eyes. 

Mr. Potter - Harry - laughed but obligingly stepped back, giving one last parting shot of, “I eagerly await our next meeting!“ before courteously shutting his driver’s side door.

-

Once at home - and by that, he meant as soon as he stepped over the threshold - Harry couldn’t wait any longer and snatched up the mysterious box gifted to him by his gentleman, peeling the lid open. 

For several long moments, he was stunned to the point of speechlessness, frozen stiff with uncomprehending shock.

Then his heart rapidly swelled so much so that he was quite sure it nearly burst in pure joy as he looked upon the gorgeous, pale blue gemstones, the lightest shade of aquamarine, which were embedded within the sharp, silver cufflinks that glimmered promisingly even in the low lights of his flat.

-

[The next day]

Damian didn’t often - if ever - seek out Pennyworth simply for the sake of it, and this time was no different. No, tonight, Father would be leaving on a Justice League mandated mission off world that would extend for roughly two weeks, which in turn would leave Damian without a ‘necessary guardian’ to act as a chaperone for his class field trip to the zoo. Usually, Damian would simply turn to Grayson for such matters, but the eldest Wayne ward was similarly occupied. One may think Damian could instead then turn to Todd or even - and he shuddered at the thought alone - Drake, but they would be disturbingly wrong. 

No, the only person Damian had left to turn to in situations such as these was Pennyworth himself. The butler was loyal and reliable, and he would not irritate Damian to the point of risking outing himself just to satisfy the urge of stabbing the object of his annoyances into blessed silence. 

However, Damian had not expected to find Pennyworth otherwise occupied when he came to inform the man of his latest task.

“- is perfectly understandable, Harry,” the butler had been in the middle of saying, and several things regarding that singular half sentence had Damian’s steps coming to a stop just outside the cracked open door, which he automatically peered through in response.

Pennyworth had the kitchen’s landline phone held up to his ear, and he was leaning against the countertop at his side. His back was to Damian, which was both fortunate and not: it was fortunate in the sense that it gave Damian more time to listen in without the risk of being caught, but unfortunate because he would have to rely on the butler’s tone of voice alone to try and grasp his sentiments.

And while there was plenty Damian could grasp from simply the sound of Pennyworth’s voice, the possible meanings behind it were somehow now eluding him.

“Yes, yes, eight o’clock,” Pennyworth agreed… warmly, so much so that the only comparison Damian’s stalling mind could seem to make to the tone was how Grayson would coo with this utterly repugnant voice at Alfred - the cat, that is - whenever the man spotted the feline. 

Damian of course realized his own deduction made little to no sense at all, especially considering this was Pennyworth he was referring to. One of the few reasons Damian had deigned to name his cat after the man - besides the fact that it was a gift from him - was because he privately admired how poised and level-headed the butler always made himself to be. Nothing like Grayson, with his lack of basic understanding of the concept of personal space and his useless ability to cry at the most utterly stupid of things. 

Narrowing his eyes, Damian silently crept away from the room as Pennyworth made to hang up the phone, momentarily stalling his own task of telling the butler of his new mission. 

He didn’t have a particular direction in mind, so it was by chance that he happened to stumble upon yet another private conversation within the manor less than a minute later - this one between the two mangiest occupants of the lot: Drake and Todd.

“ - got nothing!” Drake had been in the middle of frustratedly exclaiming, the sentiment automatically sparking a small thrill of smug satisfaction within Damian. Oh, he certainly hadn’t a clue just yet as to what Drake was referring to, but anything that managed to stump the other boy was a check in Damian’s book. 

Todd was quick to respond, gloomily adding, “Me neither - we’re gonna hafta follow him instead.”

This was all Damian heard before he decided to make his presence known, striding into the room and pointedly ignoring Drake’s exaggerated groan of despair. 

“Who spat in your cat litter?” Todd uncouthly remarked upon noticing him, brows raising.

Damian scowled back, pointedly resisting the urge to cross his arms and thereby come off as defensive. “I am thinking, Todd, something you would do well to try more often,” he scoffed, scrunching his nose. 

The eldest of the three rolled his eyes in response, daring to wave him off. “Yeah, yeah, demon brat,” he remarked unconvincedly, sharing an indiscreet look with Drake. 

Damian huffed, clicking his tongue and finally allowing himself to cross his arms. “If you must know, I found Pennyworth to be otherwise occupied,” he gritted out, nearly startling with how quickly the pair’s heads snapped in his direction with avid interest gleaming in their gazes. He narrowed his own eyes back, suspicion brewing in his chest.

“Didja hear 'im say anythin’?” Todd asked him, leaning over the arm of his chair in his repugnant eagerness. 

Damian huffed, raising a condescending brow. “And if I have?” he remarked leadingly.

Drake groaned again - as if he was in need of any more qualities to make him appear more zombie-like than Todd truly was - and turned away from him dismissively, instead speaking to Todd. “Don’t bother, I doubt he actually heard anything interesting,” the teen said, positively trampling over Damian’s already raised nerves.

“Oh?” Damian remarked snidely, uncrossing his arms to idly admire his finely manicured nails. “So you have no interest in his meeting with… ‘Harry?’” he questioned, subtly watching their expressions for a cue while also inwardly grimacing in distaste at the name. Who in their right mind would name their child ‘Harry?’ One might as well be referred to as ‘Sweaty’ or ‘Ugly’ if parents were so enamored with naming their children after qualities most would consider undesirable. 

Both Todd and Drake perked up like dogs smelling a treat, and they exchanged another obvious glance between themselves. “H. - Harry? You think?” Drake questioned unintelligibly, only for Todd to nod quickly in response as if the ridiculous utterance had made even an ounce of sense. 

“So you know who this Harry is?” Damian couldn’t help but ask, his scowl deepening as Todd and Drake chose to look at one another yet again before shaking their heads in sync.

“Nope, not a clue, pipsqueak,” Todd said cheerfully, hefting himself up from his chair and swaggering past him out of the room, Drake right behind him.

Damian quickly whirled around to follow, a furious retort on his tongue, only to stop short as he came face to face with Pennyworth.

The other two boys had slipped past the man, who was now unobtrusively blocking the entrance as he raised a brow at Damian in pointed question.

Damian let out a slow, extended breath through his nose, forcefully calming himself even as his molars ground against one another. He was unfortunately well aware that pointing fingers at his ‘brothers’ would do him no good, and it was true he needed to speak to the butler regardless.

He would simply have to pull the truth from the two nitwits later - even if it was by their very teeth.

Chapter Text

“Happy Birthday!” Harry exclaimed, pulling a wrapped package from behind his back with exaggerated flourish and dropping to one knee to present it up towards Alfred.

His gentleman quirked his lips at him with exasperated indulgence, and oh, how Harry delighted in being able to refer to Mr. Pennyworth by his first name; his heart still fluttered in his chest whenever he recalled Alfred so generously extending the offer. Alfred accepted the gift from him with polite reluctance, though Harry could see he was unwillingly pleased. “As you are well aware, Harry,” - Ah, yet another luxury, to hear his own name pass from the lips of the apple of his eye - “my birthday is tomorrow,” Alfred dryly pointed out, gently wrapping a hand around Harry’s upper arm and guiding him back to standing. 

Harry nodded agreeably as they began walking towards the entrance of the restaurant. “Indeed, but I had to say it now since I won’t be able to see you then, as you’ll be celebrating with your family,” he surmised. 

“And the gift?” Alfred questioned, raising a brow.

“An early birthday present, of course!” Harry quickly replied, grinned mischievously as he stepped ahead and held the door open for Alfred, gesturing grandly for the man to enter.

Alfred let loose an undeniably amused huff as he did so, his green and gold wrapped gift held firmly between his chest and forearm. “Am I to take it that my other ‘early birthday present’ simply wasn’t enough?” he inquired with a wry, dubious glance.

Harry nodded seriously, pausing to wordlessly pass over his credit card as usual to the attendant once they’d reached the front of the short line. A waitress kindly escorted them to their seats - a private booth in a tastefully lit area of the restaurant - and left them to contemplate over their menus. Harry let his eyes trail down to the emerald-embedded bow tie and cufflinks that Alfred currently wore - the aforementioned gift. He smiled in quiet elation, finally admitting, “I realized a gift should be more for yourself than it is for me.” Then, he traced a finger against his own ice-chip blue cufflinks and gave a dimpled smile to his gentleman, pointedly remarking, “Moreover, a birthday gift is not usually… reciprocated.”

Alfred huffed at him but tellingly subsided, lifting up his menu and pursing his lips as he trained his gaze on the items listed therein. After a few moments, he silkily questioned, “Would you rather I hadn’t?”

Harry gasped dramatically, twisting his hands around to cover his opposing wrists with his palms, hiding his treasured cufflinks from sight. “Never,” he objected, squinting his eyes suspiciously at Alfred as if he thought his gentleman would suddenly steal the beloved gems back away. 

Alfred blatantly feigned having not seen his dramatics, instead adding to his own previous comment, “And what of the salve you had given me, then? I certainly believe it was more than suitable for a gift, seeing how completely it has rid me of any aches or pains after a single application.”

Harry studiously avoided the subtle implication hidden within the words even as his brows furrowed slightly with the more direct meaning. “It was for your health. There needn’t have been an imminent celebration for me to have presented it to you,” he earnestly explained to his gentleman, reaching across the table to gently grasp his hand.

Alfred accepted the touch, and it was difficult to tell if his cheeks pinkened as Harry thought they did with the low light. He was gifted with a rather flustered uptilt of his gentleman's lips, which Harry invariably believed lit up the entire room. 

He let his own serious expression drop, smiling in return before turning his gaze to his menu and reluctantly taking back his hand, glad his genuine sentiment had gone across.

He finally deigned to browse the restaurant’s listed options. Already, he’d left his card with the attendant so as to not risk having Alfred attempt to pay as he had tried once again at the café after their first date. That had been a bit of a spectacle - what, with Harry subtly using a bit of magic to switch his and his gentleman’s cards at the last second. He still couldn’t help but wonder if Alfred had noticed something amiss. 

Truthfully, it amazed Harry how they had only been on one formal date before - this being their second - and yet he could not imagine having ever lived without. Which should’ve been inconceivable, with him having lived for roughly four centuries and this having been hardly even two full weeks. To be fair, he and Alfred would call (and, mostly on Harry’s part, send letters) frequently and had met outside of their dates biweekly at the café for a spot of tea, so they’ve had plenty of time to thoroughly acquaint themselves with one another. 

And acquaint themselves they had. Of course, they both still happened to be rather vague regarding some aspects of their lives, but Harry now knew Alfred worked as a manor’s lone butler and considered its owners to be part of his own family. Furthermore, the man had indeed had a partner before - a wife - but it had been several decades since their divorce, and he was estranged from their singular child together. However, his gentleman had formed his own family without any need for their blood to be shared, and Harry knew the man was undeniably happy with his astounding five (and two separate halves that added to six, somehow?) grandchildren as well as a man he privately admitted to Harry that he thought of as his own son. 

For his part, Harry revealed several things too, including the fact that he was well past his first century in age (ah, and he learned Alfred was to be cusping his seventy-sixth year tomorrow), he originated from England (as had Alfred!), he had a flat that happened to be a bit too close to Park Row for his gentleman’s comfort, he too had been previously married and divorced though without any offspring of his own, and he’d recently (as in, around a decade ago) picked up the hobby of knitting. 

The last one had taken him about five slow years to truly get the hang of, but he’d stuck to it in part due to his fond yet fading memories of Mrs. Weasley. As a matter of fact, Alfred had questioned with an impressed air whether the dark green sweater he’d seen Harry come in with on one occasion before they’d been formally acquainted to one another was of his own creation, and Harry had been overjoyed to state the affirmative, already making plans to knit one for his gentleman too. Winter would be upon them all too soon, and a sweater would make a perfect stocking stuffer. Perhaps Harry could subtly ask Alfred for the sizes of his grandchildren as well so he could knit some items for them too.

Ah, that particular thought brought Harry far too much warm contentment; he was definitely getting carried away by his daydreams. 

He could hardly help himself though; he’d always longed to have a large family to call his own.

-

Alright. Jason knew Alfie technically had a bio daughter - some chick practically in her fifties already who obviously wasn’t worth two shits since she never bothered to appreciate Alfred like any sane person would - but maybe she got a kid of her own.

That sure seemed to be the only solid explanation he could figure out for why some guy who looked around Dick’s age was chatting up Alfie like they were old friends. Like, seriously. Jason squinted his eyes through his scope, making an aborted noise in his throat as the damn kid reached across the table and held Alfie’s hand. 

And Alfred let him. 

“What’s going on?” Tim’s voice crackled over the comms, impatient as always.

Jason didn’t even bother tryna tease him about it, too shocked as his theory just got a hundred times closer to probably actually being the truth. “‘m pretty sure this guy ‘s Alfie’s legit grandkid,” he declared, watching in morbid fascination as the pair laughed together in the restaurant while they finished up the last of their shared dessert after having already demolished their fancy steaks and drank their respective glasses of no-doubt pricey wine. 

“His what?” Tim exclaimed, and there was an incriminating rustle of paper, making Jason’s eyes narrow dangerously.

“What was that, Tim?” he questioned lowly, ignoring the teen’s own question and still not taking his eyes off the pair in the restaurant, who’d just stood from their seats and were heading for the exit.

Tim made a weird, almost choking sound over the line, like a strangled cat. 

“What?” Jason barked, kissing his teeth impatiently, his nerves slowly setting on fire as Alfred and the fabled Harry Potter finally came out of the restaurant - close enough now for Jason to try and read their lips. 

“Jason - ohmygod Jason -” Tim stuttered out, sounding halfway into hyperventilation.

“Just a sec,” Jason muttered back, leaning forwards on his perch for a better view. Both Alfie and the guy were facing sideways to him and towards each other, so it wasn’t the best position for lipreading, but he tried anyways. 

Tim gargled unintelligibly on the other end of the line. 

-

[Two minutes prior]

Tim couldn’t help it, alright? He couldn’t hold back any longer, especially not after Jason said with complete confidence that H. - Harry - Potter was probably their Alfred’s actual grandkid. 

He couldn’t keep his nasty gobby tendencies to himself anymore, especially not when he stumbled upon the sight of a tantalizingly opened letter just sitting oh so innocently on the kitchen counter, which made it literally impossible for him to restrain himself. 

He’d snatched up the thing like a feral dog with a bone, nearly tearing the surprisingly thick… parchment (?) in his grip in his rush to flip it over, glancing around suspiciously before ducking his head down to begin reading it rapidly. With every word that filtered into his head, Tim’s eyes got bigger and bigger and his jaw dropped lower and lower until it was practically hanging halfway to the floor. He let loose a choked sound. What the - what the heck was this?!

Smack dab in the middle of it, written condemningly on the sheet he read, ‘How I wish mine own eyes were the color of Peridot instead of Emerald so that I may have further shown mine faith to you, for what greater show of fate could there have been but by having the windows to mine own soul glimmer in the same shade as the stone of which the month of your birth was designed for.’ Was this - was this a fu-reaking love letter?!?!?!

“Jason - ohmygod Jason -” he cut off, eyes practically flying over the terrifyingly long page of the same kind of stuff, right up to the end, where it signed off with an incriminating, ‘yours, Harry Potter.’

Oh god. Ohhhhh god.

“They’re LOVERS!!?!” he shrieked, tossing the letter away and slapping his hands over his eyes as if he could will away the memory of everything that’d already seared itself into his poor, eidetic brain. He felt like he’d just caught Bruce in bed with Talia, except somehow worse.

Nooooonononono, Jason said this guy didn’t even look thirty, and he was - was writing this to Alfred? No way. No freaking way. Tim took back everything he’d mentally said. He’d prefer if this guy was Alfred’s grandson. He could deal with a little jealousy from his own part if it meant that this wasn’t a reality. 

His mouth gaped open in a soundless scream, his limbs turning into useless goop as he fell to the floor in a loose puddle of anguished suffering, still hopelessly covering his eyes in a futile attempt to escape his new reality. 

-

Tim screeched something in Jason’s ear, but Jason didn’t hear it. He was too busy watching in suspended horror as Alfred let whoever the fuck Harry Potter was take his hand, lift it up, and - almost in painstaking slow motion - kiss it. 

Jason nearly passed out right then and there with how fast the blood drained from his head. He kept staring, frozen as solid as a cement block, traumatized even after the pair had long since went their separate ways.

It’d been a chaste kiss, sure, but it’d been a chaste kiss on the fucking hand. That was either a sarcastic move or a non-platonic one, and it sure as hell didn’t look sarcastic.

Belatedly, Tim’s last words finally filtered through Jason’s head, and all he could think was a more than hysterical, no shit!

Chapter Text

“We can’t tell the others.”

Jason blinked at him in clear shock, but Tim remained resolute, unfaltering even as his elder brother’s face slowly contorted in outrage. “Whadya mean we can’t tell ‘em!?” the nineteen-year old exclaimed, throwing his arms out like an angry bird. Ha. “That no-good little punk’s out there fucking - fucking seducing our goddamn grandpa and ya think the rest of the Bats don’t ought to know?!”

Tim winced, his own face going red. “Just hear me out,” he gritted, bringing a hand up to massage at his temple, uselessly willing away his impending migraine. He could really use some coffee right about now. “We already invaded Alfred’s privacy by doing this - think about what the rest of the Bats would do,” he pointed out, grimacing at just the thought.

Jason paused, considered it for about a second, and then slumped, letting out a long groan and burying his face against his palms. Tim sympathized. There was no denying that every last member of the Wayne family (whether by blood, adoption, or other honorary means) had just as much trouble keeping their noses out of other people’s business as Tim and Jason did (and no, Tim didn’t think he had more of an issue than any of the others did, thank you very much). Add to it that this was about one of them? And not just anyone either, but Alfred? Yeah, together, the Bats'd all have scrounged up every last detail there was to find on this Harry Potter by the next morning and probably have the guy’s place and himself liberally bugged while they were at it. 

Honestly, that was if Tim was being generous about it. He could think of at least one Bat who’d more than happily leave Harry in less pieces than he started in (*cough* Damian *cough*). 

Sure, they might all respect Alfred more than they respected literally anyone else in this household (or out of it, too), but respecting his privacy would go right out the window once everyone found out that some conniving guy who probably wasn’t even Dick’s age was trying to steal away the literal foundational, singularly sane piece of their maniac vigilante family.

Yeah, this Harry Potter asshole clearly was up to no good, and Tim felt his heart clench in pain over the fact that Alfred wasn’t seeing that. If the butler had been attempting some undercover mission with this, he would’ve told them - or, at the very least, he would have left some record of it on the Batcomputer, which Tim knew for a fact he didn’t. Instead, he was going on dates with this jerkwad and getting these skin-crawling ‘love’ letters from him like they could actually ever be sincere. Nobody in this freaking century talked like that and meant it.

“So that’s it?” Jason said, interrupting Tim’s thoughts. “We’re just gonna let ‘im go, then?” he asked in tired disbelief.

Tim scoffed. “Of course not!” he exclaimed vociferously, taking a moment to consider. “Obviously, we’re still gonna look into things ourselves, and maybe we can let one or two people in on it - just not the whole family,” he offered, tilting his head in thought. It wasn’t a bad idea, what he was proposing. They definitely wouldn’t be telling either Bruce or Damian, the latter of which was never rational and the former of which was usually rational to a fault but turned into a crazy racoonbear-manbat quadhybrid when literally anything happened to anyone in the batfamily. 

Cass was also out because she was busy on an opp in Hong Kong and didn’t need this very distracting distraction to distract her. 

All that left was Dick and Steph, and Tim eliminated Dick purely because he was petty and last week Dick stole his coffee maker from his Nest for ‘his own good,’ whatever that was supposed to mean. 

“Steph,” Tim said decisively, giving a nod of his head and pulling his phone out, not wasting any time. Deftly, he created a new group chat with him, Jason, and Stephanie in it.

Decaf_isdeath: Hey Steph can u meet Jason and I at the manor?

Killmeagain: Jason and me*

Tim looked up from his phone to shoot Jason a withering glare, the older teen shrugging his shoulders innocently. "Not my fault you suck at English."

Tim valiantly ignored him, his eyebrow twitching.

BrickChick: …oookayyyy? Like now??

Decaf_isdeath: Yes

BrickChick: ominous but mk

-

She laughed in their faces. 

As in, she leaned across the table so that she could literally laugh right in Jason and Tim’s faces, alternatingly hitting them with hot breaths of air that smelled like syrup and flaming hot cheetos. 

“Good one,” she wheezed, slumping back into her chair and pressing her palm against her sternum as she tried and partially failed at calming herself down.

Jason and Tim stared back at her grimly, and she pouted, crossing her arms and blowing her bangs out from where they’d fallen into her eyes.

“Oh, come on, you don’t seriously expect me to believe that, do you?” 

Instead of answering, Jason took out his phone, tapped on it a couple of times, and then shoved it under her nose.

She squinted at the screen, snatching the device from him so it wasn’t held like two millimeters away from her eyes, and blanched.

Right there, in crisp, incriminating HD, was a picture of some guy who looked like he could be a model putting his nasty ass lips on Alf’s goddamn hand.

-

Harry was currently enjoying a calm day at the zoo, smiling serenely as children went about laughing and screaming and pointing at all the different, unusual and spectacular forms of life presented in the expansive, open space of the park. 

It had been quite some time since he’d last visited a zoo, and while it did bring him some melancholic nostalgia to not be able to see his home world’s fantastical creatures amongst the animals present today, it was still a rather pleasant experience overall.

He placidly strolled in the direction of the giraffes, a creature that never failed to amuse him, while taking in the fresh - albeit slightly dung scented - air. He was dressed in a pair of slacks and a simple white dress shirt since it was definitely too warm of a day to be wearing his usual full suit, especially considering even the sun had chosen to peek through the perpetual smog over the city. 

It was as he was approaching the very enclosure he’d been making his way towards that he felt eyes upon him, and he glanced to his side only to freeze in surprise.

There, as if it were by fate, was his handsome gentleman, who also had forgone his suit but still wore a trim black vest over his dress shirt along with his usual bow tie. Alfred’s eyes were wide in startelement as he looked back at Harry, but - just as Harry’s face split into a delighted grin and he moved as if to make his way over - the man made a sharp nixing gesture with the flat of his hand, eyes darting over to the group Harry only then noticed to be around him.

Harry’s steps stuttered to a stop, which nearly caused a poor woman and her child to collide into him from behind, and he hurriedly moved over to stand alongside a fence, glancing over to Alfred once more.

His gentleman darted his gaze towards him as well, looking pained but not in the sense that he was genuinely upset to see him, and realization dawned on Harry. 

He nodded understandingly, quick to pick up that there must be something or someone in their current location that was preventing Alfred from interacting with him openly. Turning his gaze back to the crowd around the man, it wasn’t difficult to notice that the majority consisted of poshly dressed children who looked to be around the ages of ten to twelve. 

Ah, Harry realized, taking another step away. One of Alfred’s grandchildren must be amongst them. His heart squeezed at the thought, and a significant part of him wished to simply rush over and meet the child who was related to his wonderful gentleman, but he restrained himself. 

Alfred had still remained vague over his personal circumstances (as had Harry, for that matter), so much so that Harry did not even know the names of his honorary family members. It was little wonder why the man looked so uncomfortable now; Harry would have been similarly troubled should his private life so suddenly be put at risk of being outed without his say. 

