The alarm went off, and Thomas grumbled, rolling over until he could reach far enough to hit it. Then he rolled back, throwing out an arm as he took his designated position as Biggest Possible Spoon. Martha sighed, comfortably nestled into her place as Rather Tall But Currently Littlest Spoon.
Alfred was of course in the position of Middlest Spoon, or possibly Actually Taller And Handsomer Than Average Spoon Even If You Wouldn’t Know It To Look At These Other Spoons, or to use an entirely different metaphor, The Blonde Center Of A Raven-haired Sandwich. He objected to being the cream filling, because that had connotations.
“Alfred,” Thomas mumbled, nuzzling at the back of his head. “Go make sure Bruce is dressing appropriately for the museum.” Despite this, he had made no move to allow Alfred to escape.
“He’s your son,” Alfred said. “You do it.”
“I’m doing it by making you do it,” Thomas said.
“You can’t make me,” Alfred said.
“The hell I can’t,” Thomas said, indignant.
“Tommy-love, you haven’t rehired him yet,” Martha reminded him.
Thomas had rules about fraternizing with staff. Thomas did not break rules. Particularly not rules about ethics. He had the kind of ironclad and unbreakable sense of right and wrong that consistently and without fail inconvenienced and annoyed the shit out of everyone around him.
Which is why Martha had fired Alfred.
Martha was very good at finding workarounds for her husband’s sense of ethics.
“Alfred,” Thomas said, his voice adopting the particular baritone of Professionalism, as if he were not still in mid-cuddle with the man. “I hear tell my wife fired you last night.”
“Yes, Mr. Wayne,” Alfred said, interrupted by a yawn. “I’m sorry to leave, of course, but I’m not a man to overstay my welcome.” His hand wandered over Martha while he could still get away with it, and she giggled.
“Between you and me,” Thomas said, “I’m afraid my wife may be suffering from her monthlies.”
Martha gasped. They could hear the fire lighting in her eyes. Immediately Alfred clamped his arms around hers.
“It may even be hysteria,” Thomas added, and he had to wrap his arms around both Alfred and Martha to keep his wife from sitting up and hitting him. Thomas could feel the subtle shaking of Alfred trying not to laugh as Martha tried to get her arms free. He was trusting Alfred enormously not to let her go, since Martha had a mean right hook and a manicure that could kill. “I’m a doctor,” he added, in case anyone had forgotten. “This is my professional doctor-man opinion.”
“I see,” Alfred said as seriously as he could, having to lean his head back toward Thomas so Martha couldn’t headbutt him.
“How about you just come on back to work,” Thomas said, “and we forget this whole thing ever happened?”
“While I can think of nothing I’d like better,” Alfred said, “if I’m going to be returning to such an unstable work environment, I will require greater compensation.”
Martha’s angry struggling was forgotten as she started to laugh.
“God damn it,” Thomas said, clearly outmaneuvered.
“Oh, Alfie, you’re marvelous,” Martha said.
“Thank you, Mrs. Wayne,” he said. “One does one’s best.”
“I don’t suppose you take payment in dick?” Thomas asked, and Martha laughed again.
“I thought that was the benefits package,” Alfred said.
There was a familiar sound in the bedroom walls, a faint thump.
“Shit,” Martha said, all three of them bolting upright. “We took too long.”
Immediately and without preamble, both Waynes shoved Alfred downward and covered him with the comforter. He did not protest.
“How much do you wanna bet he’s wearing the pith helmet?” Thomas asked.
“That’s not even gambling,” Martha said with disdain.
Bruce appeared outside their bedroom window, because they’d made it too difficult for him to get in directly through the vents. He’d gotten in the habit, instead, of going through the walls and then out a decorative window, clambering across sills to get to theirs.
Martha was beginning to consider re-opening some of the secret passages into the bedroom, if only so he didn’t fall while climbing on all the architecture.
Bruce was, surprising no one, wearing his pith helmet. He was the sort of ten-year-old that believed very strongly in dressing for the occasion.
He had the window unlocked from the outside in no time at all, bending halfway through it so that he could retreat if he was seriously yelled at.
“The museum opens in an hour,” he said before they could say anything, clearly upset with their lollygagging. He was also the sort of ten-year-old that believed very strongly that ‘on time’ meant ‘a minimum of ten minutes early, but preferably more’.
“Brucie,” Martha said, her voice stern. Since she didn’t sound the kind of upset that Bruce considered dangerous, he slid inside, having the approximate weight and compressibility of a Hoberman sphere made of balsa wood. “What have I told you about breaking into our room?” The comforter was wrapped around her chest and tucked under her armpits, and she managed to make it look dignified.
“I might as well just pick the lock on the hall door,” Bruce said, as dismissive as any child repeating something he’d been told a thousand times. “This route was more efficient. And if we’re not one of the first two-hundred people in the exhibit, we don’t get the collector’s coin!” His change of subject was a flawless pivot, holding up the brochure that the museum had sent them in the mail, which of course he’d brought with him as a visual aid. He pointed at the embossed picture of the coin.
“Brucie, we’re their biggest donors,” Thomas reminded his son. “If you want a coin, all we have to do is ask.” They were technically included free at the ‘recurring five-hundred dollar donation’ level, which the Waynes far exceeded.
“That’s cheating,” Bruce said, not for the first time. “We have to get it right or else it doesn’t count.”
Bruce also had a particular sense of right and wrong, and it made his love of collecting things much more difficult than it had any right to be when his parents were billionaires.
“How,” Martha asked, “is crawling in the window a more efficient route than just taking the hall?”
Bruce huffed impatiently, lowered the brochure. “Because I went to Alfred’s room first, which is the other reason I’m here, because Alfred is missing and we need to find him because I’m not leaving without Alfred.” He stomped his foot to emphasize this point.
Thomas pressed his lips together into a thin line of not-grinning.
Martha pointed at the door. “Back to your room,” she ordered. “Dress properly, this time.”
“Mooom,” Bruce protested, putting his hands protectively on his hat. “I’m wearing it in the old-timey paleontologist way! Not the old-timey archaeologist way!”
“No one can tell that to look at you, darling, you look like a grave-robber with a mild case of syphilis.”
“Go put something on that suggests you know we’re living in a society, so that your father and I can get dressed. Then we’ll all go find Mr. Pennyworth so we can go to the museum together – and we will arrive on time, when it opens and not a moment sooner. Won’t that be lovely?” She smiled, dazzling white, and Bruce knew there was no point arguing.
“Fine,” he said, dragging his feet as he headed for their bedroom door. “But if we get there, and there’s a long line and I don’t get my coin, I’m going to put on a brave face and try not to let it ruin my day because there’s so much cool stuff to see, but it’s still going to ruin my whole day, and you’re going to be able to tell because I’m bad at lying about my feelings, and then you’re going to feel bad and it’s going to ruin everyone’s day.”
“It’s a risk I’m willing to take,” Martha said, because she had a much better sense than her son of exactly how many people were clamoring to get in to the obscure new exhibit on trace fossils.
“You hear that?” Thomas said when Bruce had left, lifting the comforter. “You’ve gone missing.”
“How distressing,” Alfred said, wiggling back out from underneath it. “Do you think you’ll be able to find me in time?”
“Bruce won’t rest until we have,” Martha said, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek.
“No Alfred left behind,” Thomas agreed, kissing the other.
“I suppose I should – I don’t actually need a raise,” Alfred said suddenly. “To be clear, I’m… more than happy.”
“Too late!” Thomas said, ruffling Alfred’s hair in the way he knew annoyed him, leaning over Alfred to rub noses with his wife. “You’re in a new tax bracket now and nothing can stop me.”
