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tyndalecode) wrote2008-06-08 09:40 pm
tyndalecode) wrote2008-06-08 09:40 pm
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Title: Betty, the Bat, and the Bird: (Ficlet #2)
Fandom: Batman Begins/Ugly Betty
Characters/Pairing: Betty Suarez, Alfred Pennyworth
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1,776
Summary: Betty and Alfred have a heart to heart.
Notes:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
whattheficathon. That is all :D
• First Arc: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Part 9, part 10, Part 11, Part 12, Part 13, Part14, and Part 15
• Second Arc: Part 1
It was only after Alfred had watched Betty beat the bread dough into a near pulp for ten minutes that he decided perhaps something should be said. The bread wasn't likely to survive any further kneading, if one could really call the pummeling it was receiving that. Gently, as was his way, Alfred reached out and eased the board out from underneath the younger woman's flour covered hands. "You seem frustrated, Miss. Suarez."
"Does it show?" Betty asked, unintentionally blowing a strand of hair away from her face with a sigh. She stumbled just slightly as she reached back to sit on the wooden stool sitting by the island in the middle of the large kitchen. The small seat had been in the room since Bruce's childhood and still gave not even as much as a squeak of protest when Betty finally perched atop it. "Sorry. I hope I didn't ruin the dough."
"Not at all." And to prove as such, he quickly molded the bread into the appropriate shape before laying it down on the tray which would eventually go into the oven. "I believe you're worried about something?"
"Ugh," she groaned. Her head fell forward onto the table and she cradled it in her arms. Her next words were muttered. "It shows."
"Slightly." Sometimes a white lie was necessary when it came to delicately navigating a situation. "Might I ask what's wrong?"
Slowly, Alfred watched Betty's face reappear as she turned to glance at him. "It doesn't bother you? At all?"
"What doesn't bother me, Miss. Suarez?"
She opened her mouth to speak almost instantly, but it seemed words had tried to move faster than her thoughts and she stopped to collect them, biting down on her lower lip. Alfred simply waited patiently and reached for the last bowl of dough to knead.
After a moment his patience as rewarded. "Bother is the wrong word. I'm worried."
"Again, I'm afraid you'll have to be more specific." Alfred pressed the dough down on the wooden board, careful to treat it well before arranging it on the stove-bound tray as well. "Out with it."
"The hearing today. I've got butterflies… the bad kind. I'm just worried." Betty sighed again, shaking her head. She was quiet for another moment, and then, "I just— you know I'd do anything for him, Alfred, but just don't think he can do this! He doesn't have the right to. I mean… it just seems– if it were Justin I'd flip out."
"And yet it's not, and you are anyway." A small smile touched Alfred's lips. He slipped oven mitts on and started towards the stove, trays of raw dough in hand. "'Flipping out' as you say."
"I know it's not Justin. But it's just… weird."
Alfred couldn't say that he altogether disagreed with Betty's sentiments. They were valid. As haltingly expressed as they had been, he still understood the crux of her problem with the entire situation which the residents of Wayne Manor –both temporary and permanent– found themselves in that morning.
"I mean," Betty continued, pushing hair behind her ear. "You know him better than I do, but… is Bruce really the father type?"
He closed the oven and turned the dial. "I do not believe anyone ever truly knows the answer to that question until they're faced with the possibility and opportunity; and people who are 'the type' are not always faced with the opportunity. Have you noticed the difference of late?"
"What do you mean?"
"I'm sure if you think back, you'll note the good humour Master Bruce has kept the past month."
"You mean not walking around glaring all the time? A sixteen year old kid is not a substitute for Prozac."
Betty wouldn't understand immediately, Alfred knew this. Perhaps if she had, one day, been with Bruce for as long as he has, she would be able to read into his decisions without a second thought. But for now, Alfred understood the frustration that tinged her words and halted her speech. It was hard to wrap one's mind around Bruce Wayne's decision. Hundreds of members of the press and paparazzi couldn't figure out his motivation; it was little surprise that Betty was having trouble by herself. Especially when one factored in what she knew.
Alfred suspected it was the extra knowledge Betty had which made it harder for her to understand exactly what Bruce was doing . As Batman, Bruce risked his life night after night, coming home to face the older man in various bruised and broken states, often going to work the next morning only to have his faithful assistant swipe a layer of concealer over his face to hide the black eyes. Together they were a well oiled machine. Alfred knew his place and Betty knew hers. They were old enough to know and understand the risks of what their boss did, and the risk it put them at if his identity was ever discovered.