That in mind, Harry decidedly turned to leave the park; he would apologize to his gentleman for the unfortunate timing over the phone later today.

-

Pennyworth was behaving suspiciously.

It was subtle, of course - the butler did have a hand in training Father, after all - but perhaps it was because of surprise that Pennyworth did not disguise it as well as he normally would. 

As it was, Damian quickly noticed the surreptitious, worried and perhaps even… apologetic glances the man was sending elsewhere, but he could not tell to whom or what, exactly, with the crowd of unfortunately taller people around them.

After a couple of minutes of this behavior went by, Damian was thoroughly annoyed by it and barely resisted the urge to confront Pennyworth directly, which he knew from experience would have been an effort in futility. 

Instead, Damian went up to the butler, whose attention snapped to him with far more scrutiny than normal, and informed him, “I will be in the restroom, if you need to find me,” turning on his heel and leaving without another word.

Obviously, he did not actually need to use the restroom. The excuse worked well twofold: In one, he could pull to a stop around the corner to see if Pennyworth would show his hand now that Damian had ‘left,’ and in two, Damian could finally escape the snot-nosed, whiny dolts he was forced to call his classmates.

Sure enough, the butler cast a few last glances in the direction Damian had gone off in before making his move, quickly striding in the opposite direction.

Damian followed, making sure to stay out of sight, only to nearly stumble as he heard Pennyworth call, “Harry!” 

That name. The very one that had been niggling at Damian’s mind for the past week and a half. The very one neither Todd nor Drake would spill a single word over no matter how many threats and disparagements on their characters Damian made. 

Ahead of Pennyworth, a young, dark haired man came to an abrupt stop, turning on his heel. He was not dressed dissimilarly to the butler, though sans the vest, and there was a look of surprise written across his smooth features, one that shifted into quiet joy.

Damian immediately felt a curl of dislike for the man, and he silently crept closer to observe the scene.

He was still too far to hear what the pair were saying, but Pennyworth gestured towards the man’s neck, who in turn pulled out a thin band of black cloth from his pocket, which - upon closer inspection - seemed to be an unknotted bow tie. 

Pennyworth shook his head, though not in disappointment, as his expression was far too… fond for that, and Damian’s temper sizzled higher as the butler took the tie from the man’s hand, their fingertips brushing. 

And then Damian’s universe felt as though it’d been tipped on its axis as Pennyworth outstretched his arms, cloth still in hand, and carefully wound it around the collar of the man’s shirt in a gesture of such intimacy that it had Damian’s stomach writhing and his palms sweating with an entirely unexpected amount of childish upset. He could not prevent the stutter in his breath nor the way his heart clenched uncomfortably tight as Pennyworth proceeded to slowly, caringly tie the young man’s bow tie for him, going so far as to step closer to ease the strain on own his arms, forming a bubble of space in which the two seemed to be in their own world. 

The only thing Damian could think of in that moment as his eyes burned traitorously and his fists clenched themselves into his neatly pressed shirt, was that Pennyworth had never done the same for him. 

Chapter Text

Alfred’s soft smile dipped slightly at the edges as Harry pursed his lips and squinted off somewhere to his left, humming thoughtfully under his breath.

“Is something the matter?” Alfred questioned the man, taking a slight step back; he hadn’t realized how close he had gotten in order to fix Harry’s tie.

Harry looked around for a moment longer before slowly shaking his head, smiling sheepishly at him with a noticeable uncurrent of elation from their earlier interaction still shining in his eyes. “I only thought I had felt someone looking upon me,” he admitted, shrugging offhandedly, and Alfred felt an immediate swell of apprehension.

He resisted the urge to release a sigh, entirely sure that Harry’s intuition had been completely on the mark. Master Damian must have noticed his odd behavior and chosen to follow him, possibly from the beginning. “It is most likely my… grandchild,” he confessed, unable to help how he subtly tensed at his own admittance. 

Contrary to expectation, Harry did not seem overly surprised, and there was in fact an edge of eagerness to him that Alfred noticed before it was subdued. It perhaps was not shocking that Harry had guessed the reason for Alfred’s earlier reluctance to openly acknowledge his presence; the man could be quite keen at times.

In a matter of moments, Harry had smoothly excused himself, bluntly refusing Alfred’s attempt at giving an apology and merrily strolling towards the exit of the park with a promise to contact him by tonight. 

Which left Alfred alone with the task of how to confront Master Damian over the scene he’d undoubtedly observed.

-

Pennyworth waited until they were exiting the zoo to finally make his move.

Damian’s professor - Kantie (yet another ridiculous name, even if it was her last rather than her first) - had already begun corralling the irritating wretches that made up Damian’s class when the butler went up to her, suggesting, “I would be able to drive Master Damian to his home directly.”

Kantie clearly did not believe this to be a good suggestion, which was to be expected, given her dislike for foreigners and her even more ironic dislike for children and their maintained happiness. “Mr. al Ghul has to follow the rules just like every other child here,” she replied in that annoying, high-pitched voice of hers, as if she’d been part teakettle in her previous life. How terribly fortunate Damian only had her for biology, or his ears might have begun bleeding from overexposure already. 

Damian continued to observe the current situation from the corner of his eyes, as he’d been staring resolutely at the ground for a majority of the field trip since the… event, but the sudden tenseness to Pennyworth’s features was not lost to him. “I shudder to think of the falling standards of Master Damian’s school should his own professor be unable to correctly recall his last name,” the butler cooly observed, continuing over Kantie’s sudden spluttering, “And considering ‘every other child here,’ as you so eloquently put it, does not have a chauffeur available at this site as I am certified to be for Master Damian, it is a blessed miracle you were not fooled to believe they too could remain abandoned here instead of being driven back to their school to be taken directly by their waiting guardians, since classes have officially ended within the building over an hour ago.”

“Excuse me? -”

“If I must,” Pennyworth replied brusquely, sweeping past her as if her mouth wasn’t gaping open in unattractive, outraged shock that was immensely gratifying. The butler gently brought his hand up to hover behind Damian’s shoulder blades to spur him into movement. “Master Damian shall be in your class again come Monday,” he offhandedly farewelled to the floundering woman, leaving her behind to handle the impertinent children she was quickly surrounded by like sharks smelling blood in the water.

-

Alfred’s chest felt heavy as Master Damian continued to avoid meeting his eye, instead choosing to resolutely stare out his window as Alfred drove them to the Manor.

In truth, he felt an unusual swell of nerves for the conversation he would have to begin with his youngest grandchild; privately, he had been hoping Master Damian would begin it instead.

Of course, things were never so easy. 

“I understand you may have questions for me, Master Damian,” he settled upon saying, smoothing his hands over the wheel as he took a turn to the right.

Master Damian clicked his tongue in that particular way of his, a noise that hardly ever failed to make Alfred feel a swell of equal parts fondness and exasperation. The boy did not stay silent for long; he’d already been forced to go without saying anything regarding the topic for the remaining three hours they’d spent at the zoo, after all. “Who was he?” he spat, still glaring out the window.

Alfred hesitated, but only briefly, testing the words on his tongue as he replied, “He is… a friend, who goes by the name of Harry Potter.” He and Harry had yet to formally label the relationship between themselves, though Alfred was far from oblivious enough to believe they truly were of such a platonic nature to be referred to as ‘friends.’ He did not, however, believe Master Damian to be the best choice to first reveal such information to. 

“Potter,” Master Damian scoffed under his breath, muttering something that was undoubtedly highly insulting in one manner or another. Then, more loudly, he boldly pronounced, “I do not like him.” 

Alfred could not withhold the spark of amusement that flashed through him at the statement, though he did manage to subdue his own smile lest the boy see it in the window’s reflection. Instead, he mildly noted, “Is that so?”

“Yes,” Master Damian spat, whirling around to face him in his abrupt rise of emotions. “He was clearly of poor pedigree, with his scruffy hair, the utterly dopish look his face had been set in, and his - his absolutely ridiculous ineptitude at being able to tie his own tie,” he reviled, fists clenching tightly around the strap of his seatbelt. Alfred’s brows raised, a thread of concern sprouting within him that was only slightly subdued by his underlying amusement. This was a stronger reaction than he had anticipated, for Master Damian was undeniably showing far more emotion than usual.

He chose to carefully confront the condemnations the boy had made. “I cannot speak of Harry’s ‘pedigree,’ Master Damian, but you and I are both well aware such things matter little when weighed against more valuable measures of worth, such as one’s virtue,” here the boy’s expression was mulish; three years at Wayne Manor could not simply remove nearly a decade’s worth of priming to believe otherwise. Alfred continued forth regardless, deciding to move past Damian’s comment over Harry’s hair since it wasn’t exactly… inaccurate. For that matter, he also avoided correcting the boy’s opinion on Harry’s expression, though definitely not out of anything along the lines of embarrassment. “And I assure you, Harry is more than capable of tying his own tie,” he dryly decided upon saying.

He glanced to his side as he came to a stop at an intersection, taking in the complicated look that graced his grandchild’s features. His brows had pulled in, and his nose had scrunched up as if he had caught a whiff of something unpleasant. His lips were pursed, the bottom one jutting out slightly in a way Alfred knew Master Damian would vehemently deny was a pout. It was the look in the boy’s eyes, however, that truly seized his attention. For a lack of a better word - and with the increasing possibility that there simply wasn’t one - his grandson looked hurt. 

And Alfred could truthfully not think of any conceivable notion as to why. He did not believe his corrections of Master Damian’s disparagements were insulting or condescending in any manner, nor had his grandson ever reacted in this way in response to Alfred mildly correcting one of his more irreverent behaviors. 

Master Damian did not leave him to his thoughts for long, quietly muttering, “I know how to tie my own tie too,” under his breath, splotchy patches of red immediately flushing his cheeks. 

Ah. A flood of warmth and simultaneous, latent regret swelled within Alfred's chest. He understood now. “It appears I owe you my most sincere apologies, Master Damian," he quietly began, his lips pursing in remorse as he contritely explained, "I had not wished to seem as though I believed you to be incapable of doing so yourself."

It had been remiss of him, in a way he would now earnestly endeavor to correct, to have… not forgotten, no, but to have placed to the wayside one of the most relevant aspects of Master Damian: he was still just a boy. And, regardless of his elevated maturity or oftentimes adultlike perceptions, he still deserved to be treated as such more often than he was.

Alfred smiled softly as he turned to face the road, resisting the urge to reach out and gently card his fingers through his grandson’s smoothed back hair, styled so much like his own. “I would be honored to assist you with your tie whenever you have the need to wear one,” he professed, completely sincere and feeling fond contentment as Master Damian said naught a word in rejection, only releasing a quiet 'tt' and facing resolutely out the passenger window with his elbow against the base of it and his palm pressed firmly against his lips, the tip of his left ear poking out from his dark locks and flushed a telling red.

The remainder of the drive was amicably silent. Master Damian did not bring up Harry again, and Alfred decided against doing so either. It seemed as though the matter had been put to rest for now, which most definitely meant that his grandson had not realized the extent to his and Harry’s relationship.

Alfred hid the twitch of his lips by turning to glance in the side mirror as he pulled into the long drive up to Wayne Manor, his eyes twinkling with a subtle, mischievous light.

He was sure his grandson would find out… eventually.

-

Harry couldn’t help the short bark of laughter that escaped him, though he was quick to subdue it with an apologetic half smile to Alfred, who looked wearily resigned.

“It’s… not the worst that could’ve happened, is it?” Harry tried, reaching over and comfortingly placing his hand over his gentleman’s, inwardly thrilled at being able to share such a casual touch. 

“...No,” Alfred reluctantly agreed, flipping his own arm over so that his and Harry’s hands were now palm to palm, his long, delicate fingers brushing up against Harry’s inner wrist. 

Harry trembled once, then flushed even as he managed to articulate, “If you would like to inform your family of me, I would not be... opposed.” 

Alfred looked up from where he had been staring distantly at the rim of his teacup, clearly surprised. His fingertips stilled. “You would not?” he questioned bemusedly.

Harry shook his head, his dark hair falling from where he’d finally managed to push it back and coming to rest just above his eyes. “I do prefer to keep private,” he slowly admitted, only to add, “but your family is another matter, and I would not have you keep such a relevant secret to yourself from them on my behalf.”

His gentleman hummed. “And of your age?” he inquired.

Harry could not help but wince, softly stroking his thumb against the base of Alfred’s palm. It was a fair question. In one regard, he did not want the man to have to lie for him - more so than simply obfuscating or hiding the truth - but on the other, it felt like a massive undertaking to even think about informing such a number of people - at least seven or eight, by his understanding - of this secret of his he tended to keep close to heart. A part of him acknowledged the chance that they would be just as accepting as his gentleman had been, but there was no surety to be found in such a belief. Age was said to bring wisdom - though Harry often wondered if that was the case for himself since he certainly did not feel very wise in times such as these - and the rest of Alfred’s family would be much younger than the man himself. “Would they understand?” he finally questioned, ducking his head and inadvertently squeezing his hand around the warm one in his grasp. 

His gentleman huffed a sound that could almost be construed as amused, softly replying, “They would not reject you for your unique existence, no,” only to then dryly add, “Though they may have other objections to make.”

Harry looked up to Alfred with quiet curiosity, brows furrowing in bemusement. Such an answer seemed to almost juxtapose itself.

Seeing his mien, his gentleman smiled wryly and elaborated, “They tend to be… overprotective, shall we say, of those they consider to be part of their brood.”

Harry tilted his head, eyes going wide and attentive as he savored the information Alfred had willingly shared with him. Though, admittedly, he was a bit lost as to what his gentleman could possibly mean. What objections could his family possibly have over this situation in regard to Alfred’s wellbeing that would be affected by Harry’s singular existence in particular?

Alfred continued forwards, elucidating with a fond sigh, “My family tends to meddle more so than most, and though their father is currently away on business, the children are not any less driven in their endeavors,” here he momentarily paused, then admitted, “I fear that more than one of them has likely become aware of our relationship already.”

Harry made a noise of realization, cupping his chin against his palm. Ah, of course. His gentleman’s darling grandchildren must worry over who their grandfather’s suitor may be, regardless of whom it was in specific. Harry had most assuredly none-too-subtly hovered over his own mentor figure’s (that is, his supervisor in the Auror department for his decade and a half long stint in the field) relationship when the man had suddenly gotten engaged to a woman Harry had known hardly anything about. He could only imagine how much more concerned his gentleman’s grandchildren must be, especially with the direct involvement Harry may eventually have in their lives.

Oh, he blushed, resisting the urge to duck his head as if Alfred could pluck the thought from his mind; there he went off again, getting far too ahead of himself.

-

Alfred watched in quiet fondness as Harry clearly worked through his thoughts, a soft blush dashing upon the man’s defined cheeks to his own very clear fluster. 

It was far from difficult to discern what the other man was likely thinking, as he held a clear tenderness in his voice whenever they discussed children or family. It saddened Alfred to think the man, in his many, many years of life, had yet to experience the unique, overwhelming blessedness that came with having a family.

He inwardly shook the morose thoughts away, realigning himself with their current track of conversation.

It was true that he believed at least Master Tim and Master Jason knew more than they ought to, and he was quite sure they would not be so easily swayed into believing Alfred and Harry’s relationship was not of the romantic variety. Mostly since Master Damian had not even suspected as much in the first place, as opposed to his elder brothers, who Alfred had a suspicion that they likely had.

If he were a better man, perhaps he might've conceded to Harry’s offer. Perhaps he might've agreed to inform his family of his newfound relationship and possibly more. 

As it stood, however, he in truth thought perhaps… perhaps he ought to teach his many grandchildren a lesson - a thorough one, at that - on boundaries, of which their father had most definitely never taught.

“I admit, Harry, I have enjoyed keeping our relationship private,” he decidedly said, the man in question looking up at him with wide, delighted eyes, “And - if you are willing - of course, I would greatly appreciate your assistance in teaching my grandchildren the proper way in which to approach my personal affairs and to respect my ability to make my own decisions,” he suavely requested, his lips curving into a mischievous smile as he brushed his thumb against the soft edge of Harry’s palm.

It took the raven-haired man less than a moment to blink before he broke out into an elated grin, his hand lightly squeezing Alfred’s own. “Why, anything for you, my dearest gentleman!”

Chapter Text

Tim stared at her blankly, his fingers going still from where they’d been tapping away at his tablet. “You’re joking.”

Steph rolled her eyes, waving him off. “I’m really not,” she told him, wandering over to his bed and flopping herself down onto the mattress back first with a solid ‘oof.’

“But - you - I thought you understood!” Tim spluttered, pointing an accusatory finger at her.

Steph groaned, pressing her forearm over her eyes. “Yeah, well, I was wrong,” she muttered. She at least had the decency to sound pretty reluctant about it.

Tim recoiled anyways, clutching his precious tablet to his chest as if to protect it and its relative contents from Stephanie’s unexpected blasphemy. “Nuh uh,” he articulately responded. 

Steph didn’t deign to give him a reply to that, which Tim promptly decided he was glad for because that meant he could pretend she hadn’t heard him in the first place. 

Trying again, Tim entreated, “But you saw what that guy did!”

Stephanie groaned again - this time louder and with a heavy undercurrent of aversion - and she let the sound peter out before following it with a gusty sigh. “I know.”

Tim set his tablet to the side so he had his hands free to toss up in confusion despite Steph not being able to see him do so and therefore understand the depth to his incomprehension. “So? You know, but you said we shouldn’t look into it anyways?” he emphasized, waving his arms around for even more extra emphasis.

Steph scoffed. “What I said was that we should mind our own business ‘cause Alf’s more than capable of handling his private life,” she reiterated, finally removing her arm from off her face to lift her head up and glare at Tim.

Tim very much did not accept that logic because it was very much not logical. “Well, he shouldn’t have to,” he pointed out for now, twisting around in his desk seat to fully face the blonde.

She clicked her tongue at him, dismissive. “It’s not about ‘having to,’ Tim, and it’s not up to us who he associates with aside from us,” she finalized, though she still didn’t sound all that happy about it.

Tim gaped at her, then shook it off, slapping the palms of his hands over the back of his chair. “He’s being scammed!” he exclaimed, clenching his fingers around the wood and leaning forwards in a way that had his seat precariously tipping on its back legs. 

Steph briefly craned her neck up again to shoot him an unimpressed look, then let her head fall back onto the mattress. “You sure about that?”

Tim made a noise of affront, putting more weight onto the back legs of the chair. “Did you see that guy? He was all, like, slimy, putting his hands on our Alfred and writing him those - those gross letters,” Tim shuddered, his trauma abruptly resurfacing with a vengeance. He buried it back down with a resoluteness that came with experience and multiple sleepless nights. 

“Well, maybe Alf likes that sorta thing,” Steph replied petulantly, and Tim lost control of his balance, his chair fully tipping backwards and spilling him onto the floor in a puddle of flailing limbs and high-pitched yelps.

He scrambled to his feet as Stephanie openly laughed at him, and he clutched at his throbbing elbow and shot her a scowl that couldn’t cover his growing, disbelieving dismay. He let the silence draw out for several, tense ratcheting moments before he couldn't stand it anymore, and he let himself collapse back to the floor like a slighted Victorian maiden as he wailed into the fibers of the carpet, “But he’s being  BAMBOOZLED!”

-

Damian was confident that his brothers were still researching the 'ever-elusive' Harry Potter, but - for now - he decided to let them be.

Although he did not like the man in the slightest (who was that fool to believe he had any right to Pennyworth’s time and attention when the butler already had a family to whom he was loyal to?), Pennyworth had made it clear the stranger was not receiving any special privileges. (No, Damian did not preen nor do anything so oafish as smile the first time Pennyworth assisted him in knotting his bow tie before a Wayne-presence-mandated celebration amongst the upper echelons of society. The butler was simply doing what was required of him; that was all).

Regardless, Damian had decided to let the matter rest for the time being. He had far too many other matters of actual importance to attend to rather than a single, insignificant member of society who held no relevance to him at all. 

Damian was sure Pennyworth would soon come to realize the same. Potter would soon become nothing more than a footnote in their family’s memoir, and Damian refused to pay any further attention to the speck lest he cause Pennyworth to subsequently do the same. 

No, Damian was sure that Harry Potter’s continued existence would pose no threat to him at all. 

-

Jason’d finally managed to stalk (or more like put a tracker on the butler without him noticing, by some miracle) Alfie successfully when he left for his typical Tuesday outing, but he got there too damn late to actually see anything happening real time. 

That bastard Harry was already leaving the café when Jason came to a stop on his perch across the street from the building, and he cursed under his breath when the asshole seemed to just disappear after Jason tried to follow him around the next corner. 

He sighed frustratedly, raking a hand through his hair. At least he knew where to go for next time.

He’d make sure to rub that in Tim’s damn face as soon as he got back home.

-

Dick was pretty sure something was up with his siblings. 

He hadn’t got the chance to visit Gotham in a while - too busy on both his legal side and his vigilante side dealing with the same large-scale drug and trafficking bust in Bludhaven - but he had a sense for this type of thing.

The issue was, last time he got this feeling, it turned out Tim had got sliced up by some rusty barb wire and got an infection from it. Which would’ve been bad on its own but not terrible, but it turned out that Tim hadn’t been taking his antibiotics (which none of them had known about) even though he didn’t have a spleen (which - more hysterically - none of them had known about). 

Point was, Dick wasn’t all that happy over getting this kind of feeling again. He just knew it’d have at least something to do with his siblings. His brothers, in specific, since his sisters at least had more than a single brain cell to share between them. 

Chapter Text

Thanks to his gentleman’s forewarning the previous day, Harry did not feel overly concerned when he began to notice the sensation of eyes upon him as he strolled towards the café. Instead, he merely tilted his head in the direction he believed it to be coming from with a small, secretive little smile.

Of course Alfred’s grandchildren would be so skillful in their covert spying; if Harry hadn’t been so perceptive, he was sure he wouldn’t’ve noticed their presence at all. Even as it stood, he couldn’t quite tell how many of his gentleman’s dear progeny were watching him to ascertain he had the right intentions for their grandfather.

As of yet, he and Alfred had not had the chance to discuss the particulars for how to teach the children perhaps a bit more respect for their grandfather’s boundaries, so, for now, Harry decided to not draw any attention to his viewers.

Instead, he nodded to himself and squared his shoulders. At the very least, he would ensure they understood he meant only the best for the man they all cared so much for.

-

“Could he be any more obvious about how fake he’s being?” Tim spat in disdain, his fingers clenched tightly around his binoculars.

At his side, Jason growled lowly, his shoulders bunched with tension. Tim had no doubt that if Harry - or ‘S.O.B,’ as they’d started calling him, since in Jason's words, this dude was a total "sunnuvabitch" - wasn’t currently sitting across from Alfred, his elder brother would’ve busted straight into the small café to physically put some sense into the swindler. 

Not that Tim would’ve been entirely - if at all - opposed to that outcome. No, yeah not at all, not when this douche was buttering Alfred up like he had any freaking right to do so.

-

It felt as sudden as a bullet yet as agonizingly slow as losing the ability to breathe. 

Harry’s heart seized painfully in his chest.

And yet, no matter how much the sudden swell of cowardice within him wished to do so, he could not ensconce himself so far into denial to claim he had not thought of it before. He had lived far too many years to declare such negligent ignorance. Though, in its stead, he was culpable of a different sort of negligence, to have considered it and left his contemplations to the wayside in order to place himself firmly into savoring the present.

