Chapter Text
It had been several weeks and, privately, Alfred thought he had settled in somewhat.
There was a thin vein of unease, especially with Pack Head Drake, and yes, most of the others, were still wary with him, but Omega Carter -(- “Michael, please, call me Michael, God, I can't stand-”)- Michael, liked him, as did the Young Carrie was warming up to him.
And of course, it felt good to have Master Damian around.
He hadn't realized how much the young boy grew on him until he left-
…
-Until he came here and took up residence. How much it soothed him to still be able to see this grumpy, yet kind pup wander into his car after school, to still have him seated on the kitchen counter as he prepared supper.
He’s found that he even likes the fact that he's not staying in the main house; rather, his living accommodations are in the mother's-in-law suite that's located across the pool, a one bedroom-and-bath, with a decent kitchenette and modern facilities. He’s found that he doesn't mind the separate place, the short walk to the main house. He's able to appreciate the morning light, or the evening rays as he bids the family adieu for the night.
He has found, or re-found, the slow process of transforming a house into a home, to adjusting to an unfamiliar routine. Sometimes he does miss the Manor, creaks, groans (and being able to be there for-) warts and all. But this new routine is, fine, he's realized. Acceptable. All right.
…He’s not quite sure if he enjoys the “spying” Master Duke Thomas and Young Terry are doing; he's still on the fence if it's all an act, or they're absolutely trying to be covert and merely failing horribly.
But either way, it seems to be going well.
Alfred is actually in the middle of preparing tomorrow's lunches for the young twins and him- really, only just the young twins and himself, but Michael had been pleased about the salad he made a week ago, and the dressing was better after resting a day, so it was no problem, really, to mix that dressing when he was already in the middle of lunch preparation- but he had been in the middle of food preparation when the Omega had strided in with a pile of flyers in his hands.
“Everything okay?”
“I,” Michael starts, beaming at him. “Have just successfully put Rip, Carrie, and Terry down for a nap. They are completely conked out, and by my guestimation, there's at least 20 minutes where neither of us need to worry about small people getting into things or biting things or eating things that should definitely not be eaten.”
“Congratulations,” Alfred finally says, unsure of why the statement- which was, impressive, granted- meant that the Omega had collected a variety of newspapers and flyers as a result of that feat. “Why-”
"We," and the Omega drops the pile of flyers on the table with a resounding thwap. "Are going to be cutting coupons in that duration. Because we need to stock up for Thanksgiving."
Alfred wants to laugh. In fact, he does give out a bemused scoff- except Michael is sitting down and passing over another pair of scissors and oh, lord, the man is serious.
“Look for any specials on O’Lears canned peaches and spiced apple slices," he says, ignoring Alfred's stunned look. “I want to do a peach crisp and I know Jason wants to make his apple crumble. We also need nutmeg, cinnamon, all spice- ah, and both regular and gluten free flour- trying to see if that helps the Twins,” Michael mutters. “Especially cause Carrie seems to have a mild intolerance. Also molasses and white sugar- Terry got into our supplies and now we're out. Of molasses.” There's a pause and then. “And butter, canned corn, and canned green beans.”
“Canned?” And God help him, he cannot control his time- because canned apples? Canned peaches? Next, Michael will be saying to look for coupons on granola bars and beef jerky.
"Also granola bars, but not the weird crumbly ones- no one will eat them or at best, Tim will eat them when he's out in the garage working but leaves crumbs all over and it attracts pests. Also beef jerky- but only with the low sodium and plain, and nothing in weird flavors because if Jack or Tim want to get the weird flavors, they can buy it themselves.”
Oh, my god.
“Granola bars and jerky are not food.” He cannot believe he has to say this. He mind recalls back to his-
To His-
…to his previous employer, and how he’s had to tie up that man once or twice for him to stop slurping protein smoothie and just eat. Alfred looks down at the other man.
Michael looks up.
“Food is food, end of story. There is no such thing as “not real food;” it might be unhealthy food, it might be filled with preservatives to give it a longer shelf life, it might just be food you don't like or can’t eat. But food is food, and we do not shame food in this household, Mr. Pennyworth.”
The words are said calmly, neutrally, but there's an intensity to the Omega’s eyes, an intensity that Alfred's only seen on one other person.
He sits back down, shame flooding his senses.