What did it mean to throw a child into that?
"How long can you lie about black spandex and rubber anyway?"
It was not exactly the way Alfred would have put it himself, but the sentiment was echoed. He didn't doubt Bruce's parenting skills – there was a learning curve with each new parent – but he did wonder exactly what the man planned to do concerning his nightly escapades. They'd been sparse for a few weeks now, after dealing with Anthony Zuco, but Alfred knew Bruce too well to expect the mission to a take a seat to the side for anything. Even a sixteen year old boy who'd just lost his parents. If anything that was fuel to Bruce's fire, for people in his city simply didn't get away with things like that.
Unfortunately, there were some things that couldn't be pushed to the wayside, and parenting was one of them.
There was a hearing today, one which would most certainly go in Bruce's favour as Gotham's favourite son. There would be little to no question as to whether or not he was fit to raise a teenager, and even the incident from last year would be forgotten. After all, how stupid would a person have to be to burn down their ancestral family home twice? No, the judge would simply see what had happened the year before as a fluke. The boy had been living at Wayne Manor for the better part of a month now. The finest laywers money could buy, a personal favour from Harvey Dent, and what Alfred suspected was an already deep forming bond within Bruce has sped things along. Richard Grayson would leave the courtroom a Wayne, of sorts, and Bruce a father.
Alfred quite liked young Master Richard, but he wondered if this was all fair to the boy. It was hard to ask these things while trusting Bruce at the same time, but it was all he could do.
He washed his hands underneath the tap before turning around to glance at Betty again. "Will you be staying in Gotham for the day, or shall I drive you to the station at the appropriate time?"
"No, I'm going home tonight. I only came in to answer the phones this morning, but then Bruce said I should just ignore them… it was all press, and my throat was getting kind of dry saying 'no comment' over and over again. Then, I mean… well, I should go to the press conference after the hearing, I guess, but I don't want to intrude or anything. I haven't even met Richard yet— I mean Dick. See? The girl who doesn't know his name definitely doesn't need to be showing up on the big day." Betty was blushing by the time she finished speaking, looking almost overwhelmed. Alfred couldn't completely blame her; the last month had been hectic, even by Wayne Manor standards.
"I doubt it would be seen as an intrusion, though I understand," he replied. "I'll just put this cake in the oven and bring the car around."
"You can't make me stay with promises of cake," she said with a small smile.
"I'll put aside a piece for the office tomorrow," Alfred winked at her.
Betty's grin widened and Alfred was pleased to see that her disposition improved slightly as he continued to move around the kitchen. It didn't take long from there to scrape the batter he'd made the day before into the silvery coloured cake pan. Later, when it had come out of the oven, he would ice it in chocolate (which Master Richard had shown a love for early on) and then decorate with the appropriate congratulatory lettering once he was absolutely sure that things had gone the right way. Wouldn't do to jump the gun and jinx the process.
Not that Alfred believed in that sort of thing, of course.
It wasn't until he'd shut the oven door that Betty spoke again. "You really think this is going to go well?"
At that, Alfred nodded as he removed various kitchen accoutrements from his person. Oven mits went back to the hook above the counter, apron went on the hook behind the pantry door. Betty hopped down from the wooden stool and followed behind him as he led the way from the kitchen.
"He just usually takes so much time to think about things. A month is sudden for him."
They exited the kitchen together, Betty trailing just slightly behind him. He shortened his strides so that she would be able to more easily keep up. "He had the best of examples, you know."
"What?"
"His father," Alfred said. "Was an incredible man. If Master Bruce is anything like him, then Master Richard is incredibly lucky."
"I should stop worrying, shouldn't I?" she asked him. He watched as she did a thing he doubted she would ever cease to do; stare wide-eyed at the large, opulent main foyer of the manor. He would leave her there for the moment and go around to the garage to bring the car to the front of the drive.
"Perhaps bring it down to a simmer." Before setting foot through the front door, Alfred laid a hand on the young woman's shoulder. "You worry because you care deeply about a man I've looked after for over thirty years now; I certainly don't fault you for that."