He should have known that he would pay for his eschewal. His gentleman was far too intelligent to let it slip by for long. 

Truly, it had been rather anticlimactic, the way in which it had come to a head. Likely in part due to Harry’s repugnant avoidance of the very topic. Though, the more telling part had been his automatic reaction to what had so innocuously been said.

He and Alfred had been in the middle of discussing the man’s grandchildren - of whom the other man had tentatively become more open to mentioning since their prior conversation - when his gentleman had casually segued, “-and I had only just finished submitting my updated Will, too-”

Alfred cut short as Harry flinched, and his lips closed around his next word. 

The silence rang as loud as a gunshot, and Harry’s heart quite suddenly began to beat a tattoo against his chest. 

His gentleman, as devastatingly put together as always, only paused, then quietly questioned him over his reaction. 

And Harry’s throat felt swollen with the lump of harsh reality that lodged itself tight within his esophagus, refusing to fade even as he swallowed convulsively around it. His fingers clenched around his teacup, but the warmth of the smooth ceramic did not soothe him. 

For how could he explain the way in which every single doubt, hesitation, and fear that he had carelessly locked away upon his first look upon his handsome, caring, and witty gentleman had now come rushing back to him in a flood of sickening adrenaline?

How could he explain that he had chosen to be willfully ignorant about the unchangeable fact he had now been blatantly confronted with rather than having allowed himself to carry its burden upon his weary shoulders as he had always done before?

How could he explain that he had purposefully refused to acknowledge Alfred’s glaring mortality for his own selfish, bruised desires?

It seemed that his silence was answer enough, with the way Alfred’s eyes dimmed and his lips pursed into a thin line. 

Without sparing a moment more, the man bluntly informed him, “I have no delusions of my time left on this plane,” doubtless in his veracity of having struck the core of the matter, as if his words weren’t a dull yet jagged knife to the chest. Not that Harry blamed him in the slightest for fully ripping free the graceless blinders Harry had placed upon his own eyes. 

Harry's neck strained with his nod as he fumbled about to come forth with an adequate response, hardly managing, “I - I apologize, Alfred, I had not meant…” before he trailed off, and he burned with the shame of it, his head ducking low and his shoulders inexorably curling inwards.

A stretched, aching moment passed. His gentleman’s next words were quieter yet firmer for it. “I do not know much of your past, Harry, nor the reason for your longevity, but I implore you, do not mistake our relationship for any desire on my behalf to extend my own lifespan.” 

Harry sucked in a harsh breath and immediately shook his head in vehement denial. “I have not - would not,” he stressed, and he truly meant it, as much as it tore at his throat to utter. Death was not something meant to be evaded; it came for all, regardless of whether they were ready or if it was - by humanity’s perspective - deserved. Harry was all too aware of this reality. More so than that, however (because Harry could admit - only amongst the deepest, most shameful parts of himself - that he may have tried to find a way to… bend the rules of mortality, just this once, for this single, bright soul before him), was the fact that Alfred was both a father and a grandfather. If there was one thing that made Harry bitterly, forlornly glad for never having obtained the expansive, warm family he had always wished to have, it was that he had never had to suffer through the singular pain of eventually outliving them all. Alfred would never forgive him if he attempted to subject the man to such a fate - nor would Harry have been able to forgive himself, either.

A strain of tension Harry hadn't noticed eased from Alfred’s shoulders, and Harry felt yet another deep tremor of guilt bury itself within his chest for having unwittingly placed such a heavy burden there.

“I… I apologize,” Harry croaked, slipping his hands free from his still warm teacup and instead pressing his palms against the edge of the table in a grounding pressure. 

A wavering glance at Alfred’s expression revealed not the anger nor disgust that Harry had dreaded, though his heart still sank to his stomach at the closed off look that so painfully reminded him of their initial introduction, which seemed ever so long ago now. “I accept your apology, Harry,” his gentleman quietly told him, but Harry did not allow himself to feel relief, for he saw there was more to follow with the man’s subtle intake of breath. Indeed, Alfred continued, “but I believe this has given us both some things we need time to consider… separately,” he concluded softly - gently, almost. The blow struck Harry no less painfully for it.

Still, he did not hesitate to nod in gutted acceptance, his limbs feeling disconnected as he stood in time with the ever considerate, far more deserving man before him. With less flair than usual but just as genuinely as ever, Harry achingly reached a hand into his pocket, magicking one of the wonderful blue roses into his hidden grasp before extending it out to Alfred. 

The man made to protest halfheartedly, the conflict in his gaze undeniable, but Harry only gave a small shake of his head, his smile flickering yet featherlight as he reached forth and carefully tucked the short stem of the beautiful bloom into his gentleman’s breast pocket, his movements heedful yet steadfast. 

It felt far too much like a farewell, one that did not feel temporary as all the ones that had come before it, and Harry’s very bones ached with the spasming pain the notion brought him. So, selfish as he was, he could not restrain from softly murmuring, “I shall write to you in three days' time,” taking back his hand and dipping into a sedate, respectful bow. 

Without another word nor waiting for one in return (more so than he was willing to admit for fear of a denial, a rejection), he turned tail and fled, barely able to restrain himself from speeding his gait past his brisk pace or simply apparating straight from the quiet, now bittersweet café. 

-

“You think they had a fight?” Tim asked Jason, watching keenly as the S.O.B. left the café and Alfred behind. The level of sad puppy dog eyes the jerkwad had going was unbelievable. If Tim hadn’t known any better and had been in the butler’s position instead, he wasn’t sure if he’d have had the strength to not chase after the guy when he was looking like that.

Good on Alfred, Tim thought with a sharp nod, inwardly patting the head of that vindictive curl inside of him. Served this guy right.

Jason hummed, suspicious yet tentatively satisfied.

“Looks like it,” he admitted, then added, “An’ now we can make sure this asshole knows to stay away, too.”

Chapter Text

[Three Days Later]

Three days time felt like an eternity. The irony of such a statement was not lost on Harry.

He was not sure if he could claim to have spent the time as productively as he could have. Though, perhaps the inverse was true, for the only matter that he had concerned himself to be occupied by was his gentleman and everything that he must tell the man in full truth.

It had not taken long for Harry to have regretted his hesitation in the café, since he had regretted it as soon as it had occurred. However, it would have been repugnantly disrespectful to not give Alfred the courtesy of adhering to his wishes by giving the matter the proper consideration it deserved.

It was almost laughable, though, how little Harry truly had to ‘consider’ when he finally exposed himself to reality. There was a single, base issue wherein all the topics revolved: Was he willing to subject himself to the eventual, gut-wrenching pain of loss that he knew would be like no other when the time that represented his shared days with his dearest gentleman could be cut short at any point, though unerringly within the next two to three decades? 

It was a cruel way to word the proposition, which made Harry’s automatic, internal response all the more telling. Because yes, yes he was.

Harry did not care if he had just a day or a week or a month left to experience before it came to an end. Horrible wording yet again, since it was his overabundance of care rather than his lack thereof that had his inhibitions imploding in on themselves in such an world shattering way that completely freed him from their grasp. 

Oh, how he wished he could spend decades upon decades, centuries, eons, with his gentleman at his side, forever and always for the rest of their shared eternity, but Harry was not so cruel to ever truly consider subjecting anyone - let alone Alfred - to such a fate. 

But in these fantastical daydreams of Harry’s where he imagined the other man by his side, there were no fanciful scenarios that he pictured them sharing. There was no idealistic relationship that they held nor any sentiments that seemed impossibly out of reach. No, Harry simply dreamed of Alfred with him, enjoying a cup of Earl Grey with his silvery hair shining in the low lights and his emerald bow tie glittering in return, with a dark blue rose tucked over his handkerchief and his skylight eyes as fathomless in their depth as always, with his knowing smile and his charmingly witty retorts… with everything that made the man who he was and always would be to the world and to Harry.

And so Harry realized - with a suddenness that made him feel all the more asinine for not having realized before - why must he mourn a future that he could not have when it was only an echo of the present he had promised himself to live in? Why must he wait for an inevitability with gritted teeth and clenched shut eyes? 

Why should he do any of that, when he could instead greet every day he had with his dearest gentleman with a grateful smile and a warmed heart? 

There was no true, worthy reason at all.

So he would one day mourn with loss, yes, but would he not mourn just as much if not more if he forfeited their blooming, blossoming relationship due to his own internalized fears? Would it not be a balm to his soul to know that he had spent every waking moment he had been allowed to be with his beloved until they were parted as all living beings must one day be? Would he truly prevent himself from experiencing the deepest love he has ever known due to a fate that awaited one amongst every pair of genuine paramours?

Why in bloody Merlin’s name had he ever so deeply bemoaned the seemingly short span it would inevitably be? 

It was lost to him now.

No, now, he knew not to consider their brevity to be a constraint but rather a purpose; the length of a love bore no weight to the strength with which it burned, and Harry knew he would have the embers of his and Alfred’s relationship roar into a raging bonfire of a strength and heat unparalleled to the point it would have any soul that even brushed against it warmed to its core. 

The only true concern Harry had any longer was how to beg upon his gentleman for a forgiveness he could only hope he was found deserving of. His own behavior that day had been vulgarly reprehensible, and he felt deeply tremulous in how to best go about in showing the sincerity of his newfound resolve to Alfred. 

As he considered this crucial matter, Harry slowly slipped on his Oxfords at the entrance to his apartment, and it was only then that he noticed something out of place from the corner of his eye. He blinked bemusedly as he turned to face the minor new addition to his flat.

It was a thin slip of paper - clearly nothing magical nor physically threatening about it that would have set off his wards to prevent its entry - that looked rather crumpled and had slanted, jaggedly written words strewn across it in dark ink. 

Interest piqued, he stepped closer to bend down and pick the scrap up, quickly reading over its short contents. 

His heart sped up and his breath caught, and he could privately admit that a thin sheen of tears briefly glazed his eyes before he quickly blinked them away. A small, trembling smile lifted his lips as he tucked the paper in the cradle of his palms as if it were something precious.

And it was. 

It was not a letter from Alfred (of which he only had two after much wheedling and perhaps a bit of underhanded beguiling and now kept safely stored in the drawer of his nightstand under multiple protection enchantments that he recast every night after lovingly rereading over the minorly stilted yet undeniably thoughtful contents), but this was instead the first message Harry had ever received from any of his gentleman’s grandchildren. 

Ah, how sentimental he had become, Harry halfheartedly scolded himself, toeing his shoes off to turn back to his bedroom where he could covetously stow away the note alongside his precious letters. 

To some, it might be seen as absurd how much he both savored this note and longed to meet the relatives of his darling Alfred. How much he craved to see how his gentleman’s son and gaggle of grandchildren took after and differed from the wonderful man. After all, Harry had yet to even catch a true glimpse of any of them outside of flickers of shadows from the corners of his eyes. Even at the zoo, Harry hadn’t known which of the many children had been Alfred’s, so he remained unaware of any of their appearances, let alone their personalities or preferences.

The opinions of outsiders over his sentiments mattered little to Harry, however. The only considerations he held worth to in this world were Alfred’s and thereby the darling man’s extensive family.

So it was with great, quiet joy that Harry welcomed the first nearly direct contact he had received from who could undoubtedly be none other than one - or more - of his gentleman’s grandchildren, for who else would know of his address, let alone write him such a sincere, deeply motivational message?

‘Just try meeting with Alfred again,’ it said, with ‘try’ being both underlined and bolded thrice for emphasis. 

Harry’s chest squeezed against his heart as he carefully placed the note into his nightstand’s drawer, lovingly smoothing out its crinkles and caringly tracing the scratchy letters from the ripped off corner of a page. 

He hadn’t realized that any of the children had come close enough to hear his and Alfred’s sober conversation the other day. It must not have made much sense to them, out of context. Or perhaps Alfred had mentioned something to them, something that made one of his grandchildren feel the need to reach out despite their undoubted remaining hesitance of Harry’s character.

Harry carefully closed his drawer behind the note, recast his wards, and then firmed his lips with his resolve, nodding his head with steely decisiveness. Yes, if there had ever been a question of a doubt before (which, really, there hadn’t been), it would’ve been utterly obliterated now. Harry would not falter in his faithful endeavor to gain Alfred’s true heart. 

He was not so weak willed as to admit defeat upon a single hiccup in his path, and he was ashamed by how he had - however temporarily - stumbled. He would unreservedly, wholeheartedly apologize to Alfred for ever having done so and then proceed in all the means that he was able to show the sincere veracity of his unflinching devotion.

Harry in this moment reignited his fervor thrice fold, and he clenched his hands into firmed fists and strode confidently to the door. Unlike before, he now not only had his own determination but the encouragement of his beloved’s progeny to bolster his belief: He and his gentleman were meant to be with one another, and Harry would do everything in his power to prove to Alfred that he was worthy of being by the man’s side for as long as he would have him.

-

[The Night Before]

“Why the FUCK can’t I fucking get this bastard’s door open?!? Jason whisper-screamed, shaking his claw-shaped hands at the ceiling. 

Tim was by his side, and the younger sighed morosely from where he was sitting criss-cross applesauce on the ground and tracing sad little doodles into the carpeted floor outside of the S.O.B.’s apartment. 

They’d been at it for the better part of an hour, trying to get into the damn asshole’s unit, with exactly zero success. They’d tried the door - obviously - and they’d tried the windows too, but nothing. The only reason Jason hadn’t tried smashing the prick’s windows in or busting down his door with brute force was ‘cause they didn’t want the guy to find out about who they were just yet or - definitely worse - tell Alfie. 

At this point, though, Jason was half sure even trying those options wouldn’t have any more success, anyways.  

Hell, the whole reason Tim was all mopey on the floor was ‘cause they’d managed to mangle nearly the entire kid’s lock-picking set before they finally gave up on that route. 

Ya know what, fuck it, Jason thought to himself, his patience abruptly snapping. He yanked out a spare notepad from his pocket (shut up, you never knew when you needed one) and ripped out a sheet. It tore down the middle at an uneven slant.

Tim looked up at him curiously, finally lifting his cheek up from where it’d been smooshed against his fist. Jason ignored him, wrenching out a pen from his other pocket with equal ferocity and not giving a damn to hesitate before he furiously scribbled out, ‘Just try meeting with Alfred again,’ making sure to jaggedly trace over the ‘try’ and underline the word multiple times for good measure with harsh, sharp slashes that nearly tore through the page with every stroke. 

He bared his teeth in a horrible facsimile of a grin, crouching down and stuffing the torn note under the bastard’s door only to hiss angrily when the damn thing caught on the edge. He crammed it in with even more force until it finally shoved through with the sad, crunchy sound of crumpling paper. 

“There,” he bit out, grabbing hold of Tim’s upper arm and yanking the kid up as he stood himself, beginning to drag the other vigilante away with him. That’d have to be good enough for now; Jason’s hands were starting to get a little too twitchy and his vision a tad too green to keep a - relatively - level head out here for much longer.

“Wait - wait, what?” Tim protested, tugging back. “What’d you write?” he asked, stumbling forwards since Jason didn’t break his hold or stride.

Jason chuckled darkly under his breath, his lips still pulled up ferociously. “A threat,” he growled.

One that fucking S.O.B.’d listen to if he knew what was good for him.

Chapter Text

Perhaps it had been naive of Alfred to not have anticipated being so affected by the sudden loss of a companionship that had formed hardly a month ago yet felt like so much longer.

He hadn’t felt as he does now at the onset of their separation, however. In the first day, he had been… disappointed, yes, though that had largely been all. He had been able to go about his normal activities without disruption, and he had let any feelings roll from his shoulders with a weary ease that had come from decades of experience.

It took only until the second day, however, for him to realize he had been wrong. That was not in reference to what he had told Harry, for he was certain that the cause for disruption in their previously smooth relationship thus far did indeed warrant a pause between them in which to contemplate it. No, what Alfred had been wrong in was believing he would remain relatively unaffected by their break and the potential that there would be no resolution thereafter. 

Instead, he found himself pausing often in what he was doing, becoming lost in his thoughts in a way that was utterly unlike himself. So much so that even Master Jason had noticed one such lapse when they were preparing dinner together in the kitchen. The young man had looked upon him with concern and inquired him over his well-being after Alfred had left the faucet to run but made no move to wash the vegetables he held in his grasp for more than a minute after having turned on said tap.

There was a rather alarming plethora of more instances of the like - though in rest thankfully when Alfred was on his own - and his mind’s wanderings always led him to one man: Harry.

Alfred hadn’t been lying in stating that he had felt disappointed upon realizing the other man had either been avoiding or not putting any consideration in Alfred’s waning age, though to simply refer to it as ‘disappointment’ was to do a disservice to his genuine feelings for the matter. In truth, Alfred had felt… hurt, he supposed was the best word for it, simple though it may be. It had taken him to the next day to process as much, but he had come to accept it as his reality when the emotion stabbed like a sharp needle to his chest as he tucked away his emerald-inlaid bow tie into his nightstand drawer. 

It should not have been surprising for him to have been upset by Harry’s behavior, and perhaps to an outsider it would not have been.

However, Alfred knew himself, and he often buried his emotions deeper than he ought to. He still felt them, of course; he was not suggesting he dissociated nor detached himself from them in their entirety. However, he had faced many losses and betrayals in his long life (though not as many as Harry likely had, his own mind thought to remind him), and he supposed he had begun to use a sort of barrier to protect himself, to an extent. 

With the Waynes, he allowed this wall to fall from around his heart (close to, but never all the way, not after Master Jason… not after Master Jason.), but he hadn’t realized he had let some slabs come loose around Harry too.

There was no other explanation as to why Alfred was so affected by the potentially short loss of contact with the man who had spent every day since their introduction attempting to court him.

Could he even accurately say ‘attempt?’ For hadn’t Harry succeeded? Hadn’t Alfred gifted the man a returning set of cufflinks that matched his own eyes just as Harry’s for him had to his too? Alfred was not so unaware to remain oblivious to what responding to a gift with its equivalent meant in terms of courting: it meant acceptance - it meant a requitement of affections.  

Which was the crux of the matter. 

Alfred was fond of Harry. Rather deeply so. He enjoyed the other man’s company more than anyone else’s he had in decades, outside of the Wayne family and some of their closest associates. 

Because of this burgeoning affection he felt towards the man, he had unwittingly allowed the ravenette to find his way into Alfred’s battle-hardened heart, and now he found there wasn’t a method to simply cast the other man back out. 

In truth, Alfred wasn’t sure he would do so even if he were able. 

It was more than frustrating, and the way he felt for the other man was not entirely dissimilar to when he had fallen in love with his ex-wife all those decades ago. It still was not exactly the same, of course. No, in the nineteen-fifties, even though it had only been two, nearly three, generations before, the societal and social expectations between couples vastly differed from how they were now. With Marie - his former wife - he had loved her, yes (for he was not so foolish nor petty to rescind his former emotions), but there had always been a certain boundary between them. Perhaps it was selfish of Alfred to blame society’s standards for men and women, but he had used to wonder if things would have been different between them had they met in a more modern age. 

This was all a tangent to say that Alfred did not, in fact, feel the exact same way for Harry as he had with Marie despite the similarities in sentiments he could draw between the two.

With Harry, Alfred felt more.

However, as of now, he did not wish to delve too deeply into that sentiment for fear of becoming lost within its depths. All that needed to be said of it was that Alfred would not simply stand by and let this relationship pass by him due to a single - albeit significant - flaw being revealed within it. Not as long as it could be resolved.

Today was the day Harry would be contacting him should he ultimately choose to do so, and Alfred decided then and there that he would not wallow around waiting for the other man’s message like a damsel locked away in a tower. 

No, Alfred would go about with his normal activities, and, should he not receive a response by midnight tonight, he would seek out Harry the next morning himself.

-

Harry normally sent his letters to the P.O. box Alfred had given him, but he knew in this instance that sending a letter alone simply would not do. 

He ardently hoped the office would accept fresh flowers.

Striding briskly down the street with the lapels of his suit snapping behind him in a way that had his foggy memories tangentially snagging on thoughts of a certain Severus Snape, Harry only quickened his speed, his heart already near bursting in his chest with his adrenaline. His cheeks were undoubtedly flushed a splotchy red, and his eyes were likely too wide, bright, and perhaps borderline manic, but he was on a mission. 

He did not have a way to spontaneously meet with Alfred - not a way that wouldn’t be disapproved of, at least, since magic definitely made near anything a possibility - and it would be terribly unsavory of him to call his gentleman to request his presence. Half of Harry’s endeavoring was to show his genuineness without forcing the scene, after all. Calling Alfred to meet him in order to give an apology to the man was both in poor taste and felt far too insincere. 

Harry already had half a letter written out in his mind, and he now cast several charms in rapid succession as his speed quickened further - to a near sprint - in his haste. A notice-me-not, self-writing-quill, and the final flick of his wrist to make both the quill and a piece of parchment float and keep speed with him at his side meant he was able to rapidly jot down his sentiments onto the letter without pausing his strides.

In his message, he wrote of the emotions he felt and the sincereness of his regret for ever having faltered in Alfred’s presence, for his devotion to the man was naught but the epitome of passion. He would have blushed at the praises and poetic language he showered amongst his words had he not meant them in their entirety. 

As he neared the shop and the end of his letter, Harry had the quill mark down a time for tomorrow where he would be at the café, should Alfred be amenable to accepting Harry’s apology and one day forgiving him for having made such a foolish, shameful blunder.

In the nick of time, Harry snapped his fingers to fold the parchment into its envelope and securely tuck it away into his expanded trouser pocket, and he burst through the front doors to his favored flower shop like the man on a mission he was.

“Excuse me! -” Harry began, only to falter as he saw no attendant currently present even after performing a quick scan around the shop. A subtle Hominum Revelius showed that there were two persons in the backroom, though, which had him exhaling a heavy sigh of relief.

He could go about selecting the blooms themselves on his own, for now.

-

“It’s a larger batch than usual, as an apology for having missed my previous delivery,” Alfred explained, holding in his arms a full to near bursting bouquet of vibrant Pennyworth Blues as he patiently waited for Ms. Calindra to find a proper vase for them.

She seemed more than content to let him wait, and she gave him a playful glare as she pushed back several of her silvery locks of hair from where they’d fallen loose from her bun, clicking her tongue. “Oh, yes yes, I’m so angry you missed giving me your completely free, high quality flowers like usual,” she replied sarcastically, rolling her eyes. There was a quiet ding from the attendant bell in the main part of the shop, which they both brushed over for the moment. It would only take another minute or two to finish their own ‘transaction,’ as it was.

Alfred smirked subtly, feeling eased by the familiar ribbing. “Yes, it is quite the expense on your part, isn’t it,” he glibly remarked, smoothly sidestepping the halfhearted swipe the middle-aged woman made towards his full arms.

“Uh-huh, laugh it up,” Ms. Calindra scoffed, though she too was unable to hide her smile. She stooped low to pull a large, glass vase from under the counter with a pleased, “aha!” and she had only just set it down against the wooden panel between them when, abruptly, the muffled sound of the bell rang out again. Then it came again… and again, and again not even a second thereafter, until there was an incessant dingdingdingdingdingdingdingding-

Alfred muffled a laugh with a completely subtle cough as Ms. Calindra’s brow visibly twitched, and the woman sighed exasperatedly even as the ringing of the bell halted just as abruptly as it had begun. 

“I better go see-”

She was cut off by the door connecting the backroom to the front bursting open with a booming clatter, both her and Alfred jumping to face the sudden intruder, who was already speaking in a stumbling rush before he’d fully come through the door.