“I humbly apologize, Omega Drake-”
“Please, just Michael,” the Omega grimaces, the intensity broken. “As much as I love Jack and this family, I’m not a Drake; just Michael, or, I guess Carter, if you need to use a surname.” He taps the table with a pair of scissors. “Chop, chop; The faster we get to it, the faster we get done.”
“We're couponing.” Alfred cannot believe this.
Michael hums, opening a flyer and starting to cut.
Alfred…
Takes the pair of scissors next to his arm, and begins to do the same.
He's never done this. As a pup, he remembers ration coupons; he has vague memories of his Dam and other family members cutting out slips of paper, but he has been too busy herding his younger siblings, or working. As an adult, he was either in the service, with his own set of rations and meal tickets, or with the Waynes, and their generational wealth. He's never really had to take care of couponing- budgeting, yes. Couponing?
No. Not really.
It's calming. Repetitive. Much like polishing silverware but less hard on his joints.
“How’s Damian?” Michael asks, after a while.
“Well,” he puts another coupon into the steadily growing stacks; this one was for canned corn. “He has texted me that he is doing alright in training.”
Michael hums; there's a faint tinge of sadness in the air, and even Alfred misses the older pup dearly. He can guess why Master Dick took Damian for a “Robin trip” and flew the boy to San Francisco (and oh, does it pang his heart, but he can't yet see his other pup, he just- he can't. Not yet.
Not when he knows- he’ll just go back to the same tired motions, if he does.)
Damian had also texted him for a favor; it seems the teachers were hesitant to give him makeup tests, and required permission from an adult, due to the sudden disappearance of him.
Luckily, Alfred was still on the school list, and familiar with the secretary.
“He also said that he misses us.” Not explicitly, but the implication was there; even via a limited emotive response like a short message service, there was an ache in the words; Master Damian had spent more time complaining about the crowded nature of the tower and the “distasteful” way the other teens and adults didn't wear scent patches in the common spaces. Alfred has seen the way the young man usually burrows himself into the Pack scent-soaked nest every single time he could, gladly accepting Scentings and casual touches as a sunflower to light.
It was plain to Alfred that Damian was sorely missing his secret family.
“We miss him too,” and this is said plainly, without force, and Alfred knows which pack will actually help Damian thrive into a wonderful man.
The conversation dies down quickly after that, but it's a companionable silence, filled with the sound of scissors through paper and the rustle of coupon piles. Outside, ever so often a bird chirps.
It's quiet, mundane.
Alfred's surprised how much he appreciates this. How much he missed this, as it reminds him of those halcyon days with a full house of other co-workers and a small Pack, with a quiet, mischievous little pup. A pack that had an Omega Heart of their own.
Which does remind him-
"I'm surprised Jason isn't helping,” he says, after a while of clipping and organizing.
Michael gives him a look. "Jason already took care of the first half of the week's coupon. Plus, he's currently out with Cass and Duke with the van."
"Doesn't he have class today?"
"Classes aren't in today."
"Whatever for?"
"Sale day."
That makes Alfred blink.
Sale day was somewhat of a Gotham tradition- at least, he had never heard of another city having it. A city-wide, 1 day every 3 months, in which every single small business grocer or small grocery chain has everything go on sale at a very hefty mark down.
It somehow benefits- food doesn't go to waste, and it actually draws customers away from the big chain stores, and anything left over will be donated to the main food drives and donation locations- but it's a bloodbath. Police are focused on traffic control, riot, and damage prevention, not even bothering with attempting arrests. The ER gets overrun. Petty crime skyrockets, but not as badly as the assault charges. Alfred remembers looking at a video clip on fateful Sale day, of an old woman effectively stabbing the Second of the Triads in the shoulder with a pair of knitting needles over a frozen duck marked down to 25 cents a pound.
And given that Sale Day has happened so close to Thanksgiving, Alfred is sure that the GCPD and- other associates- will be busy in the aftermath for days after.
"They're at Sale day?” And then it registers who is in the van. “Omega Drake is-”
“More than capable of taking care of himself,” Michael cuts in, tapping his scissors once more. Alfred dutifully- and not guilty, he isn't a young pup- picks up the scissors and begins cutting once more.
“Also Cass and Duke are there with him. I’m just hoping we don't have to do any blood tests because someone decided biting was better than punching.”
“Hail! Hail! The Hunt has ended!” Duke crows as they barge into the kitchen, arms ladened with reusable bags stretched to the brim with groceries. There's blood across his face and several bruises on his face; already one looks to be turning into a spectacular black eye. “Meat and more will be on the table!”