It was with one gentle squeeze that Alfred turned from Betty. She did have a train to catch after all, and from the look on her face, it appeared as if she would need some time to think. It was time he was perfectly willing to give.
Fandom: Batman Begins/Ugly Betty
Characters/Pairing: Betty Suarez, Alfred Pennyworth
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1,776
Summary: Betty and Alfred have a heart to heart.
Notes:
whattheficathon. That is all :D• First Arc: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Part 9, part 10, Part 11, Part 12, Part 13, Part14, and Part 15
• Second Arc: Part 1
It was only after Alfred had watched Betty beat the bread dough into a near pulp for ten minutes that he decided perhaps something should be said. The bread wasn't likely to survive any further kneading, if one could really call the pummeling it was receiving that. Gently, as was his way, Alfred reached out and eased the board out from underneath the younger woman's flour covered hands. "You seem frustrated, Miss. Suarez."
"Does it show?" Betty asked, unintentionally blowing a strand of hair away from her face with a sigh. She stumbled just slightly as she reached back to sit on the wooden stool sitting by the island in the middle of the large kitchen. The small seat had been in the room since Bruce's childhood and still gave not even as much as a squeak of protest when Betty finally perched atop it. "Sorry. I hope I didn't ruin the dough."
"Not at all." And to prove as such, he quickly molded the bread into the appropriate shape before laying it down on the tray which would eventually go into the oven. "I believe you're worried about something?"
"Ugh," she groaned. Her head fell forward onto the table and she cradled it in her arms. Her next words were muttered. "It shows."
"Slightly." Sometimes a white lie was necessary when it came to delicately navigating a situation. "Might I ask what's wrong?"
Slowly, Alfred watched Betty's face reappear as she turned to glance at him. "It doesn't bother you? At all?"
"What doesn't bother me, Miss. Suarez?"
She opened her mouth to speak almost instantly, but it seemed words had tried to move faster than her thoughts and she stopped to collect them, biting down on her lower lip. Alfred simply waited patiently and reached for the last bowl of dough to knead.
After a moment his patience as rewarded. "Bother is the wrong word. I'm worried."
"Again, I'm afraid you'll have to be more specific." Alfred pressed the dough down on the wooden board, careful to treat it well before arranging it on the stove-bound tray as well. "Out with it."
"The hearing today. I've got butterflies… the bad kind. I'm just worried." Betty sighed again, shaking her head. She was quiet for another moment, and then, "I just— you know I'd do anything for him, Alfred, but just don't think he can do this! He doesn't have the right to. I mean… it just seems– if it were Justin I'd flip out."
"And yet it's not, and you are anyway." A small smile touched Alfred's lips. He slipped oven mitts on and started towards the stove, trays of raw dough in hand. "'Flipping out' as you say."
"I know it's not Justin. But it's just… weird."
Alfred couldn't say that he altogether disagreed with Betty's sentiments. They were valid. As haltingly expressed as they had been, he still understood the crux of her problem with the entire situation which the residents of Wayne Manor –both temporary and permanent– found themselves in that morning.
"I mean," Betty continued, pushing hair behind her ear. "You know him better than I do, but… is Bruce really the father type?"
He closed the oven and turned the dial. "I do not believe anyone ever truly knows the answer to that question until they're faced with the possibility and opportunity; and people who are 'the type' are not always faced with the opportunity. Have you noticed the difference of late?"
"What do you mean?"
"I'm sure if you think back, you'll note the good humour Master Bruce has kept the past month."
"You mean not walking around glaring all the time? A sixteen year old kid is not a substitute for Prozac."
Betty wouldn't understand immediately, Alfred knew this. Perhaps if she had, one day, been with Bruce for as long as he has, she would be able to read into his decisions without a second thought. But for now, Alfred understood the frustration that tinged her words and halted her speech. It was hard to wrap one's mind around Bruce Wayne's decision. Hundreds of members of the press and paparazzi couldn't figure out his motivation; it was little surprise that Betty was having trouble by herself. Especially when one factored in what she knew.
Alfred suspected it was the extra knowledge Betty had which made it harder for her to understand exactly what Bruce was doing . As Batman, Bruce risked his life night after night, coming home to face the older man in various bruised and broken states, often going to work the next morning only to have his faithful assistant swipe a layer of concealer over his face to hide the black eyes. Together they were a well oiled machine. Alfred knew his place and Betty knew hers. They were old enough to know and understand the risks of what their boss did, and the risk it put them at if his identity was ever discovered.