“My sincerest apologies, madam, but it’s of the utmost urgency-” 

The intruder - who Alfred realized with quiet, growing astonishment was none other than Harry - cut himself off upon noticing Alfred’s presence in turn, his lips still parted around a word and his rapid steps coming to such a sudden halt that his polished shoes skidded against the concrete flooring. His hair was in even more of a disarray than usual, and in his arms was a roughly pulled together array of rather scrambled looking white tulips and orchids as well as fully bloomed edelweisses, of which Alfred was familiar enough with to recognize that the former two signified apology and the latter devotion.

He could not restrain the tendrils of warmth that blossomed in his chest at the sight of them and their clear purpose even as his surprise continued to press against him.

He saw Harry’s expression flicker through shock, then confusion, before landing upon - startlingly enough - a quick flash of hurt. It took Alfred less than a hairsbreadth of a moment to realize the wrong conclusions the man must be drawing - what, with Alfred clearly giving away a large bouquet of the very same blue roses he had constantly been gifted by the other man. It must’ve seemed as though he’d gathered all of the long lasting blooms he’d amassed as gifts and was now returning them to their original point of purchase. A rather cold method of rejection - had it been anything close to the truth.

Alfred could only bring himself to be half surprised by the swell of discomfort that rose within himself at the thought of Harry hosting such a wretched misunderstanding, but before he could make to correct it, the ravenette’s grip on his own bouquet slackened, several smaller stems fluttering to the ground from his loose clutch - not that he seemed to be at all aware.

Instead, he released a punched out, breathless huff of laughter, his eyes turning alight with an awed sort of wonder. “How had I never realized before?” he breathed, stepping closer in a clear daze. 

Alfred could not seem to find his own voice to respond, which meant he did nothing but look on as Harry stepped into his space and bundled his own array of white flowers closer to his chest, extending his other hand to stroke delicately against one of Alfred’s Pennyworth Blues.

“Of course they reminded me of you, for you were their very creator,” the far elder of the two imparted with a thunderstruck air, positively glowing with his shocked elation. 

Alfred had to blink once in the face of Harry’s radiant joy, his own lips helplessly twitching upwards, but before he could finally give some word in response, the third party present - that it seemed both he and Harry had temporarily forgotten - decided to remake her presence known.

“Excuse me, but who in the hell are you?” Ms. Calindra bluntly questioned, leaning heavily against the counter in a clear attempt to lodge herself between the two men. Alfred’s moustache twitched at the look of glaring suspicion etched into her features, and he firmed his lips to will away his growing smile. 

Harry, for his part, startled heavily, clearly having missed that they had an audience and taking an abrupt step backwards as his face flushed a glowing red. He stuttered over his words, glancing between Alfred and Ms. Calindra several times with a growing, helplessly pleading look being sent Alfred’s way. “I- that is, we-” Harry tried and clearly failed to explain, catching his lower lip between his teeth and imparting a sheepish, almost shy smile from around it. It was far more guileless than it had any right to be.

Ms. Calindra, who Alfred should have expected to be far too observant as she often was, drew herself back upright, crossing her arms over her chest and tapping her fingers anticipatorily against her taut biceps. Her lips, which had formerly been pressed into a grim, wary line, now curled into a sly grin, and, dreadfully enough, she turned her gaze upon Alfred. “Damn, Penny, an’ here I thought I was the only cougar between us!” she ribbed boisterously, not bothering to pause to let her words sink in before she broke into unrestrained cackles, the strength of which only grew as she turned her gaze to Harry.

Alfred sniffed haughtily, narrowing his eyes at the woman before sliding his scrutiny over to Harry too, whose facial hue was now rapidly approaching fire-engine red. In the back of his mind, Alfred idly wondered the likelihood should smoke suddenly begin to pour from the poor ravenette’s ears. 

A curl of amusement rose within his breast, and he allowed himself a guileful smirk of his own to tug at his lips. He caught Harry’s eye as he took the chance to finally speak, choosing his words with precision. “...Yes, Ms. Calindra,” he slowly agreed, dipping his chin in a nod. “I suppose your observation is correct,” he added lightly, his eyes never leaving Harry’s, which had widened in bewildered startlement. Alfred hummed ingenuously and decisively remarked, “There most certainly are two ‘cougars’ present amongst us.”

-

Dick hummed to himself, a nostalgic smile quirking at his lips as his car’s tires crunched against gravel with him pulling up to Wayne Manor. He let out a subtle sigh of relief that the place at least looked to still be in one piece.

In all honesty, he was probably just being paranoid about his ‘feeling’ - an unfortunate side effect that came with being a Bat.

Well, he was long overdue for a visit home to see his family anyways.

Chapter Text

[The Night Before]

Tim’s eyes had that all-too-familiar burn from having stared at a screen for too long (and from being awake for too long of a time, period), and he blinked muzzily as his phone dinged with a familiar notification sound. His eyes widened belatedly as he realized just whose ringtone it was:

Cass’s.

Scrambling for his phone, he flailed as he nearly tipped his chair over backwards - again - in his sleep deprived haste, calling out, “Jason!” over his shoulder to his damp-haired brother, who’d pulled into the Cave for the night around twenty minutes ago. 

“What?” Jason fired back, coming over as he lazily rubbed one edge of the towel against his scalp from where it rested loosely around his shoulders.

“It’s Cass!” Tim announced with renewed vigor, excitement beating down the weariness that’d settled into his bones. He finally managed to open up his phone, and he swiped to her contact, where he read the characteristically short message of, ‘Finished.’ 

He clicked the call button next to her name.

It rang all of two times - just long enough for a now invested Jason to finally reach his shoulder and come to a stop there - before Cass picked up, Tim’s screen alighting with her smiling face right front and center. 

“Tim,” she greeted, sliding her eyes slightly to the left before adding, “Jason,” with a slow, placid blink and a further curl of her lips.

“Hey Cass!”
“How’d it go,” the two said at the same time, Tim shooting Jason a dirty look for skipping over giving a greeting.

She huffed a lightly amused breath, her expression then turning self-satisfiedly smug. “Good,” she pronounced, a quick flash of teeth peaking through her smile. 

Tim grinned back, and Jason clapped a hand on his shoulder to show his own enthusiasm over the straightforward admission of total success - not that they expected much else from the unspoken but undeniable best of them. 

Tim would read through the actual details in her report that’d probably come in later tonight. 

Jason was definitely thinking on the same track because his fingers slightly dug into Tim’s collarbone in silent warning, making Tim suppress a petulant groan. He never would’ve thought that Jason of all people would end up being such a freaking mother hen about sleeping schedules, but here they were.

Outwardly, they went through their congratulations, and a few more minutes of casual talk passed by with Cass informing them that she’d already booked a flight home for three days from now, when the girl’s eyes abruptly narrowed. 

“Something has happen.” She claimed decisively, and Jason snorted, not even bothering trying to deny, since that would’ve been an effort in futility. This was Cass. If anything, Tim was just surprised she hadn’t brought it up earlier. Plus, there wasn’t any reason to hide it from her in specific any longer now that her opp was wrapped up all nice and neat. 

“Yeah, you’ve got that right,” his elder brother said in response to her, and Tim nodded along with the admission even as his expression dimmed with the new track of conversation. He scrunched his nose in distaste. 

“It’s some jerkwad messing with Alfred,” he added with a suitable amount of affront.

Cass tilted her head, her gaze flickering between him and Jason with renewed intensity, which Tim had more or less expected. Cass was just as rabidly protective over the family as the rest of them, and she’d always had a sort of unique camaraderie with the butler. Probably because even though she could act like a little kid at times (making up for the childhood she never had, his mind told him), in rest, she often was something of an old soul. She was the most frequent participant in Alfred’s ‘tea time,’ that was for sure.

“Messing?” She questioned, pursing her lips. There was an edge of skepticism to it that Tim couldn’t help but take a hair of offense to. 

He nodded firmly, reaching blindly for his mug of cold coffee with one hand and his tablet with the other. 

Jason used his enviably longer limbs to innocently push the mug just out of reach, ignoring Tim’s betrayed glare and not turning his own gaze away from Cass as he gave his piece.

“Timbo’s right about this one Cass- this shit’s a real piece’a work. Thinks he can schmooze up to Alfie without the resta us catchin’ on,” he spat, his lip curling and his knuckles whitening from where they still imprisoned Tim’s poor mug.

“Hm,” Cass replied noncommittally, and that response had Tim decisively switching just which video to send her as proof. He’d been planning to send her a short clip with the S.O.B’s face in it being all gooey and gross at Alfred like he actually meant it, but that seemed too tame in the face of Cass’s doubt. Instead, he chose the forever traumatizing - more so than the letter even - video of Harry Potter bending low at the waist to give a freaking smooch to Alfred’s hand. 

In two clicks, the video went through, and Tim announced, “There,” with grim finality.

He and Jason both watched avidly as Cass shifted to open up the five second clip. They watched as her eyebrows rose a fraction before her expression fell eerily blank. 

There was a long moment of silence, so much so that Tim had been tempted to disrupt it, before Cass let out another ambiguous “hmn,” and ended the call just a second too slow to hide the twinkle in her eye and the subtle twitch at the corner of her lip. 

Tim blinked at the suddenly dark screen for all of two seconds before falling back against his chair and throwing his hands up in the air, letting out an inarticulate sound of uncomprehending, sleep deprived angst. In that very same moment, he abruptly decided for his own continued well being to disregard the entire interaction until he could rehash it with her in person (and hopefully with less of a Bruce-like response).

He glanced over his shoulder to make eye contact with Jason, who had a pretty miffed expression on, and they shared an agreeing nod. Three days, then they could bring her onto their side. The right side. (Because Steph was wrong and Cass was definitely just confused… yeah.)

For now, their plans wouldn’t be derailed just because the most spatially and probably emotionally aware Bat amongst them watched their most traumatizing incriminating video and then proceeded to get a look in her eye like she’d just watched Dick face plant onto the training mats before she promptly hung up on them with nary a full word.

Yup.  

God, Tim really needed some fresh coffee. In the wise words of his right now physically closest brother, Tim was way too tired for this shit.

“She really takes after B, huh,” Jason mused belatedly, and Tim groaned commiseratingly even as Jason pushed against the side of his chair to slowly spin it around to face him. “We’ll figure what that was about when she gets here,” Jason had the decency to soothe, unknowingly perfectly in line with Tim’s thoughts and huffing out a laugh as Tim crossed his arms petulantly and tried and failed to scowl around the yawn that nearly cracked his jaw wide open. 

That yawn cut off into a startled yelp as Jason scooped Tim up into his arms, and Tim flailed ungainly for all of half a second before abruptly resigning himself to his fate and sulkily slumping into the encompassing embrace. Jason snorted again, heading for the stairs, and Tim petulantly muttered, “I can walk.”

Jason did a bang up job of exuded the sentiment of rolling his eyes from over Tim’s head, not even bothering to deign him with a response. 

Tim had a feeling that he wouldn’t be getting away with just his usual two hours of sleep.

…Ugh. 

Chapter Text

[Back to the Present]

With his hand already fisted and stretched out to knock at the entrance of the manor, it was his swift reflexes alone that kept Dick from getting his nose bashed in by the frame of the door as it was violently swung open towards him. Instead, he jumped back just far enough to feel the whoosh of air from it and have it make his eyes cross for a brief moment to watch the edge fly past his face. 

The culprit behind the near collision was right front and center in the doorway: Tim.

The panicked expression on his brother’s face immediately had Dick on edge, doubly so when Tim gasped out, “Dick,” with the specific sort of palpable relief that came from finally having backup. Then, before Dick even had a chance to question him, the younger was grabbing hold of his wrist like a manacle and dragging him inside.

Completely thrown, Dick barely had the wherewithal to reach behind him to pull the door shut with his momentum as he let Tim tug him along. “What? What happened?” he demanded, hunched over since Tim was a decent amount shorter than him and wasn’t giving him much wiggle room with the vice-like grip on his wrist. 

Tim only shook his head and tugged him along even faster, rushing down the hall towards Bruce’s office. 

Dick tried to no avail to ask several more questions from there, but Tim just kept shaking his head and refusing to release him as they went through the grandfather clock and down the spiraling stairs into the Batcave. 

Only then did Tim deign to free Dick from his clutches, and Dick’s eyebrows rose halfway to his hairline as he observed the other occupant in the cave. Sitting at the meeting table and clearly having been waiting for them was none other than his oldest younger brother, Jason. 

“Little Wing?” Dick questioned, tilting his head and idly rubbing at his wrist. “You know what’s going on here?” he entreated, trying for a terse smile and probably not succeeding by the way it felt strained on his cheeks. 

The second eldest brother didn’t look panicked like Tim did, but that wasn’t saying much, especially since he looked far more serious than usual instead. Jason released a terse breath, and the hairs on the back of Dick’s neck rose just as his brother spoke three short words: “We lost Alfie.” 

Dick blinked. He spent all of a quarter of a second having a major heart palpitation as he took those words in the worst possible way before he promptly realized that his brothers would be in way worse states right now if they'd actually lost lost Alfie. Which meant that what they actually meant was that they couldn't find Alf. As in, their grandpa of freshly seventy-six years. 

... It’d make a lot more sense - and be a lot more concerning - if Alf was a normal grandpa who’d probably have some age-related ailment like Alzheimer’s and therefore couldn't be relied on to take care of himself, which was entirely not the case since Alf was instead the wholly over-capable and sharp as a whip secret partner to the literal Batman. 

... Never mind, Dick was wrong. The fact that they'd lost Alfred when he was all of those other things was rapidly beginning to dawn on him as being much, much worse. 

“What do you mean you lost Alfie?” he stressed, striding over to peer at the computer screen Tim had sat himself in front of while Dick had idled around.

Tim clicked rapidly against the mouse, pulling up several grainy images from the security cameras around town. “He managed to avoid our trackers and we lost sight of him on the cams twenty minutes ago,” Tim informed him, zooming in on one video and showing the recognizable figure of Alfred walking into a blindspot and not reappearing out the other side. “We’re pretty sure he was going to meet this guy-“ here, Tim clicked onto a security cam from the same district and pointed at the blurry figure of a well dressed, dark haired man, “-but we lost sight of him too,” the teen despaired. 

“Who’s that?” Dick questioned, squinting at the image. He honestly couldn't make out any features except that the stranger was probably on the younger side. Even his eye color was too grainy to figure out.

Instead of answering Dick's question immediately, though, Tim… hesitated. It was short, sure, but it was a pause nonetheless. One that Dick would have a hard time believing to not be incriminating, especially since Tim's response that he then finally decided to give was less than stellar. “... Not sure yet,” the pale-skinned teen decided on shiftily saying, clearly ignoring the sharp, questioning look Jason shot him from across the table.

Dick narrowed his eyes, but he didn’t call his brother out just yet. Whatever he and Jason were hiding, Dick could figure it out - later. For now, finding Alfred was his priority. He grabbed his phone from his back pocket and opened it up to his own private app, focusing intently as it loaded and letting out a relieved sigh once it finally did, his shoulders losing a line of tension. “I know where he is,” he said with another strong exhale. 

Tim whirled around to face him, Jason’s head snapping up to do the same. The younger of the two exclaimed, “What?!” only to pause before hurriedly adding, “Wait, you found who?” 

Dick stared at him.

Maybe… maybe Dick should’ve checked to make sure his brothers weren’t compromised, or something. “... Alf,” he answered slowly, carefully. He discreetly checked to make sure Tim’s pupils were the same size.  

Tim let out a breath of relief at his words, immediately lighting up thereafter and craning his neck in a poor attempt at getting a peak at Dick’s phone. Dick shifted the screen out of view like the good older brother he was. That’s what baby birds got for hiding important information and apparently throwing out all of their Bat training over the art of subtly.

Meanwhile, Jason spoke up, questioning, “How’d you find him?” with a not-so-subtle air of disbelief, gesturing at Dick - who was currently dressed in his comfiest jeans and a baggy grey sweater - for emphasis. 

Dick puffed up his chest indignantly, sticking his nose up in the air - ah, geez, he was spending too much time with his littlest brother - and decisively answering as cryptically as possible. “I have my ways,” he sniffed. Honestly, what'd his brothers expect? Sure, Dick might’ve moved over to Bludhaven, but he was still a Bat. The first of Bruce’s, for that matter. And, as the ‘trial run’ kid, some could even say that Dick had inherited the lion’s share of his adopted Dad’s less than stellar Batty (ha) tendencies - including, but not limited to, paranoia, some emotional constipation (though thankfully much less than Bruce), stalking tendencies (which, admittedly, Tim definitely had him beat in for the most part), and constant worry for his family’s well-being (which Dick didn't see much of a downside to and still completely disagreed with his one-time therapist who'd warned him over "compromised mental health" blah blah, and "unhealthy attachment issues" etcetera etcetera - as if caring for your family could ever be a problem). Yeah.

Anyways, in this case right now, Dick’s ‘ways’ were perhaps just barely slightly going over the boundary of personal space and maybe possibly privacy, but in his defense, he only made use of the trackers he had on every member of his family (except Bruce… for now…) and most of his friends when he thought there was a true, urgent need to do so. 

He ignored his brother’s protests over his less than elucidating answer, and all three of them snapped to attention when a loud ding resonated from Tim’s computer. 

Tim was quick to pull up the feeds from where the sound had come from, and both of Dick’s younger brothers let out audible groans at the sight of Dami walking into the foyer. Even Dick unfortunately couldn’t find it in himself to reprimand them this time. He knew just as well as they did that - regardless of whoever this guy was that his brothers were hiding the identity of that might be posing some kind of a threat to Alf - bringing Damian in on it was one hundred percent not a good idea. 

Let the baby bat say what he wanted, but the rest of them were all well aware of his rabid bat tendencies when it came to family, which they knew Alf was a part of for him too, regardless of Damian’s haughtiness over the topic. 

And Dick... well. He was pretty sure swords didn't need to get involved just yet.

“You should go see him,” Tim interrupted his thoughts, studiously avoiding his gaze.

Dick puffed up indignantly (again), clutching his own phone tighter in his grip and waggling it around for emphasis. “I’m the one with Alf’s location for us, mister!” he pointed out, turning to look at Jason for support. 

Jason had his pointer finger on his own nose, and Dick whipped his head back around just in time to see Tim snap his hand up to do the same. Both of them were wearing utterly unbelievable innocent expressions as Dick gaped at them in mounting outrage.

“C’mon,” Jason wheedled, doing a very poor attempt at puppy dog eyes that just... did not look right on a man of nearly Bruce's stature, going on to point out, “the Demon brat’d be all mopey as hell later once he'd figure out you were here and didn't’ bother givin’ him a hello, anyways.” 

Dick couldn't stop a wince, and Jason’s lips curled up into a way too smug-looking smirk, already wiggling his fingers in farewell. Dick scowled and snatched up Tim’s tablet without a word - ignoring the yelp of protest - to type in Alf’s current address. “I’ll go-” he started, momentarily being cut off by two extremely rude whoops of celebration until he narrowly glared them into submission, thrusting Tim’s tablet back into his hands, “but you’ll be telling me everything that happens - including whoever that guy was,” he demanded threateningly, jabbing a finger in his brothers’ directions. 

They nodded in sync, perfectly innocent expressions back in place even as Tim’s fingers already began tapping away to send Alf's location to his phone. Dick valiantly resisted the urge to massage his temples as he rolled his eyes at them and heaved a loud sigh.

Time to go greet his murder baby brother.

…Why couldn’t Dick just have one normal day back home?

-

Once Harry had willed away his violent blush and managed to both pay for the flowers in his grasp (which, if he were to be completely truthful, were in a rather sorry state now except for the few of Alfred’s blue roses that were added amongst them) and apologize to the shop owner (who he learned was named Ms. Calindra) for his earlier rudeness (an effort that the jocular woman had, in Harry’s, well, harried opinion, taken far too much delight in dragging out), he excused himself from her and Alfred’s presence - though not before entreating his gentleman to meet him in front of the shop should he find it within himself to accept.

Harry had been rather surprised with the ease in which Alfred had agreed, but he had not questioned the boon, lest he risk losing it. 

Now, he stood in front of the very shop as he said he would, wracked with nerves and futilely attempting to smooth his mop of hair that had apparently taken the opportunity to contort itself into a rather bedraggled bird’s nest. 

He could only hope that Alfred wouldn’t find him to be as much of a mess as he most definitely knew he must appear to be.

Ah, speak of an Angel and they shall appear - 

The bell of the flower shop rung as Alfred stepped through the doorway, catching sight of Harry immediately and offering him a greeting nod and the edge of a smile.

“Alfred,” Harry breathed, stepping closer and pausing for half a second’s worth of hesitation before blushing abashedly and extending his newly acquired bouquet towards the object of the entirety of his affections.

Alfred hummed acceptingly, reaching forth to take the bouquet into his own arms. “And what might these be for?” he questioned guilelessly, looking over the contents with just short of an exaggerated air. 

Despite now knowing with little doubt that Alfred had a fair amount of knowledge over flowers and likely their meanings too, Harry gave no sign of having thought as much, instead coming closer to point out each bloom. 

Indeed, having watched Alfred’s expression as he explained, he could see no surprise nor the form of interest that would imply the listener had not heard the information being given before. 

Harry did not take offense in the slightest. In fact, he felt a bloom of warmth saturate within his chest at the thought of Alfred entertaining him in such a manner. Harry had always thought it to be such a charming thing, for one to simply listen to another purely for the fact they knew the other had something to say, regardless of their own opinions or knowledge on the matter. 

Perhaps this was a somewhat different situation, but Harry thought it was similar enough to still apply.

As he finished off his sincere yet rather brief explanations for the flowers, he found himself lapsing into a wavering silence, unsure how to go about with what he wished to say best. 

Abruptly, he remembered that his initial plan had been to give his primary apology and sincerity of affections through his letter, and he rushed to pull it free from his pocket.

“May I-”

“It-”

He and Alfred spoke at once, and Harry snapped his mouth shut with a click, wide-eyed with his arm already halfway extended towards Alfred once more, letter in hand. 

Alfred appeared to be similarly bemused, though he motioned for Harry to speak first even as he raised a brow at the envelope that had not quite been proffered. 

Harry shook his head quickly, reeling his arm back towards himself and fidgeting with the edge of the thick paper with a bout of nervous energy. “No no, you go, I insist,” he urged.

Alfred did not deign to argue the matter - likely sensing the futility of such a thing - and instead remarked, completely out of the blue, “It’s rather poor weather, is it not?”

It was currently a pleasant sixty-eight degrees (perfect for the typical attire of both Harry and Alfred), and, although there was a layer of smog in the sky and hardly a ray of sun peaking through it and the perpetual clouds hovering over the city, it was overall a rather good day out for Gotham.

Heedless to Harry's nonplussed thoughts, Alfred continued forth before the ravenette could do more than blink at the completely unexpected and bewilderingly inaccurate comment. “Our café isn’t far; why don’t we discuss further inside?”

Harry could do little more than agree in a daze, clutching his letter to his chest and sedately falling into step with Alfred as they began to make their way towards their new destination.

‘Our’ café, Alfred had said. 

Harry had to remind himself several times during the short trip over that this would be a very inappropriate time to swoon.

Chapter Text

After they heard the echo of the door to the entrance of the Batcave closing behind Dick, Jason abruptly asked, “What’re ya willin' ta bet Dickhead’s got trackers on us too?”