“That's not the proper prayer,” Jason adds wryly, but he's smiling even with the blooming bruise on his cheek and blood splatter across his face. “But you are correct.”
All of them have been in better shape- adding to the image is the fact that Duke seems to be favoring his left leg and singed in some places, a cut on his right eyebrow is starting to congeal, and is almost completely missing his shirt. Jason’s right pant leg is missing, and has blood dripping down his knuckles. and the only thing covering Cass’ modesty is her sports bra and a pair of bike shorts, which is definitely not proper clothing for the dismal November weather. Adding to the look is the fact that Cass has tissue paper shoved up her nose and a nasal splint already on, a black eye herself and blood on her teeth.
Michael clicks his tongue, looking unimpressed at Cass.
“Cass-”
“It's my blood,” she rolls her eyes, “Lucky strike.”
“She got sucker-punched in the face by an old lady’s bag that had a frozen duck and a brick in it,” Duke explains as Jason by-passes them, bloodied hands carrying the rest of the groceries.
“Like I said, lucky strike.”
“You mean amazing,” Duke counters, embellishing his story as they walk back to the kitchen. “Cass was leaning down to grab at 5 pound catfish marked down to like, three dollars, and all of a sudden- Bang!” He pantomimes the bag swinging, much like a player at the bat. “Cass’ head snaps back,” and here the Beta dramatically snaps his head back, his right hand motioning at his face as if water spurting from a fountain as he continues,” “A river of blood flows up into the air like an arc of life, glistening in the fluorescent lights as if a macabre fountain-”
“Stop with the similes,” Omega Drake grumbles, roughly scenting the Beta as the younger man merely grins and lightly shakes off the hand- only after he got a proper scenting, Alfred noticed, as the Omega rolls his eyes. “You also seem to have forgotten about how you got your black eye.”
“Hey I don't hit pups or Omegas, you know this!” the young man complains, high over the resulting giggles, absently letting Young Terry climb up into his arms. “I have my morals!”
“Naive of you, Duke,” and Head Drake walks into the kitchen, the only sign of a long day is the lines on her forehead and under her eyes, and her own bloodied knuckles and bruises- a consequence of going to the city on a Sale Day. “Admirable, your dedication to your morals, but still, very naive.”
“If that's naivete, then I don't want to learn otherwise,” Duke huffs, as Drake passes, and Alfred catches a glimmer of a sad smile before she scoffs, rolling her eyes.
“So which one was it?” Duke huffs at her question, ducking his head and mumbling his response.
“Omega female. Duke was distracted and got sucker punched in the eye. He fell back into a bunch of discounted seltzer water, and someone managed to rip his shirt before we got him back up,” Cass grins. “Also, someone tried to use fire, but I shut that down very fast.” And here her grin turns knife sharp; there's something familiar to Alfred about that grin.
“I was distracted because you got distracted by her!”
“I got distracted because of her fantastic right hook. Which happened after you got punched.” Cass sniffs, gracefully dodging Duke’s swipes as he started chasing her around the kitchen, much to the obvious delight of Young Terry, still clinging onto the Beta.
The mood was light, even injured- no one was skulking, moody, even with a concerned Omega clucking over their bruises, and even the young ones had started playing with Duke and Cass, filling up the air with light hearted growls and laughter. Michael had placed Rip into his walker, and the kitchen was alive.
Alive in the most mundane, yet wonderful way.
Alfred can't help but think of past days, of sullen bodies slipping into the kitchen, lost in thoughts in that Manor. Of the silence.
How strange; the longer he stays here, the more he remembers the gloomy days, than the good.
How much his heart hurts, looking at the way this Pack is so fitted well together.
“Is Jack in his office already?” Head Drake huffs. “I know he was excited about those documents Professor Sandsmark sent, but-”
Michael cocks his head. “Jack went out earlier, he said he was stopping by the office.”
Head Drake scoffs. “On Sale Day? He would have-” she stops. “Jason. Where's Tim?”
Jason looks up from what he was doing. “Wait. He didn't come home with you?”
All come to a dead stop. Alfred is surprised to feel a chill in the air, as Head Drake croaks out, “Are they out there- together?”
