Chapter Text
Alfred used to tell me stories. Every night since I was ten, he would come upstairs with a candle and some cookies. I'd eat a late-night snack as he put the candle under his face, accentuating all the wrinkles. I used to think he looked like a bulldog. (Don't tell master bruce, he'd always whisper, or he shall come upstairs and steal them from you!) I'd always laugh, even though he told it every night. Then one day, he stopped. I didn't get an explanation or an apology. I couldn't even find the cookie jar.
Then Bruce told me Alfred was sick.
The Joker had gotten to him, sprayed a whole block with Scarecrow's fear gas. I should have been grateful it wasn't the other gas. But I was mostly just mad at Bruce. He kept telling, " Don't worry, it'll all be ok, Alfred's gonna be better tomorrow morning." I shut the door in his face and told him I wish it were me instead.
The next night, cookies were sitting on my windowsill.
The vomits greenish, like the breakfast. and hair. His hair.
It got loud. Jason remembers pulling the rest of the zipper up.
The guy next to him has brown eyes.
The guards took him downstairs.
Maybe to see that lady again.