Tim sighed exhaustedly, snapping his computer closed and standing from his seat. He knew better than to take a loser’s bet. He tilted his head in a gesture for Jason to follow, making his way for one of the more hidden entrances of the Batcave. “Let’s go find Alfred.”

-

If Alfred were to be truthful, he had already forgiven Harry. 

Although this was not to imply that he was generally a forgiving person nor that he wasn’t one for grudges, it was an undeniable fact. Indeed, it was quite the juxtaposition to his customary self, since he was certainly not known for his forgiving nature - at the very least not towards members of society other than the Waynes. Even then, however, Alfred was most assuredly not seen by his family as… how would one say… a doormat. No, not in the slightest, of that he could be sure.

This was all to say, Harry seemed to have once again quickly become quite the exception to Alfred’s stringent self-guide. 

The pair sat themselves down at their usual quiet corner of the café, whereupon Harry wordlessly handed over the letter he’d spent the short walk over fidgeting with between his hands. 

It was quiet as Alfred carefully opened the seal with a butter knife from the table, and, with Harry's nervous, anticipatory silence, he decided to begin reading then.

'Dear Alfred,' it began.

'I write these whirling thoughts of mine in a rush, though I cannot remember a time in which I have put more consideration into my words than I do now. Your presence has seen fit to take up permanent residence in my mind since we last parted, and I have not been able to bring myself to feel harassed for it. Perhaps it is strange of me, to be so content with the thought of welcoming you into my mind.' A rather peculiar turn of phrase, though the compliment interwoven within it was just as charming as it was unusual. Harry had similarly been a near constant in Alfred's mind too, and Alfred had not been... against the fact, in and of itself.

'I’ve diverged from track, however. This letter is the introduction to my apology, though most certainly not it in its entirety. I dearly hope that you will at least allow me to see you one final time in person to express upon you the full sincerity of my regret for my behavior, though I do not dare ask you for more no matter how direly I wish it.'  Ah, well, it wasn't as if Harry had written the letter after their coincidental run-in, so the other man had held no full-proof manner in which to know whether Alfred would agree to a meeting should he have only received the letter on its own. Of course, Alfred himself was more than well aware that he would not have denied Harry's request. Inwardly, he felt a writhing sensation of an emotion tangential to embarrassment surge in his abdomen over his own prior eagerness, for hadn't he admitted to himself that he had been planning to reach out to the other man first should Harry have ultimately decided against penning him? Along with this sentiment, however, Alfred felt an accompanying curdle of chagrin in regard to the strength of Harry's earnest pleas; Alfred hadn't meant to so deeply burden the other man despite having been the one to initiate the pause in their relations.

'Alfred, any condemnation you could make on my person would be warranted, I have full awareness of this truth, and I entreat you to not take my words as flippant or false when I say that no damnation you could utter over my disrespect towards your person could compare to the burning self-recriminations I have arraigned myself with. This is not an attempt on my part to avoid your ire nor to place pity upon myself, nor am I in any way implying that you oughtn’t censure me as you see fit. I only mean to say that I have more than seen the error in my ways - I have deeply, fully and painfully regretted my failure in being the man I wish to be for you.' There went another stab of contrition. His and Harry's rather plentiful times shared together had been more than enough to show Alfred Harry's candid nature, so he held little doubt that the sentiments the dark-haired man had written here were nothing but the utter truth. Promptly, Alfred made note to himself to fully assure Harry that he did not hold the other man's lapse in thoughtfulness against him any longer - it was near painful to now catch a glimpse at how the man had clearly wallowed in his genuine distress, and Harry had obviously repented more than enough for his actions - or lack thereof. Resolved, Alfred quickly read through the contents of the rest of the letter.

'It was worse than insensitive of me to have not paid your age and the subsequent connotations it entails the proper respect and consideration they deserve.

I’ve placed the entirety of my solicitude upon these matters now, and I must clarify - I do not find them to be a burden, just as I have found nothing in relation to you to be anything but a blessing for as long as I have been allowed to remain by your side.

I find my words failing me now, for I cannot think of any rational way to express how little your age means to me without sounding callous. I by no means am attempting to imply that I have leapt to the other end of the spectrum and now consider your age to be a nonissue in its entirety. It has dawned upon me, however, that being with you is a blessing that I mean to cherish every moment of every day as I have since we first met, and it is my greatest desire to be able to continue forth as we have for as long as we have left shared together.

I dearly wish to be able to explain further in person, as I do not believe a mere letter can suitably express the sincerity I mean to show. I await your reply, whatever you ultimately decide.

Yours if you would have me,

Harry'

Blinking rapidly - clearly due to dust that had inexplicably entered his eyes - Alfred glanced upwards to Harry upon finishing the letter, but he was not given the chance to speak before the other man was leaning forwards with an air of rushed anxiety and hurriedly beginning his own entreaty.

“It has struck me that my final paragraphs may be misconstrued,” Harry began, beseechingly placing his palms flat against the table for only a moment before beginning to fidget with his fingers once more. 

In the moment it took Harry to intake a breath, Alfred was at a loss as to what could have possibly been misconstrued. Had Harry not meant the... rather forthright implication that he wished to spend the rest of Alfred’s life at his side? 

Alfred’s chest seemed to sink at the thought - at least, until Harry rushed to continue. “But it truly had not been my intention to seem dismissive of your age,” he stressed, brows furrowed with fraught worry, hurrying forth and completely oblivious to the subtle feeling of relief that had loosened Alfred’s increasingly stiff posture. Alfred wasn’t given a moment’s time to either appreciate or be discomfited by how much the dark-haired man’s every word seemed to be affecting him (nor the chance to argue that Harry had, in fact, made it quite clear that he hadn't held any ill-meanings with his written confession regarding Alfred's age) before Harry nearly sent him into his first ever heart attack by blurting out, “Alfred, I love you.”

Alfred eyes practically widened to the size of teacup saucers, and any words he might’ve said - not that he had a single Earthly clue as to what he would have uttered with how, for the first time in what felt to be years, if not decades, he found himself to be completely speechless - were once more overrun by Harry’s own.

The other man’s face was quickly being overtaken by a furious blush, and he seemed stricken by his own utterance for a hair's breadth of a moment before his mien was taken over by impassioned determination. “I love you,” he repeated, stronger - more boldly - this time. His blush grew deeper in kind. “And it is this boundless affection I harbor for you that has brought forth my seemingly nonchalant sentiments for your age, though they are anything but,” he refuted, shaking his head fiercely for emphasis. “I - I know I will outlive you,” he admitted, his voice breaking upon the abrupt admittance; he swallowed and sniffed sharply, apparently forcefully undeterred from continuing his impassioned speech. “But it is not my intention nor in any way my desire for you to feel burdened by the eventual boundless grief I will suffer when you part from this plane to the next.” Here, Alfred could not help but blink as Harry then, of all things, smiled. 

It was not a bitter smile. It was not even bittersweet. It was a smile so brilliant and saturated with pure, boundless joy that Alfred's own lips parted and his mouth dried.

Harry’s eyes had curved into crescents with the strength of it, his vivid green irises seeming to glow. “I’ve realized, Alfred,” he softly began his next confession, a strength to it that was belied by its volume, “that though I will be unable to join you once you leave for Elysium, I as of now am utterly free to cherish every moment we have together for as long as both you and fate allow.”

He slowly, carefully reached his hands forth to gently grasp Alfred’s own, and Alfred unconsciously moved forwards to meet him, feeling his heart jolt as warm, soft hands encased his own weathered ones. 

He felt shaken to his very core, and his grasp on their shared language had continued to slip further away from him with every word Harry had uttered until it had left him with only a single name left on his tongue.

“Harry…”

But Harry only shook his head, a soft smile still gracing his lips and his thumbs gently stroking against Alfred’s creased knuckles. “I have yet to apologize,” he seemed to both admit and realize together, releasing a quiet laugh. 

Now it was Alfred’s turn to shake his head, lightly squeezing back against Harry’s hands, and he carefully composed himself as he finally found his voice, clearing his throat once to be sure. “You are already forgiven,” he dismissed roughly, unable to meet Harry’s eyes as he felt two spots of color rise to his cheeks - doubly so at the other man’s hushed, far too tender, ‘oh.’

-

Harry felt as though the warmth of the sun was saturating through his entire being from where his palms connected him to Alfred.

He had already been forgiven.

His lips trembled with his swell of emotions, and he brought his lower lip between his teeth to stave off the cresting tide.

Alfred’s gaze remained firmly on their intertwined hands, though it seemed as if he still had more to say, and his cheeks were tinted in such an uncharacteristic manner that Harry could hardly help the way his eyes were unable to peel away from the faint yet undeniable blush present upon them. 

He nearly jolted as Alfred indeed spoke once more.

“I…” his gentleman trailed off - for so long that Harry nearly considered that Alfred had simply decided against speaking again after all. Instead, after several drawn out moments in which Harry patiently waited and was content with smoothing his thumbs against the pleasantly textured skin of the back of his gentleman’s hands, Alfred released a quiet breath and levelly divulged, “I am… deeply fond of you, Harry.”

And Harry’s heart swelled - so much so that a distant part of his mind was concerned it might just burst - and yet he could not help but brace himself for a ‘but.’

There was another extended pause - this one so long that Harry could no longer resist the urge to look back up to see the expression Alfred was wearing - and his gentleman took that very same moment to meet his eyes and staunchly proclaim, “I want to fall in love with you.”

Abruptly, two hot tears streaked down Harry’s cheeks, and Alfred's chin jerked back in clear alarm, his hands stiffening around Harry’s own. Harry blinked rapidly, releasing one of his hands from Alfred’s to hurriedly wipe his face with the sleeve of his suit and quickly wave away the concern, shaking his head alongside the motion. “Oh - no, no, It’s - It's just - I’m - so happy,” he explained thickly, laughing wetly and reclaiming Alfred’s other hand to give it a reassuring squeeze. 

Alfred looked unwilling to settle completely even with the assurance, and his gentleman’s expression had Harry releasing another, more heartfelt laugh. He was unable to resist the urge to quickly raise Alfred’s hand up to press a swift, firm kiss against the lightly bronzed skin of its back even as his lips curved into a radiant smile.

He shifted his grip to cradle his gentleman’s palms between his own once more as he ardently professed, “It would be my greatest honor, my dearest heart, to aid you in this endeavor."

Chapter Text

It took a single glance for Damian to find Richard suspect. In reference to what, exactly, Damian found to be suspicious, he had immediately felt with near certainty that the man was planning to withhold some matter or other from him. Disgracefully - on his purported brother’s part - this was not even due to Damian’s honed-to-a-fine-blade skills of detecting inconsistencies and tells within others, since, simply put, Richard's behavior was far too overt for Damian to dare slander the name of his own abilities by claiming they had been required to notice the way in which the elder was most definitely hiding something - or planning to, at the very least.

Damian withheld an irritated huff, resisting the urge to grind his teeth (and only just - the single reason being his latest dentist's visit, which had raised the concern of greater-than-expected wear against the enamel of his molars). Now, this was perfect. This was exactly what Damian needed (sarcasm very much intended, Drake - Damian was more than capable of satirical scorn) upon his return from the cesspit he was forced to endure in for seven consecutive hours under the unfittingly benign name of ‘school:' yet another one of his brothers planning to skirt around the truth. Knowing his predecessors’ penchants, it would be regarding the same issue with his eldest brother as it had been with the other two as of recent - that repugnant Harry Potter plebeian they’d all found themselves to be obsessed with.

“Damian!” Richard greeted him brightly as he came to a stop before him, hardly subtle in the way he controlled his breaths - as if he had run a distance. He’d been in the Batcave, then. The man extended his arms in a clear request for an embrace as he leaned forwards, and Damian neatly dodged.

"Grayson." Damian replied shortly, eyes narrowed. Best to nip any attempts at subterfuge in the bud, lest Richard attempt the same infuriating diversions or outright avoidances Todd and Drake had taken to using. That in mind, Damian snapped, “Where were you?” whilst narrowing his eyes towards his brother and crossing his arms over his chest, fingers tapping impatiently against his perfectly fitted Gotham Prep uniform sleeve. 

Richard's lower lip jutted out in an exaggerated pout, his own arms withering to his sides and his head tilting 'innocently.' As if Damian would be so easily fooled. “I just got here too!” the man exclaimed defensively - an outright lie it was, then.

Damian clicked his tongue against his teeth, moving to stride past his brother and deeper into the bowels of the manor whilst removing his backpack from his shoulders. “And you have yet to see Todd or Drake?” he retorted acerbically, having to duck under an attempt at ruffling his neatly gelled back hair. He hissed at the offending hand as he passed.

At the very least, he was rewarded with Richard's wince at the pointed verbal barb, which was practically an audible thing from where the man was now behind him with Damian's determined strides. Damian heard the other's steps hurriedly begin to follow in his wake. Finally, Richard admitted, “Alright, alright, yeah, I did see them,” hastening to add, “but I really only got here a few minutes ago!”

Damian’s hackles raised at the obvious placation, and he tossed his backpack with perhaps more force than necessary to where he normally set it next to his designated sofa chair situated in the living area. He inwardly scoffed. Of course Richard had assumed Damian would be angry simply due to the elder having visited with the other two… members of the household before him. This was not the issue. Damian was not so childish as to outwardly express a reaction towards such a scenario - which was not to say he felt such a thing over it in the first place, regardless.

Wordlessly, Damian strode past his brother once more, proceeding towards Father’s office. No, where Damian’s true ire stemmed from was his assuredness that Richard had not simply been ‘visiting’ with the pair of dolts. And while Damian had made a point of ignoring the pair's conspicuous gossip-mongering and floundering over the dark-haired stranger that had formed a (temporary) association with Pennyworth, he would not tolerate Richard joining in on it while excluding Damian as well. Unfortunately, Damian had more than a kernel of suspicion that that was exactly what was occurring now, so he sneered, “And you did not happen to discuss Potter?” tilting his head just so to gauge his brother’s response from over his shoulder, his own pace unfaltering.

Richard seemed to be genuinely confused, however, his steps slowing, and Damian found it within himself to deign with an elaboration. After all, he hadn’t known the plebeian's name either before Pennyworth had informed him of it. 

“Young, dark-haired?” he offered with distaste, doubly so when he realized just how obscure such a description was - and how much it described the majority of the Wayne residents. He considered mentioning the man's green eyes as well, but the thought alone of an additional similarity between himself and that mongrel was bad enough, even kept to himself. His nose wrinkled in contempt. Yet another reason to maintain his passive - though only so by a thin thread - dislike towards the man - a sentiment which was rapidly growing in strength now that the veritable stranger had found a way to interfere with his daily life yet again. 

His brief description did seem to spark something within Richard's clearly poor memory, however, as the man’s eyes came alight with realization and he hurried to catch up with Damian, falling into step at his side. Damian scowled as the much taller’s shadow was cast over him, Richard probing, “He happen to have something to do with Alf?”

Damian’s scowl deepened into a glower. “For now.” he bit out in short reply, throwing open the doors to Father's office. Clearly, Damian had been too willing to let the matter resolve itself on its own. 

He would remedy this blunder of his posthaste. 

-

Harry was privately thrilled with how his and Alfred's conversation progressed smoothly from there, no bouts of awkwardness arising from either of their confessions. They continued their pleasant discourse for a time thereafter, and it was only after they had ordered a third round of tea that Harry recalled a concern of his that he had been made aware of during the incident in the flower shop. 

That is to say, when the attendant - Ms. Calindra, Harry believed her name was - had asked who Harry was, there had of course been the implication of a question of who Harry was to Alfred, and Harry had been at a loss as to how to respond. In that moment, his reasoning for his lapse in reply had been a mixture of both his unsureness on what ground he stood on with Alfred (as he had yet to have given his apology) as well as the simple fact of the matter that neither of them had ever discussed the issue at its root between themselves. 

Harry could think of no better time to elucidate this matter than now. "Alfred?" he tentatively began, nodding to the waitress in wordless thanks as she set two cups of pleasantly steaming Earl Grey tea before them. 

His gentleman motioned for him to continue as he raised his cup to his lips, blowing gently, and Harry already felt the beginnings of an abashed blush rise against his cheeks. Despite his surety in the benefits over delving into the matter at hand, it felt both brazen and simultaneously absurd to be asking such a question after having already confessed his undying love (though, admittedly, he had refrained from outright announcing to Alfred the preceding adjective he had now attached to the amorous word in his mind). However, he knew it would only cause undue trouble in the future should he choose to postpone discussing the topic.

Thus, staring intently at the path of his thumb as he smoothed the pad of it over the lip of his teacup, Harry prefaced, "Forgive me if my question is in any way improper," here he paused for only a beat before finally querying, "but may I know how you wish to define our relationship?"

A soft clink indicated Alfred's own teacup being set back down against its saucer, and Harry risked a glance towards his gentleman's mien, cheeks warm. Alfred's lips were curved into an inarguably fond - though perhaps slightly amused - smile, and Harry skin tingled under the gaze as though he'd been touched by a thousand small bolts of electricity from what he could perceive to be none other than open, affectionate indulgence saturating his gentleman's relaxed countenance. "That is a matter for us to decide together, is it not?" was the reasonably given reply. 

Harry resisted the sudden urge to fidget in his seat, unable to subdue his own dichotomic exhilarated yet bashful smile as he ducked his head in a nod, his heart once more seeming aflutter within his breast. "It is," he agreed, for Alfred was undeniably correct in this matter, as he often was. The topic was, after all, concerning the connection between them.

Oh, how Harry felt like such a schoolgirl yet again, abashed and blushing when faced with the one who had stolen his heart's fancy, unable to string more than two words together without a stutter. He hardly felt more composed than he had upon his and Alfred's first introduction. It all seemed to be too much now, with how Harry had begun his day with an impassioned fervor but a lack of surety in whether he would be forgiven by his dearest heart only to now be seated in their ('our' Alfred had said) café and discussing with the very man he loved how to define their relationship in such terms.

Thankfully, his gentleman was willing to take the lead in their present conversation, proposing, "Would you be amenable to 'partner?' Or, perhaps..." Alfred's words trailed off for a moment, though most certainly not from a lack of options left to say, and there was a subtle downward intonation to his voice as he proceeded to offer, "'boyfriend?'" It was most assuredly clear which of the two options Alfred favored, with his reluctance to even utter the second choice at all, and Harry's smile widened and his shoulders eased even as Alfred belatedly mused, "there is, of course, the more broad term of 'significant other,' should you so prefer."

Harry shook his head to the final suggestion, fingers tapping against the side of his cup. "I would love to be referred to as your partner," he confessed, cheeks flushing anew and chest both warm and pounding with the strong beat of his saturated-to-the-brim heart. 

Alfred dipped his chin in a nod of acquiescence, and he too seemed quietly pleased as he took another sip of his brew.  

Harry hastened to do the same with his own beverage from around his unsubdued smile, having yet to give a taste to the fresh cup, and the pair fell into a once more companionable silence, not much more to be said on the apparently quite clear-cut topic.

The café was relatively quiet except for the faint, instrumental music playing in the background and the low murmur of voices from the handful of other patrons. Harry was content to admire Alfred's regal features as they simply enjoyed one another's company, and, as he finally began to tentatively relax in the comfortable booth he was sat in, he allowed his mind to wander.

It was not until several minutes thereafter, wherein Harry's thoughts had turned full circle as he contemplated the events of the day while adoringly admiring the way his gentleman's emerald-studded cufflinks glinted in the afternoon light from under his lashes, a soft smile adorning his lips and affection rippling contentedly within his soul, that Harry offhandedly remarked, “Your grandchildren had been right, after all.”

He blinked back to himself in surprise as Alfred's attention returned to him sharply, his gentleman's expression turning abruptly scrutinizing. "Pardon?”

Harry's own eyes widened as he belatedly realized what he had just unwittingly confessed, and, not unlike a deer caught in headlights, there was a moment in which he froze, unequivocally unprepared to give a response. Then, his tongue came unstuck from the roof of his mouth, and he rushed to defend, “Don’t be angry with them - they had only been trying to help!”

Alfred's eyes narrowed, his fingers interlacing with one another in a manner that had no right to be as poised - and charming - as it was. “And how, exactly, had they been attempting to 'help?'” his gentleman questioned silkily, the tone of which spurred on the rather unhelpful blush that had begun to redden Harry's ears.

Harry coughed abashedly in a poor attempt to will away the heat tinging his skin, hurriedly waving a hand in front of his face. As his train of thought turned to the question itself, however, his expression shifted into something perhaps more sentimental than it ought to have, given Alfred's stern (exaggeratedly so, Harry couldn't help but think) look, and he easily folded, confessing, “They had encouraged me to meet with you again, to resolve our differences.”

Alfred's expression at that was, simply put, disbelieving. Though, he did not voice as much, perhaps choosing to give Harry the benefit of the doubt by instead questioning, “May I ask what they had said to you, exactly?”

Harry nodded brightly, eager to prove to Alfred the truth of the matter. Belatedly, he realized he had not elucidated how, exactly, Alfred's grandchildren had contacted him, so he elaborated then, explaining how he had been left the message from under his door even as he magicked the very note into existence in his pocket and pulled it free, proudly presenting it to Alfred.

Upon observing the torn corner of the lined page and the jagged, ink-smudged handwriting across it, Alfred released a sound that for any other man Harry would have labeled a snort, though he did not do so for his gentleman since he was sure the man was as close to incapable as a human could be of such an undignified response. Alfred quickly cleared his throat, glancing to Harry for permission - which was given with a quick, reassuring nod - before taking the slip of paper from his hands, inspecting the message more thoroughly. 

For the span of a second that was nearly too quick to catch, Alfred’s lips ticked upwards into an entirely too mirthful smile before immediately flattening back into neutrality, whereupon he smoothly returned the message to Harry, who accepted it gratefully and carefully tucked it back into his trouser pocket, magicking it back to the warded drawer in his flat.

For a moment, Alfred’s contemplative gaze seemed to pierce through him, crystalline eyes bright, though subtly twinkling. “Harry,” he began speculatively, smoothing a hand over the bouquet of flowers he had once more tucked over the crook of his other elbow before proceeding. “Do you recall my request for a favor regarding my grandchildren?” he questioned near-offhandedly.

Harry brightened, nodding in the affirmative - that was, until the connection he subsequently made quelled a measure of his enthusiasm and curled the sentiment into something more abashed. “I, ah, well, I understand they may have overstepped their boundaries, but they had only been trying to help,” he attempted to entreat, only now recalling with utter clarity his and Alfred's conversation nearly a week prior regarding just that - boundaries.

Alfred raised a brow, unimpressed, though he too seemed to be amused by the matter - albeit in a rather... sly sort of way. He needn’t have said a word for Harry to dip his head in acquiescence, however. Of course, Alfred was right. Regardless of his grandchildren’s intentions (and how much Harry had been filled with joy at having been reached out to by them), the incident had indeed been a private matter that should have remained between himself and Alfred alone. 

“You are right, of course,” Harry gave voice to, his lips quirking sheepishly as he ran his hand through the short hairs at the nape of his neck. Then, in regard to this favor of Alfred's that Harry had yet to aid in despite his eagerness to do so in any way it constituted, Harry proposed, “How may I be of assistance?”