“I’m texting them,” Duke is saying as Cass leaps to grab the landline. Everyone is in a flurry of movement, seeming terrified at two reasonable competent men, in Alfred’s opinion, on being outside with each other. From his observation, Jack and Tim get along fine- much better than the strained relations with Damian and his own Sire. To his assumption, there was no reason for the family to be panicking.
“Am I missing something?” Alfred murmurs to Michael, who’s calling on his own phone as Jason darts off to apparently commander some other form of messaging. “Forgive me, but I can't see the issue if Master Jack and Master Tim are late.”
“It's not that, it's that they're alone, together,” Michael mutters, cursing as he’s brought to voicemail again and again. “Tim and Jack have this unnatural charismatic ability, and they're both rather oblivious about it, and both will be hospitable if they find someone interesting, which means-
The doorbell rings.
Everyone groans. Even Head Drake, who presses a hand over her eyes before dragging it down her face.
“Not it,” chorused Cass and Duke together, and Head Drake rolls her eyes again as the two started arguing.
“I’ll go ahead, Head Drake,” Alfred says as he passes her. It's a relatively quick trot to the front door, and unlike the historic, imposing double front doors of the Manor, the front door of the Drake’s where a rather outdated privacy glass block window is on the side of a large oak door, with a stained glass window at the top, a scene of prairie gentian, zinnias, and dahlias intermingling with heliotropes in their array of colors, and casting a rainbow on the floor in the afternoon light.
“My phone got smashed,” is the first statement from Timothy Drake, when Alfred opens the door who’s apparently searching for something in his pockets. “Also, we apparently lost our keys- I know, I know- but- oh.” The young man finally looks up. “Oh. Sorry, I thought.”
“It's still an adjustment for all of us.” Alfred gives him this out. At least this time. “May I ask who are your…colleagues?”
Jack Drake is apparently in intense conversation with a tall, blonde-haired teen girl and shorter brown-haired teen boy, both clad in the semi-familiar grab of superheroes, talking about Mesopotamian literature, from the sound of it. There was another teen boy who looked remarkably like Superman, gazing at Tim’s head before snapping his eyes away with a blush at the question of colleagues.
Next to the boy, is another blonde-haired young woman looking out onto the landscape, albeit more bruised than the other, and obviously not related to the other teen girl as well. For one, this teen girl looks like she's from one of the suburbs of Gotham, whereas if the other isn't a demigod, Alfred will eat his shoe.
Both the blonde and the Superman-like young man are staring at Alfred like he grew another head.
“You didn't say that you had a freakin’ butler,” the Superman-alike hisses, as if Alfred couldn't hear him, which was quite rude.
“It is a recent development,” Alfred says, before glancing over at Jack- still focused on the conversation, and not looking at the door- and saying the magic words, the very phrase that Alfred had found, that can snap Jack back into the present. "Master Jackson.”
It does the trick; they all watch as Jack does a full body cringe, actually rolling his back as if trying to avoid the touch of something unpleasant. “Oh God, not that,” Jack shudders. “It's Jack, good god-”
“Good Afternoon, Jack,” Alfred interrupts, nodding his head. Jack swivels his head, blinking as he registers the Beta. “Oh! Alfred. Hello- why are you answering the door?” Alfred blinks back.
“It is customary for a butler to answer the door, usually,” He responds, as he moves out of the way for the others to pass him. However, before they can even start, a loud gasp cuts through the air.
The blonde girl (the not-demigod)’s eyes widen as she looks past him, showing her deep blue, almost violet, irises as she points, shock and offense clear on her face. “You!”
“You!” Master Duke shouts, and Alfred turns to see Duke mirroring her, both adolescents sharing the same sense of outrage on their faces and body languages.
“You.” Is said quieter, but Miss Cassandra is leaning behind Duke, and while shock is definitely there, the shine in her eyes is far from outrage.
“Me,” the Superman clone says.
“Jenga!” That was shouted from the brunet, who included jazz hands in his shout, effectively dissipating the rising tension.
There's a moment of silence, bar the sound of the evening crickets.
There's the sound of heels on the floor, a sound that is becoming familiar to Alfred, a new sound in a new routine.
“Well, then,” Head Drake says, flanking Alfred's left, her tone wry and dry, and as he glances over his shoulder, he can see how the sunlight makes her hair golden as she gazes at the strangers- the caped, adolescent heroes- at her doorstep. She is not shocked. More amused. Or, rather, not amused.
Intrigued.
Janet Drake smirks as she gazes at what Alfred is sure to be a new routine.
"Why don't you come in?”