Chapter Text
Alfred’s hand did not slow as he diced the tear-inducing onion with master precision, even as he noted Bruce’s approach. It’s no good to prompt his charge to speak first, he knows. Alfred will simply wait, as he always does.
Bruce dropped into the bistro table chair, lacking the discipline he usually had with a near imperceptible sigh, breaking the monotony of the kitchen. Alfred felt the weight of his stare as he wielded knife against vegetable, and waited still. He did not need to see his face to know that Bruce’s eyes were wide and shiny, with a slight furrow nestled between his brow. He’d donned that expression as a boy, and he wears it now as a man. It was a vulnerability for Alfred’s eyes only; hurt that didn’t take form as stony nothingness or a pained grimace. It was the face of Bruce’s pain, and Alfred wondered what could possibly be the cause of it now.
“Alfred.”
“Master Bruce,” Alfred returned steadily. His stalks of carrots were now neatly shredded into straws. With no more ingredients to prepare, Alfred smoothly flipped the cleaver in his hand and stabbed it into the cutting board. He turned around to look at Bruce, to face the conversation head-on. Alfred did a mental rundown of the children and their well-being, going over their positions over and over again in the privacy of his mind. The world, especially Gotham, had been unusually law-abiding recently, which means life-threatening injuries or kidnappings were off the table. Furthermore, the brand of hurt that Bruce was displaying did not match to an argument with a child of his.
“Did my,” Bruce began, only to cut himself off. Hm, unusually hesitant. Curiouser and curiouser. “Did one of my parents have any extramarital affairs that could have resulted in the birth of a child?” He winced after he finally bit the sentence out, but Alfred finally had more of an idea about where this conversation was going.
“What has prompted this line of questioning, Master Bruce?” Alfred’s non-answer registered instantly. He tracked the line of Bruce’s body as he fought down a flinch, he watched as his eyes got impossibly wider. Alfred sighed and sat across from his charge as he wrestled with the intangible proof that Thomas and Martha Wayne’s marriage was not an ironclad faith forged in fire.
“I will not lie to you,” Alfred stated, drawing Bruce into eye contact. “But ask yourself, is this something you truly wish to know?” Alfred already knew the answer. His boy was a born detective, and he would not stop until he got his answers, even if it hurt. Especially so.
Bruce nodded his head. Alfred firmed his resolve. Very well, then.
“When you were two years old, your father took a business trip to New York.” Bruce’s body jolted, but he did not interrupt. Alfred kept going. “He was gone for a week, but in his time away, he met a young woman by the name of Esperanza Jackson. Their… entanglement, so to speak, resulted in a baby girl.”
Bruce exhaled as if the breath was forced out of his body. His white knuckle grip threatened the integrity of the bistro table. His eyes bounced from the countertops to the cabinets to Alfred, over and over again. He wasn’t handling the news well, Alfred knew, but he was processing regardless. Good signs, good signs.
“Why…” He trailed. “Why didn’t I know?”
“Esperanza Jackson was in labor for 38 hours before she delivered her daughter via cesarean section. She lived for a scant 24 minutes to name her child before she passed due to pre-eclampsia related complications. Her brother took on Young Sally and requested that your father terminate his parental rights in exchange for Esperanza losing her life. Master Thomas agreed to his terms, especially since Mistress Martha had no interest in raising a child that was created outside of their vows.”
Bruce was pale as a sheet and unnaturally still as the weight of Alfred’s words sank in. “Daniel Jackson did not wish to maintain contact, and your father honored that. Master Thomas meant to tell you when you were older, but it became a secret that died with him.” Until today, that is. It was inevitable that one day Master Thomas’ dirty laundry would be aired, but it was not Alfred’s job to protect his posthumous image. He was always more partial to Martha, anyhow.
Bruce coughed and rumbled to clear his throat, but his voice came out choked nonetheless. “Did you try to speak with him? After they died?” Did you deny me a sister, is what he did not ask. Alfred heard the words regardless.
“I contacted Mr. Jackson a month after their funeral, and he maintained his stance. I respected his wishes afterwards.” Alfred spoke as gently as he could, yet the words still landed like a blow from Bane. He stood and moved swiftly to the fridge, retrieving the store-bought swill that both Bruce and Jason favor. A bottle for his charge, and another for Alfred to suffer through. It’s not his preferred poison, but a certain camaraderie can be found in sharing cheap beer.
Alfred slid a bottle to the other side of the bistro table, where it met Bruce’s hand. He cleared half of it in two pulls and held his head in his hands, curling inwards until his posture vaguely resembled that of a shrimp. Alfred drank and grimaced all the while.
“I could’ve lived my whole life without knowing about her,” Bruce said, interrupting the loudest silence Alfred ever heard. “I wouldn’t have known if Barbara and Tim hadn’t developed the tracker that scans hospital databases for our DNA.” He barked out a harsh laugh that sounded like it scraped the edges of his throat. “It’s a failsafe to ensure we can always find each other if we get injured. Instead, it found my illegitimate sister. I have a sister, Alfred.”
“That you do. Master Bruce. What do you intend to do about it?”
“I don’t know. What should I do?” Bruce didn’t groan, but it was a near thing. His bottle was one swallow away from being empty.
“You do know,” Alfred reminded. “You determined your path long before you came to me.” Bruce didn’t speak after that, and neither did he. They finished their beers in the quiet.
“Sally was admitted because she went into labor,” Bruce stated abruptly. His voice was mechanical, but his eyes betrayed the mania within. “I’m an Uncle, Alfred. I have a niece now, and I never would have known. I have to change that.”
“Very well then.” Alfred took a single second to go over all of the possibilities, all the ways this messy situation could end. Then, he steeled himself and continued. “I trust Mistress Sally is well?”
“She was discharged a day after the birth. Unusually early, but there were no complications. She and Estelle got a clean bill of health. They’ve been home for three days now.”
“I trust you have her address, then?”
“Of course.” Bruce looked at Alfred as if he were asking him if the sky was blue. “I was going to leave shortly.”
“I see,” Alfred said, dry as the desert. “While that idea has merit, Master Bruce, I do wonder how a woman with a newborn not yet a week old will react to a billionaire at her doorstep claiming to be her brother.”
“Oh,” Bruce realized. “Hm.”
“Hm, indeed. You will wait a month, and then establish contact. Settling in with a baby is no easy task.”
“That’s a good idea,” Bruce conceded begrudgingly. It did not change the fact that he wanted to meet her now.
“Yes,” Alfred agreed. “Now, come help me with dinner. Master Damian will be home within the hour.”
Bruce’s eyes were round once more, but for an entirely different reason. Alfred knew better than to take his eyes off of him in a mood like this one. The boy may be helpless in the kitchen, but today, he will be Alfred’s sous chef.
Soon enough, life will change. But for this day, and the few weeks after it, Sally Jackson will have her peace. Alfred will make sure of it.