Alfred’s eyes brightened, pleased, though his expression itself remained otherwise unchanged. In the same span of a moment, his gaze shifted to rest somewhere above and to the left of Harry’s shoulder, whereupon he narrowed his eyes and stroked once more against his bouquet not unlike the way in which one would pet a rather recalcitrant cat. It was only then that he hummed, “...Let us discuss further outside.”

-

[Several minutes prior]

Of course they were at the café. Of fucking course. 

Jason’d like to say he and Tim weren’t idiots, but God seemed to ’ve taken that as a damn challenge and was hellbent on proving Jason wrong.

Sure, he and Timbo’d looked at their cam feeds in the café earlier, and Alfie hadn’t been there then, but apparently, they weren’t smart enough to think about checking again later.

So here they were, snooping outside the café from the building across the street, Tim’s phone blown up on the cam feed running from inside the shop while they peeped in person too. Jason was just fucking grateful they decided against gearing up before heading out ‘cause two guys dressed in dark hoodies on a rooftop was a lot less conspicuous than Red Robin and the fucking Red Hood doing the same. 

Next to him, Tim choked on his spit, and Jason snapped back to attention. “What?” he barked out, shoving at Tim’s shoulder to get a better look at the screen. Alfie and that fucking sunnova bitch were seated behind a pillar in front of the café window, so Jason couldn’t get a clear view in person.

Tim zoomed in on something on the screen - on the asshat’s hand - and now it was Jason’s turn to inwardly lose his shit, ‘cause that punk ass snitch was showing off none other than Jason’s handwritten threat to goddamn fucking Alfred.

“That fucking rat bastard,” Jason hissed, raking a hand through his hair hard enough that his nails scraped against his scalp. For fuck's - God fucking dammit. Jason’d been betting on that Asshole being too much of a damn coward to show Alfie the note at the risk that the butler’d actually get suspicious of him like he shoulda already been, but, apparently, Jason’d been wrong. A-fucking-gain.

Tim let out a sigh. “I’m guessing that’s what I think it is?” he questioned resignedly.

Jason didn’t even get the chance to shoot back with an impressively sarcastic ‘no shit,’ since Alfie on their screen chose that exact moment to tilt his head up and stare dead on at them through the camera lens, his eyes narrowed and calculating. 

Jason and Tim shared a moment of silence.

“... Fuck.”

Chapter Text

Dick had a feeling that he was being left out. Which wasn’t that weird considering that was more or less exactly what was happening since Jason and Tim were probably stalking Alfred on their own after successfully getting out of telling Dick why. And no, telling him that they lost Alfred was not a descriptive enough reason, only a heart-attack inducing one, thank you very much. 

He was still pretty peeved about that. He’d calmed down enough to realize Alf was probably fine, since if something was really, truly wrong even Jason and Tim would concede that letting Damian get involved was better than having Dick - potential backup - get left out from helping. Even so, that didn’t mean Dick was at all fine with being more or less forced out of the pair’s plotting. 

Something was still happening, and he really wanted to know what. And he would - know, that is. As soon as Damian was otherwise occupied and Jason and Tim were back home, Dick would make sure he found out exactly what was going on between them, Alfred, and the mystery man he still only had a basic physical description and a generic name of.

It’d been a whole task steering Damian away from the Batcave after a short search run by the babybat. Honestly, the only reason Dick managed to wheedle his little brother back upstairs was because the Batcomputer had turned up nothing even after Dami’s surprisingly extensive searching. Unfortunately for him, Tim was on a whole other level when it came to hacking and overall control of any device that had a screen, and that was without mentioning the fact that the second youngest of them knew better than to leave any information he wanted to keep a secret from one of their own on the cave’s computer.

Dick felt a little bad for hiding what he knew from Dami, but he also had the feeling that it’d be best to keep the volatile little murder munchkin away from all of this for as long as possible. The kid already seemed mildly homicidal over the guy from what little he seemed to know, which Dick was pretty sure wasn’t much at all.

So, that all led to them being here, Dick with his double scoop pistachio and lemon ice cream in a comically large waffle cone and Dami with a dairy-free, vegan cherry sorbet in a cup, all stiff-backed and scowling none-too-subtly as he took a vicious bite of the blood-red dessert.

Dick hummed around his own scoop of pistachio tainted lemon, pretending to not notice the suspicious glare Dami was driving into his forehead like he had been since they’d left the manor. 

Yep, definitely best to keep babybat as far away from this as possible until Dick figured out what was going on for himself.

As if hearing his thoughts, Damian’s eyes narrowed further, and he hissed out, “You will not be keeping this matter from me,” as threateningly as he could. 

Unfortunately for him, Dick was pretty desensitized at this point to his threats, partly because Dami had more or less stopped acting on them - at least against Dick. Tim and Jason… not so much. Still, Dick tried to put on a sufficiently cowed expression instead of the fond one that tried to bubble up at his lips, but, by the look on Damian’s face, he wasn’t fully successful.

Dick gave in, releasing a heavy sigh and lowering his half-melted cone. 

“I promise I’ll tell you if something happens,” he relented, and he even meant it. Somewhat. As young as Dami was, he was still a member of the Batclan, and he deserved to be treated as such. Dick just planned to take a more liberal use on what something ‘happening’ meant, was all. Belatedly, he realized he should probably figure out what Damian already knew about the guy. Honestly, anything would be more than what Dick did as of now, so he idly probed, “So what’s up with this guy, anyways?” while taking another lick of ice cream. 

Dami’s nose scrunched up in that way of his, spoon jabbing forcefully into the half-melted slush in his cup. “He is an imbecilic dolt who has overstepped his station,” he responded curtly, lip curling with his words.

Dick wisely refrained from pointing out the redundancy of ‘imbecilic dolt.’ Instead, he hummed questioningly as he took a bite off his waffle cone, which was already soggy enough that it gave him a half-second of disappointment on missing out on the satisfying crunch of snapping it off the main piece.

Damian’s spoon gave another vicious swirl in his cherry-flavored sorbet, and his eyebrows scrunched up hard enough that they nearly met in the middle. “He believes himself… worthy, of Alfred’s attentions,” the littlest Wayne spat, finally giving up on his sad sludge of a dessert and shoving it towards the center of the table so he could cross his arms over his chest.

Dick paused. Alright, now he was just confused. Sure, he knew Dami could get pretty possessive and definitely jealous at times (even he had a couple of scars to prove that, even if Tim definitely got the brunt of it), but this felt a little too far. With himself, Tim, and Jason, Dick could understand; in Damian’s eyes in the beginning, they were all competitors vying for the same parent’s favor. Of course, Dami knew better now - for the most part. What Dick didn’t understand was why this current topic seemed so suspiciously similar, if in a vague sort of way and circling around Alfred instead of Bruce. 

It wasn’t like it could actually be a similar situation, anyways. 

Dick blinked. He repeated that thought in his head. He compared it to all the small bits and pieces of information he’d been able to gather. Alfred, going off someplace without informing anyone in the family. Jason and Tim, being suspicious and avoidant about telling Dick anything about the mystery stranger. Damian, acting almost jealous of this Harry Potter dude that was apparently beginning to hog some of their grandpa-butler’s attention. The Harry guy himself, who looked young, had dark (likely black) hair, and came from an ambiguous background…

Dick blinked again, and his brain to mouth filter decided to disappear long enough for him to exclaim incredulously, “Does Alf have a legit grandkid?”

Damian’s eyes widened in shock and something close to panicked, unwilling denial, and he shot back, “No!” with enough vehemence that Dick might’ve even believed him if the kid’s voice didn’t crack damningly right down the middle.

Well, Dick thought dazedly to himself as sticky pistachio and lemon ice cream dribbled down his wrist, if he hadn't been planning to keep Dami separate from this guy before, he sure as hell was now.

-

Stephanie perked up as she heard the front door to the manor creak open, the sound of voices filtering through the hallway and deeper into the mansion. She'd just exited from where she'd been holed up for the last few hours in what was basically her own bedroom and had been planning on heading down to the kitchen to forage through the pantry for a snack, but thoughts of food went to the wayside in the face of potential entertainment.

She strained her ears as she crept closer to the commotion, and she could make out Jason, then Alfred, and - after a few more seconds - Tim, too. Huh.

Oh.

She tilted her head and squinted her eyes as her lips pursed in a weird mix of curiosity, glee, and - to top it all off - borderline annoyance. There were plenty of reasons those three in specific could be talking, but one definitely stood out on top to Stephanie as being way more likely than the rest.

After all, hadn't it been Tim and Jason themselves that'd confided in her about their 'thoughts' on Alfred's new boy toy? 

Stephanie slapped a palm over her mouth to hold back a guffaw. 'Boy toy.' Ha. She killed herself. 

But in all seriousness, she definitely wanted to hear what they had to say to Alf, especially if this was really the long-coming confrontation she thought it was gonna be. If worse came to worst, she'd step in to help Alf out, if she really had to. After all, love was love, in her very wise and humble opinion. Tim and Jason honestly had no place in butting into Alfred's affairs - especially not in his actual affairs. Or, well, maybe if it was a literal affair, but not in the old man's, like, dalliances. What Alf chose to do there was his business and his business alone.  

And if Alfred couldn't manage to make that clear to the boys (though Stephanie was pretty damn sure he could), Stephanie sure as hell would do it for him.

-

“Bruce?” Clark called, still dressed in his Superman regalia as Bruce was in his own vigilante suit, their team having wrapped up their latest mission only hours prior. 

Bruce spared his friend a glance and a dip of his chin in acknowledgement, then returned to staring out into the open expanse that was space, which was all-encompassing through the massive window of the Javelin-7 spaceship. Unfamiliar stars shined tauntingly into his retinas, blurring with the speed by which they were passed. From the corner of his eye, Bruce passively tracked the other man's approach towards his person.

“Are you alright?” Clark questioned as he came to a halt at Bruce’s side, placing a warm, firm hand on his shoulder with a small furrow of concern already settled between his brows.

Bruce knew why the other man asked as much; it wasn't a task to discern. Batman had been far ‘broodier’ than usual during their latest mission, and even now on their return home, his attitude hadn’t exactly 'let up.' Bruce grunted, his chin lifting fractionally in an approximation of a nod. 

Clark’s frown eased, but it didn’t fade completely, which was to be expected. He gave an affable smile, lifting his palm from Bruce’s shoulder only to bring it back down for another solid, human-strengthed clap. “Just let me know if you’d like to talk,” the Kryptonian acquiesced to Bruce's wordless request to let the matter slide; they were attuned enough to one other for him to realize that Bruce wasn't open to any pushing at the moment. After one last comforting squeeze to his shoulder, Clark fully took his hand back and strode his way over to where Diana was seated at the helm of the Javelin-7. Bruce turned away as the low murmur of voices picked up over his shoulder.

He appreciated the gesture, as much as he wouldn’t be taking the other man up on it. There wasn’t anything Clark could do even if Bruce were to give voice to his concerns. They both knew the Gothamite wasn’t one for liberal discussions of ‘emotions,’ regardless. And, until they were in range of any of the Lantern’s satellites to give them cellular connection to Earth, there was nothing apart from his own antsy feelings and a hunch for Bruce to offer up. 

As if to prove his point, his veins continued to jitter with nerves that didn’t show themselves outwardly, and he resisted the mild yet growing urge to pace. Upon consideration, it was likely the small yet noticeable increase in his heart rate that had spurred Clark to approach him in the first place.

Bruce chose to ignore that point, taking subtle, calming breaths in a lackluster attempt to ease his pulse, his eyes beginning to feel gritty as he continued to stare into the vacuum of space, futilely attempting to catch sight of a planet that wouldn’t be able to be seen for more than two days yet.

Soon enough, though, they would be returning to it - Earth - and Bruce would be able to assure himself with his own eyes that nothing had happened to his children or Alfred in his absence. That nothing at all had gone wrong for him to feel this creeping, burgeoning sense of dread that continued to relentlessly beat its way into his chest. 

Chapter Text

Alfred was altogether unsurprised to find Master Tim and Master Jason seated at the front steps of Wayne Manor upon his arrival. The two boys made quite the sorry sight with their twin looks of remorse that truthfully did little to hide their underlying obstinacy. In truth, the pair of them together managed to look rather like scolded pups - albeit belligerent ones - and it was enough to have Alfred hiding a smile that threatened to lift his lips at the thought.

He removed the keys from the ignition, stepped out, and locked the car behind him, and he of course managed to ensure his expression was kept smooth as he made his way towards the boys. Though, he did allow for a subtle tick of his brow as if to ask them, ‘Really?’  The two visibly firmed their holds on their shared, stubborn determinations in response to his look, and Alfred forcefully withheld a sigh that would have been firmly ensconced in equal measures fondness and exasperation as Master Jason went so far as to mulishly cross his arms over his chest as if he were not considered fully grown and therefore much too old for such antics - not that Alfred viewed him as such through his own eyes.

He alighted to a stop before the pair, who had risen with his approach, and he allowed his brow to rise further, gesturing to the door at their backs. “Shall we discuss inside?” he dryly suggested, vindicated as both his grandchildren hardly paused before scrambling to comply. At least in this they were not so willful as to feel they ought to stand their ground. Alfred would not have enjoyed being made to open a serious discussion on the front steps to the manor when far more palatable options for such a thing were simply waiting within the residence's resplendent walls.

His lips twitched, there and gone. Truly, though, a conversation was indeed overdue. Despite knowing his family and their undeniable 'tendencies,' to put it delicately, Alfred would not idly stand any longer for his privacy to be so thoroughly breached in regard to his relationship with Harry. 

Internally, he gave a moment's pause. Although… that having been said, it wouldn’t do for him to simply state the full truth of the matter either, now would it? Such a method had been employed by the boys’ father many a time with varying, largely pitiable degrees of success, after all.

Alfred allowed another quick uptick of his lips, as his grandsons were situated ahead of him as they walked into the manor and therefore were unable to see as much, and he released a quiet, slyly amused huff.

Indeed. However could Alfred expect the boys to learn if not through more...  unique means of elucidation, shall he say. 

-

Harry strolled contentedly along the streets of Gotham, his eyes crinkled merrily in the corners and his lips parted fully around a near radiant smile.

What a joy it had become to be alive in this dimension - and especially in this very city.

And truly, it felt as though his joy only seemed to further upon itself with every thought of Alfred or hint of the man’s presence he found within the unique locale.

The sight of a café (not even necessarily the one he and Alfred shared their time together in, though Latrice’s certainly held a far more special place within Harry’s heart) was enough to have an extra skip in Harry’s step. A single whiff of the pleasantly tantalizing perfume brought about by fresh flowers set Harry’s heart aflutter with an entirely Pavlovian sense of anticipation. Passing a shop window displaying a smart, crisp black suit decorated with a neat bow tie practically had Harry giddy. 

He smiled glowingly at the clerk standing at the register to the grocery store he had strolled into not ten minutes prior, his bags of groceries already back in hand and his credit card hanging limply from the cashier’s slack fingers. The ingredients Harry had purchased alone were innocuous - eggs, milk, flour, butter, amongst a few other necessities - but their purpose was elevated far above anything approaching mundane. They were to come together to create a confection for none other than Alfred, after all!

“Thank you, and good day!” Harry farewelled merrily to the clerk, lightly plucking his card free from the man’s grasp and missing the way the very attendant as well as every other occupant in a three meter radius of them both had paused in their happenings to stare at Harry in pure, Gothamite disbelief. Under their breath, one woman hopelessly muttered to some higher entity, "Just let 'im be a normal nutjob insteada a new one fer the Gallery." Another man shook his head in faithlessness to the plea, already resigned. As if they'd be so lucky.

Completely oblivious, Harry strolled out from the store with a not entirely subtle bounce in his step, shielding his eyes from the weak rays of sunlight peeking through the heavy, perpetual clouds and taking a deep inhalation of the distinct Gotham air. It settled in his lungs with a tinge of smog and a sprig of a sharp spice that had Harry’s nose twitching with a sudden urge to sneeze, but he held it in and smiled through it. 

What an absolutely glorious day to be alive. 

It was perfect weather for a stroll; it would have been lovely to do so alongside Alfred. Harry smiled further at the thought.

Perhaps some would call Harry obsessed, with how fully his world now seemed to revolve around his dear Alfred, but while it was true that his gentleman occupied Harry’s thoughts seemingly near every hour of every day, Harry in no way found this ‘predicament’ to be intrusive or troubling in any which way.

For the first time in many, many decades - and perhaps (no, definitely) now more than ever before - Harry was truly happy. Such a term was far too simple, of that he was certain. There were far too many words that would need to be articulated to even come close to concisely attempting to display the far reaching, seemingly depthless bounds to the emotions that had welled within Harry from ostensibly endless stores in the short time since he had first made Alfred's acquaintance. Harry felt thrilled, overcome, overjoyed, elated, enchanted, ecstatic - euphoric. Even that fair number of words, as genuine as they were, were not nearly enough to fully express himself.

Altogether, yes, perhaps Harry was obsessed, though he considered it to be so only in the most positive meanings to its connotations. 

After all, Harry was not so far lost (despite feeling as much in one definition of the word) as to put his own desires before that of his love’s. Harry would never - ever - go so far as to force his presence upon Alfred no matter how much he desired to bask in the other man's presence. Harry was well aware that his gentleman had much more of a life outside of Harry than Harry had of him, and Harry in no way, shape or form felt anything that could ever approach resentful of the man for it. Merlin forbid.

No, Harry was grateful for it. After all, he had never met a man more deserving of everything the world had to offer than Alfred undoubtedly was. 

Thus, how could it be possible for Harry to feel anything short of exultant over the fact that Alfred held every blessing in his life that Harry had secretly coveted for centuries to have in his own? To have a fully-fledged family with many mischievous grandchildren running about, a career of which had only brought him closer to its members, an age of which was not belied by his appearance and told of his long life full of many happenings and no shortage of adventures with kin he could proudly call his own. 

Perhaps a lesser man would have felt envious.

Harry tilted his face to the sky, his green eyes sparkling as they shone in transcendent delight. A quietly content sigh fell free from his lips, and he smiled.

He had never been prouder of himself than in this moment, as he was free to vaunt himself to be above such a dull standard of mankind.

-

“Look, Dami, all I’m saying is-”

“You will cease with referring to me by that insipid nickname,” Damian retorted sharply, smacking his open palm against the table and promptly grimacing in disgust as his palm connected with something distinctly sticky. Exactly what he had needed in this moment. He snatched a tissue from next to Richard (who had just finished cleaning his own mess of disgustingly flavored ice cream off his wrist that had been far more his own fault for having occurred than this was Damian's) and rubbed furiously against his palm, trying and failing to remove the tacky residue from his skin.  

He resolutely ignored Richard’s look from across the table, his own tongue clicking sharply against his teeth as he released a hiss of annoyance. He would require water to remove this red, syrupy mess from his hand.

“I shall return momentarily,” he gritted out to Richard, jerking up from his seat and marching over to the nearby water fountain. He heard Richard move to follow, and he narrowed his eyes in annoyance and sharply pressed down on the button now before him to turn on the appliance's stream. Yes, Damian knew the more prominent reason for his current anger was obvious to the other man, and he was sure the words he had cut Richard off from saying only a few moments prior would have been placations regarding the existence of one Harry damnable Potter and the veritable landfill of implications surrounding the cretin's presence around Alfred that Richard had so carelessly blurted out and therefore forcefully ripped Damian free from his own denial over the likeliness of as much, but this was too far.

What did Richard expect Damian to do? Attempt to escape immediately to find the mongrel Potter in order to skewer him like the worthless cretin so deserved with a sword that he did not currently have at hand?

Damian was not a child. Even if he had access to his Katanas in the moment, he was far more in control of his impulses now than he had been two years prior to still resort so quickly to enacting such a poorly thought-out plan.

No, this matter - as much as Damian absolutely loathed to admit it - would require a more… delicate hand. Damian had learned his lesson with his ‘brothers.’ As unfortunate as it was, assaulting and summarily defeating this newest interloper that had connivingly invaded their midst was unlikely to be taken as a favorable approach by the others, least of all by Pennyworth. 

Damian would have to apply a different method to oust the unwanted, undeserving trespasser of both Pennyworth’s time and attentions.

Yes, Damian would prove Potter to be unworthy of a single glance from Pennyworth’s gaze. Damian - and, to a lesser extent, Richard, Todd, and perhaps occasionally Drake - were the only offspring after Father's generation deserving of Pennyworth’s consideration, and Damian would ensure this was made clear.

Unwittingly, with the force of his thoughts, Damian had pressed harder against the drinking fountain’s button, and he had to quickly jerk back to avoid being splashed with the stream directly to his face, cold water jetting up against his chin. 

He promptly released his hold against the button and snarled at the useless device instead of spluttering as his immediate instincts had willed him to do, and he aggressively flicked his now clean hand free of the last droplets of water and viciously wiped off the dampness from his chin and neck with his sleeve. He hissed angrily through his teeth. What fool had thought it to be in any way reasonable to install a function into the fountain to be able to spray to such a height with a mere increase of pressure against it? Whoever it had been was in need of an immediate revocation of their work certificate, and this failure of an appliance before him deserved to be broken down for parts.

Behind him, Richard heaved a deep, extended sigh.

-

Jason could see Tim nervously picking at the skin around his nails, a dumbass habit that he knew Dickhead had told him off for doing at least half a fuckin' dozen times. Kid had enough trouble with keeping his immune system up with his missing spleen without adding more open wounds to himself than usual. 

Alfred turned his back to grab the kettle, and Jason took the moment to slap Tim’s hands away from his fingers, ignoring the kid’s wounded look. Tough luck. Do stupid shit, get hit. Or whatever the damn saying was.

They were all seated in an offshoot room from the kitchen where Alfie usually served his tea - or, at least, he and Tim were seated while Alfred poured tea into their fancy ass cups. Only once that job was done did he sit down too.

“Boys,” Alfie innocuously began, and Jason couldn’t help the way he immediately straightened up in his chair. At least he could pacify himself over the fact that Tim did the same thing but way more obviously. Alfie had the decency not to comment on it anyways, instead bluntly saying, “I believe it would be best if you were to explain yourselves.” And. Alright. That sure as shit wasn’t a plain old request; hell, it was barely even disguised as one. That was a demand, and he and Tim both knew it. 

It also made Jason feel about two inches tall, which was about as enjoyable as one would expect. Which was to say - not at all.

So, being the wise, fully grown adult man that he was, he chose to double down on his views rather than back off like Tim at his side was very clearly thinking about doing with how he’d shrunk in on himself and had his chin ducked down to his chest.

…God fucking dammit, Tim. They’d talked about this not even five minutes ago. 

Obviously, they’d known that Alfie was coming for them - it’d’a been hard as hell not to after they’d literally gotten stared down at by the butler though a damn camera - so they’d made a plan for how they were gonna deal with the impending confrontation before Alfie got back home.

They'd decided that Tim’d take the lead, ‘cause as much as Jason’d like to say otherwise, he wasn’t bigheaded enough to not realize he wasn’t the… calmest person around. It’d be better for Tim to start ‘em off and lay out all their evidence for Alfie before Jason butted in.

Clearly, that plan’d already gone to shit not even a full minute in.

Which was fine. More than fine. Jason could handle this himself. He took a deep breath and didn't let himself hesitate.

“Me an' Tim know all about that schmutz that’s been moochin’ off ya, and we ain’t gonna stand aside and keep lettin’ it happen!” he declared in a harassed rush, slamming his fist against the table and setting the teacups rattling. 

There was a moment of silence.

