#IVE DRAGGED IT ON LONG ENOUGJ

[cowboy-kidd]

complicit // a regressor bruce wayne & caregiver alfred pennyworth drabble (pt. 4)

x - x - x

—DNI NSFW—

The bags are heavy when they fall into the well worn crannies of his fingers. He doesn’t ask Bruce for help, the boy is asleep and Alfred would appreciate it if it stayed that way. (He is hit with an overwhelming sensation of deja vu that digs into his chest like that of a prairie dog. There is the premonition that this deja vu will continue long into the night.)

The rain caresses the awning of the house loudly, the lightning painting its way across the world in a bright flash of cool white light. When the front door is shut behind him and he manages to shed his plethora of layers- there is the shadow of his young charge down the hall that quickly disappears. The pitter patter of bare feet has him sighing out into the open. The house is cold, the floor is even colder. Bruce will, without a doubt, be sick by tomorrow. Still, he grabs the paper bags by their strained handles and moves towards the kitchen, he’s got a job to do.

As expected, the boy is nowhere in sight by the time he makes it to his actual destination. He sets the paper bags down with a huff and wipes imaginary dust off of his slacks. His eyes drag from the window held above the kitchen sink to the apron. It is hung on the pantry door. A soft off-white, colorful mismatch patchings neatly sewed into the fabric from accidents many years before, a weary embroidery of soft purple and black flowers making a home at the hip of it.

Has it really been that long? Had Martha and Thomas been gone for that long? The apron was by no means recent, but the jelly stain from when they were still alive is much less prominent than before. The marmalade markings (soft chubby fingers grabbing onto the fabric surface only to slip off because of their messiness. To have the material soak up into its fibers the tartness of a fresh batch.) had all but gone.

His hands are shaking again, breath caught in his throat. Still he reaches out for it, still he slips it over his head and grabs the thin strings, expertly tying them into a nice knot against his back. He cannot make out the past from the present. The laughter from the quiet. The boiling pot that he puts upon the hot burner- that this very apron had been scorched by. Unsure if he’s been burned or not, he grabs two ice cubes and places them on his open palms, watches as the cold burns and melts his skin. The kitchen is no place to lose himself.

When the apron doesn’t feel as heavy as the present and said present isn’t enmeshed with the past he makes way for the binky and bottles he’s bought. He remembers very well how to sanitize them and carefully drops them into the boiling hot water. They fall into the liquid with a soft plop sound. He stares into the wildly moving water, the steam pressing into his nose.

And then the oven beeps and he’s folding the rest of the paper bags down and stuffing them into their designated cabinet. The cookies come out as they always do, the familiar scent coaxing out more warm, painful memories. He frowns, rethinking his choices. But the memory of Martha makes a vicarious reemergence—Her smile sharp and kind whenever she talked about her baby—and Alfred is quickly pouring sweetened milk into a sippy cup and plating four cookies onto a sectioned dish.

His loafers come onto the carpeted hallway with a muffled shuffle. He gets to his charges’ room quicker than expected and hesitates. The day is gloomy and the lights have long gone unused so no shadows can be seen under doorways. Alfred still feels exposed. Left out in the open to fend for himself—in a way, that is exactly what has happened.

Nonetheless he places the cookies, sippy cup, new coloring books and their accessories on a silver platter beside the door and knocks. Then he pivots and walks away.