(no subject)

[bossymarmalade]

Despite it being the first time, Alfred was not, in fact, surprised to find Ramsey where he was—half buried under a large book in the large armchair in the library—but he was a.. bit taken aback at the tome the boy had chosen and was thumbing through: The Art of Making Bread.

He chuckled, a low dry sound, and moved over into sight with the tray he carried: tea, biscuits, and a small platter of apples, the remainders from that year’s haul. The butler set it down, on a small table near Ramsey, and scanned for Lian. Hiding in the stacks, more than likely. He proceeded to cut one of the apples, then another, as he stood next to the boy, and nearly chortled as he spoke next.

"Sating your appetite for knowledge, young Master Robinson?"

Ramsey stuck his entire hand between the entries on “challah” and “chapati,” marking the page and smiling up at the older man. The smell of the apples as Alfred cut them was tangy and sharp, and for some reason Ramsey’s mind went straight back to that awful place with bungalows and monsters who took mothers in the middle of the night. Unconsciously, his fingers on his free hand rubbed at the spot where his moon-scar had once been. The bread book had been no coincidence either—it had elicited the same memories.

"Mr. Bruce let me help him coo—bake bread over the summer," he responded helpfully, spreading the book out on the ottoman in front of him—a footrest to a man, a table to a child—-and flipped the pages until the loaves of bread Bruce had baked and he had delivered came into sight. "I saw this too…" he began again, flipping more pages until he found the thing he was looking for. Ramsey hoisted the book up, entirely too bulky in his tiny hands, and squinted at the page, reading in his best fourth grade voice.



“‘All sorrows are less with bread,’ by Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra.” There was an undeniable lilt there, between the Canadian English-speaking Ramsey whose vowels were tightened and the Ramsey who instinctively recognized and delivered Hispanic names in his mother’s accent.

Ramsey contemplated this quote for a moment, as he had been doing periodically over the hour or so he had been reading the book, then looked back up at Alfred. ”Do you think Mr. Bruce is okay, Mr. Pennyworth?”

Alfred continued to arrange the apples and tea on the tray, setting only one place as he remembered that Lian was out with Young Master Queen for that afternoon, picking up a saddle and tack for the young lady to store in the stables. The Englishman smiled at the idea of it—children in the Manor, no matter what source, was a delight and a refreshment for his very soul— and attempted to leave the expression upon his face as Ramsey spoke.

He did not take a seat—it wouldn’t be proper—but instead moved closer to the boy, looking at the quote when he reads it. Alfred was silent for a long moment, before taking a deep inhale.

"I believe Master Wayne is.." He paused, tutted under his breath before shaking his head. "Truth be told, Master Robinson, I believe Master Wayne is, more than likely, missing everyone." Alfred arched his eyebrows, a wry smile painting itself across his face.

"Even if he doesn’t know how to admit it."

He moved and poured the boy his tea.

"Would you care for some sugar, lad?"

Ramsey nodded his head, watching Alfred drop two small cubes of sugar into the teacup. The way he did it without a single splash or spill was an never-ending source of amazement to the two children, who spent half their time at the Manor just watching Alfred do things. Pour tea while dusting a vase; make a pâté while monitoring Ollie’s patrol reports; conduct testing on various suit prototypes while telling them all about the history of the Manor.

"Missing people is hard," he said finally, when the teacup was close enough for him to take in two hands and blow repeatedly on. "But I’m more scared about the bad guys. You can’t fight them with bread." Ramsey wasn’t even certain you could fight emotions with bread, either, but the analogy sounded particularly smart to his own ears, especially when compared with the warm feeling he still felt when he thought about Bruce portioning off and having him deliver those warm loaves to everyone in the Cachement camp.

He put the cup back down on the saucer after he had taken a long sip—something warm and simple, although his child-tongue couldn’t tell what it was—and picked up a slice of apple. Ramsey took a bite, and, sure enough, it brought back bad memory after bad memory, even if the apple in Cachement had made him so happy. He put the uneaten portion back onto the saucer, taking the tea back up again to get the taste out of his mouth.

Finally, his little mind-cogs still whirring, Ramsey muttered: “Mr. Bruce being in jail isn’t why we’re here, is it?”

Now, Alfred stilled. His expression didn’t grow harsh or untoward, but his eyes grew sad when he noticed the distaste the boy regarded the apples with. He makes a mental note not to cut them up again, but instead of busying himself with finding another snack for the young man, he tilts his head and looks down at Ramsey.

The question, paired with the sight of the boy—shrunken in the massive arm chair, the padding worn out at the arms, the back by someone two hundred pounds heavier, several feet taller—causes the older gentlemen to wait, and make sure that his answer is appropriate. He stares at a moment, at what Ramsey is wearing—shorts and a two shirts; Alfred kept the manor toasty, nowadays, no matter the temperature outside—and wondered, briefly, if he had kept any of Bruce’s old school jumpers and uniforms.

"No, young sir." he admitted, finally, shaking his head. "It is not the only reason. But you’re safer here than you would be where your mother and step-father can’t reach you as easily, Master Robinson."

Ramsey sat there quietly for a moment, before finally nodding his head. ”Okay,” he began, flipping to the next page quietly.

It was clear that Ramsey didn’t quite understand, and that Alfred’s words had made him more fearful, but the little boy made a brave show of looking tough as he looked at the history and ingredients for the next bread.

"I’ll make Mr. Bruce some bread, then, for when he comes home."

He moved slowly, settling his hand against Ramsey’s shoulder, and squeezed it tightly, about to answer him. However, in the next instant, his pocket vibrated, neatly, and Alfred retracted his touch to remove his phone from his pocket, reading the screen.

I’m out.

Exhaling once, and straightening, Alfred sent off four messages, in rapid succession: one to Dick, Oliver, Kate, and lastly, Bruce’s stand-in chauffeur for Wayne Enterprises functions. He was in the city. He was closer.

"It seems that that will be our task for the afternoon, Master Robinson." Alfred warmed his expression, and turned to look down the hall. "I’ll begin to prepare the kitchen; Master Bruce has been released."

It was difficult, for once, to keep the emotion from his voice, but it didn’t matter.

"Finish your tea, lad. We’ve got work to do."