At his side, Tim released a sound that Jason could only compare to that of his soul leaving his body. Taking in the fucking look on Alfie’s face... well. Suffice to say, Jason's poor patchwork of a soul promptly begged at him to do the same. 

Unfortunately, he - and Tim - remained attached to the mortal coil, and Alfred's simultaneously flat yet thunderous expression didn't let up on staring them down.

As the growing silence continued to permeate the room, the scent of Jason's favorite chamomile tea blend slowly wafted up with the steam still rising from his cup. 

...God fucking dammit, Jason. 

Chapter Text

Tim valiantly kept a straight face. Meanwhile, his soul shriveled up and died in a sad little puff of smoke that escaped his lungs in a silent wheeze. 

He knew he hadn’t stuck to the plan himself, but why did Jason take that as a sign to grab the plan, snap it in half, set it alight, and gleefully stomp upon its poor, poor ashes?

Tim withheld a whimper at the look on Alfred’s face, barely keeping from squirming in his seat. The teen had never been to the principal's office before (he’d always managed to make his attendance absences ‘disappear’ before they became enough of an issue to mandate a visit to the office), but Tim was pretty sure that this feeling right now was as close to it as he’d ever gotten. No, honestly, he figured this was definitely worse.

The look Alfred was giving them both for Jason’s comment - and actions - was less than impressed, and Tim valiantly did not shrink back in his seat despite more than definitely being cowed enough to do so. No, even with Tim’s spotty yet still present skills in self-preservation, Jason was still standing strong, so Tim would do his best to do the same at his side. A united front, and all that jazz. Despite the growing, not entirely unique urge Tim was feeling to strangle his brother.

No, no. They’d talked about this before Alfred got back. They’d confront him together. And sure, maybe Jason wasn’t exactly sticking to the plan of keeping calm about it, but it wasn’t like Tim could blame him for that, exactly. Not with the topic at hand. And Tim had kind of failed on his own part at the start too, so they were technically even. (This very much did not feel even).

Still, Tim was resolute, and he squared his shoulders and firmed his expression, his mouth pinching and his brows lowering in as firm of a look as he could muster. He ignored how he simultaneously felt like a toddler on the brink of a tantrum and a man standing directly in the line of fire.

A quick flicker to the side showed Jason was gearing up to double down despite the fact that Tim knew the older vigilante was already one hundred percent regretting the route he’d taken, and a look at Alfred told Tim that the butler was ready to return an undoubtedly scathing reply. 

Time to cut in.

“Jason didn’t mean to say it like that,” Tim rushed to say, hands gripping slightly too tight onto his slacks over his knees. 

Tim was a vigilante. He was nearly seventeen years old - practically an adult already. He was the son of Janet Drake, who undoubtedly was the one between his parents that really put the ‘dragon’ in their name. He was the current stand-in as the CEO at Wayne Enterprises. With all of this, he would not back down under the dual stares of Jason Todd-Wayne and Alfred Pennyworth. So what if the former had somehow managed to really perfect his death glare and the latter had managed - on multiple occasions - to subdue The Batman whenever the need for it was called.  

Ha. Yeah. Tim very much did not do anything so cowardly as gulp. He merely swallowed down the excess saliva in his mouth - purely out of necessity, of course - covertly enough that his Adam’s apple barely even bobbed. 

He couldn’t tell if Alfred’s raised brow was as judgmental as Tim’s harried brain was saying it was, so Tim told himself that it wasn't, for his own sake.

“Then what, may I ask, did Jason ‘mean?’” the butler questioned benignly. Jason huffed loudly beside Tim, who promptly ignored him in favor of scrambling to gather his thoughts into semi-coherent order.

“He - it’s just, that guy, Harry” - Tim didn’t see a point in hiding that they knew the S.O.B.’s name, it was probably obvious by now - “he’s… he’s not right for you,” Tim finished, visibly cringing immediately afterwards. God, that sounded awful, but he didn’t want to just come out and say something outrightly, bluntly rude like the upstart was using Alfred as a piggybank while pretending to actually care about him.

Alfred looked distinctly unimpressed. “And what, Master Tim,” he said dryly, turning to acknowledge Jason with, “Master Jason,” before continuing, “has made you both believe you have more of a right than I in making this decision?”

Oh. Well, that definitely hit home, and while it had Tim wincing and bringing his hand up to rub ashamedly at the back of his neck, Jason visibly bristled. “We ain’t saying we have more of a right than you, Alfie, but that don’t mean we ain't allowed to say nothin' about it either,” he fired back, thankfully only thumping his fist against his thigh instead of the table this time (small mercies). At the words themselves, Tim blinked. They were actually… pretty reasonable, though it did take him half a second to parse through Jason’s thickened accent.

Alfred’s expression was unfortunately not nearly as moved by the reply, though it did look a little less rigid than before. “Then do lay out your concerns for me,” he told them frankly, folding his hands in his lap and tilting his chin in a way that was regal and all the more demanding for it.

Unfortunately for Tim’s continued well-being, it seemed that Jason’s short fuse for diplomacy had run its course. “That goddamn sunnuvabitch is a fuckin’ gold digger, Alfie!” the other vigilante exclaimed, tossing his arms up and gesturing fiercely. 

Alfred gave a short, indiscernible hum. Jason and Tim leaned forward in sync in unconscious, anxious (and, in Tim's case, highly strung, dreadful) anticipation to hear the butler's defense to that. “I suppose your description is why Harry has refused to allow me to pay for a single meal in the time we have been together?”

Tim blinked, pulling back in surprise. At his side, he saw Jason doing the same, though the elder was quick to rally. “So he’s playin’ the long con with ya,” he scoffed, waving the revelation aside. Tim… well. Tim suddenly wasn’t so sure. Oh, he definitely wanted to react the same way Jason just did (heck, that was his instinctive first thought over what to do), but something stopped him. Probably one of his hard-earned Bat instincts that made him consider all the possible meanings of a piece of evidence before settling on one for it. To limit potential bias and stuff. Ugh. 

Another trickle of nervous unease joined the puddle of it that'd settled in his gut, and he restrained from scratching at the back of his neck again by sheer force of will, pressing the soles of his shoes flat against the carpet to resist the urge to anxiously tap his foot against the floor. Something was really starting to feel not right about this situation. Since Alfred hadn't cut down Jason with a reply yet, Tim tentatively offered, “I mean, Jason’s not wrong about that possibility?” The end of his remark definitely pitched upwards into a question.

He winced when Jason gave him an incredulous look at the less than stellar show of support. 

Alfred, on the other hand, did not so much as twitch at the renewed accusations, no sign of doubt seeping into his unimpressed expression. “Considering Harry’s wealth is equal to - if not greater - than mine own, as seen to by the fact that he is a rather frugal-living Count of England, you may understand my… doubt, over your accusations.”

Tim stared at him. Jason stared at him. 

Time seemed to stretch out in long, long painful seconds as Alfred calmly lifted his teacup to take a sip of his own brew, looking for all the world like they’d just had a conversation about what was for dinner instead of his grandchildren blatantly accusing his much younger, apparently rich significant other of being a gold digger and a con-man all wrapped in one.

“No way.” 

That was, of course, Jason. Blunt as ever. The man’s arms were twitching like they were going to cross over his chest again before his right hand jerked forward to grab at his teacup instead, the liquid inside nearly sloshing over the rim as Jason brought it to his mouth and threw his head back to swallow the whole steaming brew down in one go - like a freaking shot.

Tim blinked dazedly at him. His thoughts drifted to the side. Did the Lazarus Pits eviscerate taste buds? Because if they hadn’t, gulping down an entire cup (no matter how little that cup was) of practically boiling hot leaf water seemed like a surefire way to do the job.

The longer this whole interaction went on, the more surreal it felt, and they hadn’t even actually gotten much done in the way of progress with any of it yet. 

And now, Alfred’s look (probably due to Jason’s words despite the vigilante’s actions definitely also being a contributing factor) would make even the Joker shrivel up under it. 

“I am curious, Master Jason,” - here, Alfred gave Tim a look to say he hadn’t forgotten about the teen either, even though Tim very much would’ve preferred that to have been the case - “as to what has made you believe that I am incapable of discerning the truth of such matters on my own.”

Oh. Oh.

Check. Fricking. Mate. To the both of them.

Jason’s mouth opened and closed a couple of times like a goldfish, and his eyes were opened wider than a deer in headlights. 

“I-”

Alfred’s brow raised in borderline sardonic encouragement, and Tim strangled a nerve-ridden titter of laughter.

Jason’s head finally ducked down, and Tim knew it was over. “Sorry, Alfie,” the older vigilante muttered, wiping his palms against his sweats. The sudden change of tone might've seemed unexpected, but there was definitely thick, genuine regret in Jason's tone, even if it was still kind of grudging. That latter part was just who Jason was.

Tim could see that the whole debate was coming to an end, and he too definitely realized now that he and Jason had been fully in the wrong about confronting Alfred about this, but there was one more thing he felt like he had to say. While he and Jason had definitely acted prematurely and should’ve done way more research before solidifying their initial assumption that this Harry guy was just after Alfred’s money, that didn’t mean there weren’t other concerns that came with the stranger too. Tim wouldn't dare risk mentioning the validity of the genuineness of the guy's feelings for Alfred, since the teen was more than aware enough to realize now that he had no proof either way of that idea for it to seem like anything other than an insult if he gave voice to it. And sure, the one about this guy trying to covertly infiltrate the lives of the Waynes could be similarly discarded like the gold digger plot now that Alfred had very bluntly - if not exactly directly - reminded them that he was The Batman’s first mentor and continued partner for a dang reason, but there was still one, considerably significant issue that remained.

Tim nervously chewed at the corner of his lip, fiddling with the handle of his teacup. Alfred was already placing his own cup back onto the tray alongside the teapot, and Jason’s subdued posture made it clear that he wasn’t going to add anything else anytime soon, so Tim knew it was now or never.

“I’m sorry too, Alfred,” he started, genuinely contrite. “We shouldn’t’ve just made all those assumptions, and we definitely shouldn’t’ve ignored that you know how to take care of yourself too - more than we do…” he trailed off, struggling with how to word what he was going to say next.

Alfred turned his full attention on Tim, but this time, it didn’t make Tim want to burst into a gormless pile of ashes at the ignominy of it. Instead, the butler looked more… open - almost fond, if definitely accompanied by a heavy dose of exasperation. “But?” the man spurred on wryly. Tim could swear that the edge of his mustache twitched, and he gave an unsurprised, grimacing smile at having been caught, shifting to massage his palm with his thumb. 

“But isn’t this guy… a little too young?” he pointed out hesitantly.

If Tim didn’t know any better, he’d say the look on Alfred’s face was pure, vindictive mischief. By the way Jason shifted at his side, his older brother seemed to feel the same thing. Regardless, the butler didn’t leave them hanging for long, but his words were so innocuously stated that it took Tim a second to process the implications of them. 

When he did, they hit him full-on with all the force of a speeding semi- truck:

“Harry is more than old enough to be my paramour.”

Promptly, Jason made a sound that he would undoubtedly deny till the end of his days was exactly like that of a dying whale. 

Unfortunately for Tim, the noise he let out himself wasn’t much better - no, not at all.

-

From where she’d finally managed to sneak in and hide away in the small alcove behind one of the backdoors that led into the living room, Stephanie paused, then blinked twice in rapid succession.  

Huh, she thought, blinking again, her brows raising past her wispy, blonde fringe. 

Guess Alfred really was into younger guys.

And he caught himself a hell of a looker, too.

She considered that statement for the few good long seconds it deserved - it sure was one she’d never thought she’d ever think of in reference to her pseudo-grampa figure, not in her entire life.

But. 

You know what, good for him, she thought to herself decisively, nodding with finality as a grin split her lips and she quietly backed away from her hidden nook. She was pretty sure Alf could handle things on his own from here.

Just so long as that Harry Potter guy made sure to keep treating him right.

Chapter Text

Jason wasn’t a fucking idiot. He’d known that Alfie and that bastard were in a ‘relationship’. And he damn well knew that it wasn’t just as friends. 

Hell, he’d seen that sonnuvabitch kiss Alfred’s hand. He’d heard from Tim about that god awful letter. But somehow, some fucking way, Jason’s Lazarus-sludged dumpster fire of a brain still hadn’t made the damn connection to what that could mean. 

Next to him, Tim made a high-pitched keening noise like a teakettle going off, and for once in his second life, Jason could freely admit that the reaction was wholly deserved - even if it felt like it was driving a nail through his skull.

God fucking hell, Jason felt like a damned preschooler, thinkin’ kisses were what showed that ‘mommy’ and ‘daddy’ loved each other and all that crap. But nooooo. He knew better than that. He knew that - that -

Oh god, he was gonna be sick. Shit. Fuck. He needed some bleach - for his brain.

For fuck’s sake, it wasn’t even just that this bastard was young - that was just the expired fucking cherry on top of the whole ass mud cake. Nah, Jason couldn’t even fool himself with thinkin’ it was that, ‘cause making the horrible, grievous, traumatizing error of imagining for just a fraction of a second Alfie doing - doing with some old ass guy either was just as fucking bad. 

Oh god, Jason was gonna hurl. Bad enough to’ve pictured Bruce in bed with Talia after he found out they'd been a thing, but Alfie? With literally anyone?

Maybe it made Jason sound like a damn bastard himself - hell, he knew it did - but he’d very apparently unconsciously placed Alfred on the same damn pedestal as a nun. So the mere fucking thought of his gramps goin’ at it with - no, just goin’ at it period -

Oh fuck, Jason really was gonna hurl. Fuck him and his shitty ass intrusive-unable-to-let-things-go goddamn mind.

Tim still wasn’t doing much better either, with his hands slapped onto his cheeks and his mouth wide open like that one kid from Home Alone. 

Just. No. Fuck no to all this shit.

Jason couldn’t accept it. There was no way in hell that Alfie wasn’t gettin’ tricked by this piece of shit Harry, there was no way in hell the sonnuvabitch wasn’t takin’ advantage of the old man, and there was no way in the fiery pits of hell that Alfred goddamned Pennyworth, butler to the Wayne family for over four decades and resident gramps to all of them and pops to Bruce, regardless of the Demon Brat’s proprietary protests, was doing the do with some rat fucking bastard who was Dick’s goddamned age. 

Yeah. Hell fucking no. Fuck that noise.

Harry dead-meat Potter wasn’t gonna know what hit him. He wouldn’t have the damn chance to try using his fucking - his fucking wiles to seduce Alfie ever again once Jason got his hands on him.

And fine. Sure. Maybe the bastard really wasn’t a damn gold digger - or even a spy - but that didn’t mean he couldn’t just be a prick using Alfred for his needs. 

Oh fuck. Jason swallowed a gag. Bleach. He needed bleach.

“Alfie-” he croaked. Honestly, Jason had no fucking clue what he’d been planning to say after that, and he wasn’t given the chance to add anything either way, ‘cause just then the door to the living room creaked open to herald whoever the hell just had either the worst or best timing in getting home - it all depended on who it was, and how they reacted.

In sync, all three men turned to see who it was.

Black locks of silky, shoulder length hair swayed to the side as a head poked around the cracked open door, dark eyes blinking curiously at them before lighting up happily. 

Pushing the door open further, Cass practically skipped her way into the room, completely ignoring the thick tension Jason could practically feel smothering him like a layer of smog and instead pushing her duffel bag further up her shoulder, splaying her arms out wide and proudly proclaiming, “Home!”

Jason blankly stared at her, Tim doing the same.

Alfie once again showed that he had his shit together like always - and very obviously unlike the pair of them did - by genially greeting Cass with, “Mistress Cassandra, welcome home,” and standing up to take her stuff from her arms.

Tim managed to pull himself back into the world of the living a second later, ‘cause he scrambled to follow, practically jumping out of his seat and - with his voice pitched about two octaves too high to sound anything less than hysterical - exclaimed, “Cass! Hey! You’re back!” 

Jason winced. Real subtle, Tim. Reeaaaal subtle.

Cass smiled brightly anyways, finishing her hug with Alfred and finally relenting in handing her things over to the butler in order to bring Tim in for a quick embrace too.

She didn’t give any sign of having noticed Tim’s completely obvious panic. Jason narrowed his eyes, slowly standing from his own seat and slouching his way over to the pair to give his own greeting.

Alright, there was no way in hell Cass of all people couldn’t see something was up. 

So the question was, why hadn’t she pointed it out yet?

-

Cass’s brothers were very silly.

She tipped her head to the side and felt the way her smile widened further as Jason nodded to her, his shoulders hunched forwards and up and his hands sunken deep into his pockets. 

Suspicion was clear in the squint of his eyes, and discomfort in the tense lining of his posture. 

Cass did not worry. Tim too looked uneasy, but also remorseful, if reluctantly - and not in her direction, but in grandpa’s. 

Cass was proud of her ability to restrain her smile to half of what it wanted to be. It would not be fair of her to take grandpa’s fun away, not so soon. 

Oh yes, Cass was very sure she knew what was happening. Stephanie’s text confirmed it too. Cass had been ‘in the know’ of Alfred’s relationship since the day her brothers had shown her the video. Then, Stephanie and Barbara had brought her into their group to share knowledge soon after, since Cass informed them of having finished her mission.

The curved slant and glint to Alfred’s eyes had her smile rising more. 

Silly, silly brothers.

They should know better than to mess with grandpa. 

He met her gaze, and she delighted in their shared look, her grin taking a mischievous edge. Nearly skipping again, she went back to his side, hooking her arm around his and pressing her temple against his shoulder. She felt more than heard Alfed’s quiet huff - fondly amused. 

Oppositely, Tim and Jason gaped, not understanding - unwilling to understand - and she smiled innocently, clutching grandpa’s elbow.

“Cass,” Tim squeaked out, voice and posture mirroringly strained. She nodded encouragingly, and Jason took over, sensing like her that Tim could not seem to say more.

“We were talkin’ to Alfie - about the thing,” her big brother emphasized pointedly, his throat bobbing as if he were close to nauseousness. He was still coming to terms, somehow? Very silly.

“‘Thing?’” Cass echoed guilelessly, tilting her head further against grandpa’s shoulder. 

By Jason’s further narrowed eyes, he had quickly caught on to her act. Boo. He gave her the benefit of doubt, though, shortly clarifying, “His relationship.” His face took on a more sickly hue, Tim also grimacing. Cass would sympathize, at another time.

Instead, here, she questioned “With Harry?” while blinking doe eyed.

Jason nodded sharply in agreement. “Yeah, with -” he cut off, his eyes snapping wide, Tim’s doing the same in very comedic sync. “How’d you know that name?” big brother demanded.

Cass pursed her lips into a disapproving moue. “Alfred’s partner.” Of course she made sure to know such an important person’s name. Stephanie had told her. 

Her lips almost twitched, but she kept it back, even though Jason and Tim’s boggled expressions really were very funny. Barbara would be very happy she had cameras in the room, even more so when Tim disbelievingly strangled out, “And that’s okay with you?” 

He seemed to regret saying so after, glancing guiltily to Alfred. Cass pretended to not see, simply answering, “Yes.” Grandpa would know to pick a good partner. And Barbara had not seen Harry be suspicious. That was plenty for Cass.

Neither of her brothers seemed to know what to say to that. They only stared more, faces quickly falling past disbelief and into a look very much like horror. There was definitely dismay to her in them both too, even with the contrast of Tim’s shoulders near his ears and Jason’s slumped low with his hands limp yet twitching at his sides.

Cass sniffed sharply and raised her chin like littlest brother Damian. Her chest bubbled with hidden laughter as Jason let out a wheeze and Tim’s face scrunched very close to like he was constipated. She had missed this.

Grandpa decided then to cut in, tipping his head to meet Cass’s eyes and warmly commend her with, “Very well said, my dear girl,” which had her preening and Jason spluttering - shock and small outrage. Alfred ignored the sound to add smoothly, “If you would be amenable, may I discuss a proposition of mine to you?” - he turned to give a very dry glance at her brothers before pointedly adding, “- privately.”

Cass again withheld a bright laugh at the offended looks on the boys’ faces. Jason’s eyebrow was twitching very unsubtly, and Tim was definitely restraining from saying a protest, his fingers interlaced in front of his chest, white-knuckled. Cass grinned impishly to grandpa and gave his arm a beckoning tug, gesturing to her bag in his arms and then to the door to show they should talk on the way to and in her room while dropping the duffel off. “Yes. Come,” she added belatedly, giving her brothers a wave goodbye.

They did not wave back, but Cass did not mind, even as she and Alfred left the room.

She would ask Barbara for a photo of their faces right then very soon. For commemoration.

-

As he and Mistress Cassandra made their way to her bedroom, Alfred allowed his smirk to shift into a genuine, warm smile, the young miss's face similarly coming alight with positively mischievous glee. 

It was a rightfully deserved expression. Alfred could not have pictured a more perfect ending to the interaction had he planned it himself. 

Truthfully, he had already been considering making this request he had in store for Mistress Cassandra even before she had returned, but the exchange a few moments prior served to solidify his standing: 

He would ask whether she would like to meet Harry.

Unlike his grandsons, it was overtly clear that Mistress Cassandra had taken Alfred’s new relationship in stride, and he could not restrain the kernel of pride he felt for it. Perhaps the sentiment was unearned on his part, as he held no misconceptions that the young miss had come into her character on any merit but her own, but he allowed himself a brief moment of selfishness to indulgently bask in the feeling of a member of his family knowing and accepting his burgeoning relationship with such minimal hesitation.

Quite the opposite of two others of the brood.

The thought of his grandsons once more gave a wry edge to Alfred's fond mien, and he huffed quietly to himself, sharing a knowing glance with Mistress Cassandra as she looked up curiously at the small sound.

Truly, what had Master Tim and Master Jason expected? That Alfred had become celibate? 

He restrained a quiet chuckle as he vividly recalled the boys’ expressions at his deliberately misleading phrasing regarding the intricacies of his and Harry’s relationship, shaking his head with equal parts fondness and exasperation. Simultaneously, he smoothly shifted his posture to keep Mistress Cassandra’s furtive hands from attempting to steal back her baggage before they had even arrived in the family foyer. He politely ignored her pointed huff at having been so easily stymied, and he returned to his musings. 

Hopefully, the confrontation had served its purpose as a thorough lesson for his grandsons to think better of invading his privacy in such an overt manner - especially regarding with whom he chose to form relations with.

If not - well. Alfred was certain he could find more ways in which to drive his point across. Perhaps with a bonding exercise for Mistress Cassandra and Harry to join him in.

As if having heard his thoughts, the young miss leaned further into his side, bringing a soft, affectionate smile to Alfred's lips that mirrored the warmth that slowly unfurled within his chest.

Yes, a bonding exercise sounded favorable indeed. 

Chapter Text

“Alfred!” Harry greeted elatedly, quickly rising from his seat and rounding the picnic table to guide his gentleman over the bench across from him, presenting the seat with perhaps too animated of a gesture. As it always seemed to do, his elation - which showed no signs of ever planning to fade in its vigor - over seeing his paramour was overtly presenting itself once more.

“Harry,” Alfred warmly greeted in return, his lips curling in the corners as he took the offered seat, raising an almost teasing brow even as he gifted a nod of thanks that brought further color to Harry’s already rouged cheeks.

As he returned to his own bench, he took note of his gentleman glancing curiously to the conspicuous basket Harry had placed to the side, and a twinge of nerves added themselves to his bubbling but unsubdued eagerness that had pervaded him since the evening prior. “I’ve made a few desserts, the night before, and I would be honored if you would be willing to try them,” Harry initiated, forgoing their typical introductory conversation as he reached his hands forth to hesitantly bring the basket of goods to rest between them.