What did it mean to throw a child into that?
"How long can you lie about black spandex and rubber anyway?"
It was not exactly the way Alfred would have put it himself, but the sentiment was echoed. He didn't doubt Bruce's parenting skills – there was a learning curve with each new parent – but he did wonder exactly what the man planned to do concerning his nightly escapades. They'd been sparse for a few weeks now, after dealing with Anthony Zuco, but Alfred knew Bruce too well to expect the mission to a take a seat to the side for anything. Even a sixteen year old boy who'd just lost his parents. If anything that was fuel to Bruce's fire, for people in his city simply didn't get away with things like that.
Unfortunately, there were some things that couldn't be pushed to the wayside, and parenting was one of them.
There was a hearing today, one which would most certainly go in Bruce's favour as Gotham's favourite son. There would be little to no question as to whether or not he was fit to raise a teenager, and even the incident from last year would be forgotten. After all, how stupid would a person have to be to burn down their ancestral family home twice? No, the judge would simply see what had happened the year before as a fluke. The boy had been living at Wayne Manor for the better part of a month now. The finest laywers money could buy, a personal favour from Harvey Dent, and what Alfred suspected was an already deep forming bond within Bruce has sped things along. Richard Grayson would leave the courtroom a Wayne, of sorts, and Bruce a father.
Alfred quite liked young Master Richard, but he wondered if this was all fair to the boy. It was hard to ask these things while trusting Bruce at the same time, but it was all he could do.
He washed his hands underneath the tap before turning around to glance at Betty again. "Will you be staying in Gotham for the day, or shall I drive you to the station at the appropriate time?"
"No, I'm going home tonight. I only came in to answer the phones this morning, but then Bruce said I should just ignore them… it was all press, and my throat was getting kind of dry saying 'no comment' over and over again. Then, I mean… well, I should go to the press conference after the hearing, I guess, but I don't want to intrude or anything. I haven't even met Richard yet— I mean Dick. See? The girl who doesn't know his name definitely doesn't need to be showing up on the big day." Betty was blushing by the time she finished speaking, looking almost overwhelmed. Alfred couldn't completely blame her; the last month had been hectic, even by Wayne Manor standards.
"I doubt it would be seen as an intrusion, though I understand," he replied. "I'll just put this cake in the oven and bring the car around."
"You can't make me stay with promises of cake," she said with a small smile.
"I'll put aside a piece for the office tomorrow," Alfred winked at her.
Betty's grin widened and Alfred was pleased to see that her disposition improved slightly as he continued to move around the kitchen. It didn't take long from there to scrape the batter he'd made the day before into the silvery coloured cake pan. Later, when it had come out of the oven, he would ice it in chocolate (which Master Richard had shown a love for early on) and then decorate with the appropriate congratulatory lettering once he was absolutely sure that things had gone the right way. Wouldn't do to jump the gun and jinx the process.
Not that Alfred believed in that sort of thing, of course.
It wasn't until he'd shut the oven door that Betty spoke again. "You really think this is going to go well?"
At that, Alfred nodded as he removed various kitchen accoutrements from his person. Oven mits went back to the hook above the counter, apron went on the hook behind the pantry door. Betty hopped down from the wooden stool and followed behind him as he led the way from the kitchen.
"He just usually takes so much time to think about things. A month is sudden for him."
They exited the kitchen together, Betty trailing just slightly behind him. He shortened his strides so that she would be able to more easily keep up. "He had the best of examples, you know."
"What?"
"His father," Alfred said. "Was an incredible man. If Master Bruce is anything like him, then Master Richard is incredibly lucky."
"I should stop worrying, shouldn't I?" she asked him. He watched as she did a thing he doubted she would ever cease to do; stare wide-eyed at the large, opulent main foyer of the manor. He would leave her there for the moment and go around to the garage to bring the car to the front of the drive.
"Perhaps bring it down to a simmer." Before setting foot through the front door, Alfred laid a hand on the young woman's shoulder. "You worry because you care deeply about a man I've looked after for over thirty years now; I certainly don't fault you for that."
It was with one gentle squeeze that Alfred turned from Betty. She did have a train to catch after all, and from the look on her face, it appeared as if she would need some time to think. It was time he was perfectly willing to give.