Alfred’s brows ticked up a notch, interest sparking in his eyes, and a small, genuine smile was bestowed by the man. “How could I refuse?” he archly replied.

Harry bit his lip in a futile attempt to stifle his own grin, briefly closing his eyes against a refreshing gust of wind that blew dark strands of his hair across his forehead and brows. It was another pleasant day outside, and he was glad he had proposed meeting - having a date - outdoors to take advantage of it. To add to its appeal, the park in which they were seated in was relatively secluded, likely at least in part due to the fact that it neighbored one of the city’s Rouge’s gardens. Ivy, he believed it was? 

Regardless, or perhaps because, of the relative location, the air seemed fresher surrounded by the menagerie of flora; only a tinge of Gotham’s prevalent smog was carried in the faintest of traces with the wind.

With another deep, appreciative inhale of the pollen-dusted air, Harry resumed his self-imposed task of opening his basket of treats, carefully displaying the laden plates across the table’s wooden surface.

-

Alfred was not embarrassed to admit (privately and only to himself, of course) that he found the presentation of the desserts before him to be… stunning. 

To another, the word he used to define it would undoubtedly seem exaggerated, as its meaning could only be explained through understanding the depth of what lied before him.

The Yorkshire puddings were crisped to a perfect golden-brown, shaped as delicately as hand crafted teacups of painted clay and finely drizzled with a dark, chocolatey sauce of a perfect quantity so as to not to leave them drenched. The scones - buttermilk, if he presumed correctly - were similarly baked to seeming perfection, the paler sides an exemplary contrast to the bronzed, immaculately rounded tops. The crumbles, in which he could see precisely bite-sized chunks of gleaming apple and softened blackberry, were perfectly layered in their three sections, not a millimeter of misalignment nor bleed–through between. The treacle tarts were as flawlessly coated in burnt sugar as the finest of Crème Brûlées, their insides too being thick and rich in hue and consistency. Lastly, held in a set of miniature yet no less ornate crystal glasses, there were rounded scoops of vanilla custard, kept cool on a bed of yet-to-have-melted ice.

“Harry… this is…” he began, trailing off before he could find the words that would adequately convey the sentiments that suddenly seemed to have all but overwhelmed him. He would not find so much difficulty should he have simply been wishing to complement Harry on the exemplary display, for such a thing was straightforward in its lack of ambiguity. No, the far more prevalent issue that Alfred found himself facing was rather the depth behind each well-crafted treat. 

Despite being used as a base for a dessert, Yorkshire puddings were not particularly sweet themselves - more savory, in fact - and the ones before him were only paired with a light drizzling of what appeared to be dark chocolate. Buttermilk scones were similarly less of a dessert item on their own, often only slightly flavored in either the sweet or savory direction. For both of these dishes, Alfred knew he was not being egocentric in seeing the thought having been put behind them. He had no doubt that Harry had taken note of Alfred’s preferences during the weeks in which they had been dining together, and the dual options providing the choice for pleasant, familiar goods lacking in overt sweetness were evidence to as much. It was a simple fact that Alfred had lost some of his former sweet tooth over his many years of life, after all, but it was a minute detail only another who had been paying close attention for some time would have realized.

The apple and blackberry crumble was a perfect pairing, still not overly sweet and providing the majority of its sugar naturally with the syrupy juices from the contrasting fruits. How, exactly, Harry had determined that Alfred had a preference for blackberries… well. Alfred supposed he must have given it away at some point in time; he had long since come to realize that Harry was far more observant than one - even Alfred himself - initially gave the man credit for.

The frozen custard was a simple yet intuitive touch, providing a pleasant contrast in temperature to the still somehow steaming desserts, and the separate serving placements meant the baked goods would not be turned to mush before consumption, and the amount of custard added could be adjusted to what was personally desired.

Last but not least, of course, was the treacle tart. 

It was seemingly a deviation from the rest, at first glance. Had Alfred not had the time to discover more of Harry in turn as well as he had over their shared time together, he might not have comprehended its significance even now. The dessert was another British-based creation, though even there it was less prevalent than most. In the States - in Gotham? It was practically nonexistent. Coupled with its often overt sweetness and admitted lack of healthy ingredients that could be easily replaced with alternatives… Suffice to say it had been many, many years since Alfred had last had a sampling of the simple yet unique dessert.

Yet here it was before him, one slice among many, the perfect representation of what Alfred knew to be Harry’s favorite treat.

The significance was not lost upon the butler. This was not a situation of, ‘if I like it, so must you’ - not in the least. Nor would Alfred falsely misinterpret the offering as an attempt to test him in such a regard.

The truth was much simpler than any of that, and yet its meaning was infinitely deeper for it. Harry was sharing - even in such a seemingly trivial manner as a simple dessert - what brought him joy. 

Alfred could easily recall the reminiscent sparkle that had shone in Harry’s eyes when he had mentioned tarts weeks prior. The way his smile had softened, genuineness not changing in veracity but undeniably in tone, carrying an air of nostalgia that had once held grief but now harbored only a contented remembrance of the past that the thought of a singular dessert brought to him.

It was this that he was sharing with Alfred - not only the dessert itself but the emotions brought with it. 

Alfred’s faith in his own logic was compounded when he once again took note of the sizes of the desserts themselves, the portions for the treacle tarts being far smaller than the rest by a significant standard, hardly more than a bite. The perfect size for a singular taste to what Harry wished him to experience alongside himself. 

Alas, it would truly seem that Alfred was at a loss once again - a sensation that was becoming all too familiar in the time since he had first made Harry’s forever welcome acquaintance. 

It was Harry who broke the silence between them, and where the other man may have once been hesitant in the face of Alfred’s lack of response, now, Harry seemed to have decided to be emboldened by it - at least, if one were to ignore the heavy blush upon his cheeks. 

“May I ask which you would like to try?” 

Alfred smiled deepened, crow lines crinkling in the corners of his eyes, and he took hold of Harry's hand. He looked forward to tasting each and every one of his partner’s creations.

-

As the hour passed and the remaining desserts (which had been absolutely delectable to the point that Alfred believed they easily put some of his baked goods to shame) were packed away (Harry having finally wheedled him into accepting the plethora of remaining treats to give to his grandchildren), several long, quiet minutes interspersed with the wind rustling through the trees and the occasional bird twittering from the nearby branches passed before Alfred gently broke the companionable silence.

It took a single utterance for Harry’s eyes to light up to such an extent that Alfred was quite positive that they had genuinely begun to glow:

“Would you like to see my grandchildren?”

“Yes!” came the instant reply, Harry seemingly too overwhelmingly ecstatic over the unanticipated offer to even consider being embarrassed over his exclamation. 

Alfred withheld the quiet laugh that threatened to pass his lips, instead reaching for his wallet from the inner pocket of his suit. Within the worn leather’s folds, he pulled free a slim stack of well-cared-for photographs, and, without pause, he turned them around to face Harry, gesturing for the man to hold them and warming at the care in which his offering was taken from his grasp.

The top of the images was a family photograph, with Alfred on the far left and Master Bruce at his side. Master Tim had set up the camera on a timer before rushing into the middle, accidentally brushing against Master Damian’s shoulder in his rush to get into position. Thankfully, the photograph was taken before the inevitable resulting dispute occurred, and only a slight blur to the youngest Wayne’s right arm was visible instead of the dagger the boy had pulled from the hidden sheath against his back a breath later. Master Jason’s smirk and Master Dick’s look of entirely befitting exasperation were the only other signs of what was to come. Mistress Cassandra was nearly hidden in the shadow of the nearby pillar to the entrance hall - only visible to those lacking a keen eye due to Mistress Stephanie having grabbed hold of her wrist in a futile attempt to pull her into the light, inevitably causing a blur over part of her own blonde figure. Mistress Barbara was at their side - between them and the boys - a knowing smile on her lips as she rested her elbows against the arms of her wheelchair.

“They’re… beautiful,” Harry breathed, his voice full of wonder and such a deep sense of joy that it was as if the emotions Alfred felt for those within the photo had been passed onto him and were readily, happily, absorbed. 

“They are,” Alfred agreed, his lips tilting upwards. “Although, they - the Waynes, that is - are an undeniably... rowdier bunch than most realize,” he added wryly.

Harry hummed a light, commiserating noise, then paused to muse aloud, “'The Waynes?'” He seemed to answer his own question before Alfred could offer a reply, exclaiming. “Oh, the Waynes!”

The butler blinked, his brows raising as his own curiosity piqued over Harry’s reaction. It would seem the other man had in fact heard of the famous Gothamite family before, which was unexpected only in the sense that Harry had given no cue of having known them before. Now all that was left to wonder was what preconceived notions he would have of -

“What a lovely name,” Harry finished merrily, delicately flipping to the next photo with a bright, delighted grin pushing at the apples of his cheeks.

Alfred blinked again. “... Indeed,” he agreed slowly, utterly bemused. Truly, it couldn’t be that Harry had not heard of the family before at all, could it? Even if Harry was not the most active in keeping up with the media, the Waynes were more than just a rich family or local celebrities. They were the richest family in the continent and well up amongst the richest in the world, and it was not altogether uncommon for them to receive international attention.

But no, it seemed Harry truly did not have a single clue as to the importance behind the family name, considering the fact that the man spent the next several moments complimenting none other than Bruce Wayne’s appearance as one would a young boy’s, going so far as to say, “And he even has your eyes, Alfred!”

“You do recall that he is not-”

Harry hurriedly interrupted him, seemingly still too taken in the moment to feel abashed for cutting him off in such a way, replying, “Yes, yes, I do know - I apologize if my comment came off as rude in any way - I only meant to say that it is… a rather interesting twist in fate, is it not?” The question came along with a secretive little edge to the older man’s smile, one that faded back into its previous beaming, genuinely bright mien as he flipped to the next image. 

Alfred decided to let the matter of the Wayne family's notoriety rest, for now. (And if a small, yet still rather substantial, portion of himself felt a certain amount of uncharacteristic delight at the concept of Harry discovering firsthand what being a Wayne signified... well. That was for Alfred to know and the rest to find out).

In the present, however, Master Richard’s young (more than a decade younger than he had been in the family photo), impishly grinning face stared up at them, the photograph having been taken mere moments before the boy had leapt off the banister for the chandelier. It had been the first of many near heart attacks to have been induced upon Alfred since then, and, as he inwardly commiserated with his former self, he liked to think he’d built up something of an immunity - or at the very least a tolerance - over the years. 

Oblivious to Alfred’s internal musings, Harry queried, “A gymnast?” having undoubtedly taken note of Master Richard’s balancing act on the wooden railing at the top of the ornate staircase. 

“That would be Master Richard - or Dick, as he prefers by most - and yes, though acrobat would be more accurate,” Alfred introduced, sighing in remembered exhaustion from those early days that seemed to have changed little compared to now. At the very least, the chandelier was now bolted to the ceiling with thrice as many screws and a much sturdier frame.

 Harry smirked commiseratingly, almost as if he’d heard an echo of Alfred’s long-suffering thoughts, and he flipped the image to the rear of the stack.

The next photograph to present itself was that of Master Jason, and it was a more recent one than his elder brother’s, showing off the prominent white streak of hair parting the young man’s bangs above his deeply furrowed brows. He looked a fraction of a second away from lunging at the camera, which Alfred would have known Master Tim to be behind if only for the quality of the capture alone. 

If one peered closely enough, there almost seemed to be an unnaturally shaded green, iridescent shine to Master Jason’s teal, narrowed eyes. Most would easily write it off as a trick of the light, if they noticed at all.

Alfred did not look up from the image in time to take note of the way Harry’s gaze narrowed contemplatively, only catching the tail end of his partner’s features smoothing into fond, quietly elated excitement. “And this would be?” Harry questioned with hardly concealed thrill.

“Master Jason,” Alfred offered with a quiet chuckle, fondness seeming to coalesce within his chest as he observed the way Harry seemed to brighten further with the single name. 

“Jason,” his paramour repeated, after a moment giving a nod. “It suits him well.”

Alfred was helpless against his returning smile. “Indeed.”

-

The series of photographs, of which there had been nine (the family portrait as well as those of Masters Bruce, Richard, Jason, Tim, and Damian and the Mistresses Cassandra, Stephanie, and Barbara), had taken the better part of an hour for Harry to peruse, not helped by the fact that the man hadn’t seemed to be able to be able to restrain himself from flipping back and forth between the set, especially whenever a related memory Alfred mused over aloud at the given moment diverged to include another one of the children.

Alfred could not have even considered feeling miffed, let alone genuinely upset, over the passed time - not when his gaze was held in focus by Harry’s positively glowing mien. 

The dark-haired man’s pinkened lips were lifted so that the edges rested well above his cupid’s bow, pearlescent teeth glinting showingly through the parted seam. Appled cheeks were rouged a joyous red, soft dimples near the corners of his lips showing further evidence of his reverential wonderment in their shadowed divots. Thick, dark lashes rested upon half-lidded eyes, the emeralds of his irises nearly fever-bright with the ferocity of their transcendent glow. 

It truly was Harry’s eyes once more (and oh, what a remembrance to their beginning), that provided Alfred with his current realization. 

For all that Harry waxed poetic (to Alfred's endless, well-hidden discomfiture) over the depthless bounds to the butler’s own eyes, in this moment (and doubtlessly in every moment to follow thereafter), Alfred could not imagine anything more stunning than Harry’s eyes instead, in which Alfred was able to read every intricacy within the elder’s tender, openly adoring gaze that was fixated upon none other than the entirety of Alfred’s heart: his family. 

(Could he truly say his family had the whole of his heart any longer? Perhaps they did - perhaps they always would, as he had believed for so many years to be true - and the feelings he felt anew brimming within his chest were not a takeover of parts already given but instead a slow, steadily increasing trickle to a stream of emotions filling in the cracks between the seams in his soul that he had long believed to be permanent fractures within).

To distract himself from his sentiments that were rather quickly getting out of hand, Alfred spoke the first utterance that came to mind:

“My granddaughter would like to meet you,” he said, immediately restraining his surprise that wished to show itself over his own admittance. While it was true that he had planned to relay this information to Harry, he had intended on a subtler approach.

As his partner’s face positively lit up with exhilaration, however, Alfred could not bring himself to feel even the barest measure of regret.

For a moment, it looked as if Harry was about to vibrate straight through his bench seat - not unlike the Speedster heroes were so well known for being able to do - with the sheer force of his elation. A moment later, however, his paramour managed to reasonably subdue himself, though his attempt at a serious expression was significantly undermined by the verdant hope shining within his too-wide eyes. 

“But would such a thing not interfere with the boundary issue we have discussed?” he pointed out hesitantly, the reply coming without pause despite the fact that Alfred knew Harry must have been quite reluctant to speak it.

Which made it all the more satisfying for the butler to give a knowing smirk and, without hesitation, utter a blunt, “No.”

Harry’s responding beam was veritably blinding. 

-

Dick was tired.

After getting an urgent call from work and having to wrangle Damian home yesterday, spending the next hour weaving through traffic at a speed that would've had even Bruce green around the gills, getting to the station only for the so-called ‘emergency’ to be a fat stack of paperwork piled up high on his desk like a tower ready to fall, grueling over said paperwork for the next several hours - well past his normal time to leave - before finally giving up just past halfway through the monumental stack and instead covertly separating the remainder amongst the empty desks of the more corrupt members of the force in his department, getting home only to change into his Nightwing suit and head right back out again, spending the following hours until the brink of dawn swinging between buildings interspersed with fighting crime, getting home and knocking out in bed only to wake up two hours later, and stumbling into his car and driving back to Gotham… Dick thought it was reasonable enough to say that he was feeling pretty damn tired.

Did this mean he wouldn’t be heading back to the manor again to once and for all figure out the situation going on with his brothers, Alfred, and the man who was very likely to be the butler’s grandson? No. 

Did this mean that Dick would treat himself with a stop at his favorite local café to consume a Tim-worthy level of caffeine while enjoying a pleasant stroll through one of the less crime-ridden streets of Gotham? Absolutely.

In fact, that was what he was doing right at that moment, tipping his head back with his large cup to swallow down another too-hot gulp of perfectly brewed Cinnamon and Vanilla Latte. 

Closing his eyes in contentment, he lowered the cup back down, smacking his lips and releasing a pleased sigh. Oh, to just bask in this moment, pretending his problems didn’t exist and weren’t waiting to pounce on him with a sharpened katana like a Damian fresh from Nanda Parbat. 

A soft sound - a mixture of a sharp inhalation and a quiet, “Ah,” - interrupted Dick’s sleep-deprived delusions, and he snapped his eyes back open, glancing around.

It didn’t take him long to figure out the source of the noise.

A few feet in front of him, seemingly having been headed in the opposite direction on the sidewalk, was a guy.

He was tall, around Dick’s height, and he seemed close in age to him too - only a couple of years older at most. The similarities didn’t go much past that except for the guy’s matching head of pitch-black locks, the first divergence being his clothes - a suit, of all things - plus his paler skin tone, different - but still handsome - facial structure, and, of course, his bright green eyes. 

They weren’t Jason’s color, not by any stretch, but some small part of Dick’s brain still couldn’t help but ping unnatural at the sight of them. He shook off that thought as just another sign of his coffee yet to have fully kicked in, instead focusing on the far bigger issue:

This guy was staring at him. Like, very obviously. Kind of hard not to be obvious about that sort of thing when the two of them were currently the only people on the sidewalk, both not moving and also facing each other.

Dick took the opportunity to stare right back, not immediately sensing any maliciousness from the dude, only to have to blink a couple times and barely restrain himself from immediately looking away.

Dick… really wasn’t sure what to label the look on the guy’s face, and that in and of itself was immensely disconcerting.

The man’s lips were split into a wide (almost disbelieving? surprised?), beaming smile, his eyes crescented hard enough that they crinkled heavily in the corners. His irises were practically sparkling, in something like excitement and… and something else. Something that Dick couldn’t think to name, didn’t know what it could be, except that it almost… sort of reminded him of how Bruce - or of how in his steadily fading memory his own parents - looked at him when-

Nope. Dick shook that thought right back out of his head. There was no way he was gonna equate the look some random stranger his own damn age was giving him to that of his parental figures. Christ, the sleep deprivation had to be getting to him more than he'd thought.

No, this was most definitely not that. Whatever he meant by that. 

Like usual, this guy was probably just being flirty, or something. Weirdly so, yes, but still hitting on Dick with his eyes.

…That sounded better before he actually thought it out.

Anyway, in all honesty, it’d been a while since Dick had had to pull out the old moves, having avoided going to any galas for the past half a year and not having done any undercover missions that’d required it, either. (And the less said about his dating life at the moment, the better).

But there was no time like the present. You never knew when there were paps around, anyways, and if there were any… well. Everyone knew that Dickie Wayne was an even bigger flirt than his father.

-

Images of Alfred’s family still fresh in Harry’s mind, he came to a complete, abrupt halt when he saw none other than one of his gentleman’s charming grandchildren - Dick Grayson, Harry was certain it was - before him, seeming to be taking a late morning stroll.

Harry could feel the way his face split into a radiant smile before he could control it, though he thankfully managed to stifle it to relatively appropriate levels in time for the young man to glance in his direction, likely having felt another's gaze upon him.

For several moments, Harry simply drank in the appearance of Alfred’s oldest grandson, from his slightly wavy, dark locks of hair to his rumpled sweater and pants, to his scuffed yet well-loved shoes. (A not so insignificant part of Harry worried over the deep bruises below the boy’s bright blue eyes, for the tiredness within his appearance, his posture, and his gaze. He contented himself with the knowledge that the young man being in his home city once more meant that Alfred would soon be there to care for him.) 

Harry was helpless to resist giving a jubilant wave, his lips still parted in a breathlessly delighted smile at the first true sight of one amongst his heart’s family - especially so quickly after having learned of them past vague mentions. Young Grayson’s head tilted to the side, seemingly bemused, before suddenly making as if to approach.

Internally, Harry floundered. His reaction to seeing Alfred’s grandson had been instinctive, yes, but now he castigated himself for having been so tactlessly obvious over his attention. Posture stiffening with his warring sentiments, as Harry was unsure whether any further interaction would be a breach, he forced himself to steady. It would be much too rude to turn away now, and neither was this young Todd or Drake. As such, Harry wasn’t sure whether this particular grandson of Alfred’s was aware of who Harry was at all, so perhaps Harry could give a simple, polite greeting before they both went their separate ways. 

Yes, that sounded plenty agreeable. Harry nodded decisively to himself, and if a shred of the elation he felt at the chance at meeting one of Alfred’s progeny happened to flash across his face? Well. That was for him to be aware of the reason behind alone. (At least, until he told Alfred of it come the morrow.)

-

Dick huffed out a chuckle as the guy waved at him like he was seeing his favorite celebrity, letting himself relax. Looked like was right, after all. Seeing how they were in his hometown, the man had no doubt heard of the Waynes, and (like an… actually worrying amount of people did) he’d formed a crush.

Who was Dick to disappoint?

“Hey there, handsome,” he smirked, loosening his gait and slinking closer, resolutely ignoring how he stumbled a little drunkenly for a half step before he course-corrected. He raised an eyebrow as the guy’s smile flickered, a spark of something close to confusion lighting in his verdant eyes. Dick didn’t let himself falter (again), only stopping when he was less than a foot away from the man and reaching out (with more concentration than it really should've taken - seriously, how had he managed to drive all the way here?) to give the dude's jewel bedazzled tie a playful flick. “Or do you prefer pretty?” he purred. He distantly hoped that the rasp in his voice sounded more sexy-in-bed instead of I-got-punched-in-the-throat-last-night.

He looked up - only a little muzzily - through his lashes to complete the picture, just in time to see the guy’s face drop from confusion and straight down into pure horror, his face paling to a pasty white as he took a hurried step back, then another. “I- no - I - my, apologies, I don’t-” the stranger stuttered to say, his hands raising up in front of him like he was either surrendering or defending himself - maybe both - before he turned on his heel and bolted like he had the goddamned Joker on his tail.

Dick blinked, slow and sticky. He stared blankly at the now empty space where they guy had been just a half-second earlier, his own hand still hanging out in front of him, nail twinging a little from where he’d flicked it against the hard crystal of the man's tie.

Belatedly, he turned his head to follow the guy's retreat, only to find him long gone.

“... huh,” he mused, slowly raising his half-empty cup to his lips and taking a long, deep drag. 

If he hadn’t just used up the majority of his accumulated energy to try - and very apparently miserably fail - at flirting, maybe he’d have been able to string up enough of it to feel indignant about the reaction he’d just got. As it was, it’d take another three coffees before he’d be able to muck up the strength to acknowledge the significant blow his ego had definitely just taken. God, his brothers could never find out about this.

…Maybe Dick could take a little power nap in the car. A short hour or five.

Hopefully, he would forget about this whole mini (major) trainwreck of an interaction by the time he woke up. And hopefully, he would manage to wrangle his brothers into giving him a somewhat coherent explanation as to what was going on too.

…Yeah, right.

Dick sighed again, finally lifting his hand up all the way and slapping it against the entirety of his face. He slowly dragged it down, stretching the deep bags under his eyes and pulling down his lower lip to show his bottom teeth and pink gums to the empty street.

He really should've slept in today.