Alfred Pennyworth had survived wars, raised one billionaire vigilante, and outlived more Wayne family secrets than there were gargoyles on the manor roof.
What he had not survived particularly well was being old.
His knees ached. His back complained. And while he would never admit it out loud, the manor was… large. Very large. Too large for one dignified but increasingly creaky butler to handle alone.
So Alfred did the unthinkable.
Danny Fenton arrived at Wayne Manor with a single duffel bag, a résumé that was mostly lies by omission, and the deeply ingrained habit of watching corners, shadows, and ceilings.
Runaway from Amity Park. Former hero. Current nobody.
Alfred took one look at the thin, tired teenager with old eyes and zero questions and said, calmly,
“You’ll do.”
Danny blinked. “You… don’t wanna know why I’m here?”
Alfred smiled pleasantly. “Master Wayne’s charitable foundation has a standing policy of not asking questions that invite complicated answers.”
Danny nodded immediately. “Cool. I love that policy.”
Carrying boxes that definitely did not contain grappling guns
And, occasionally, standing very still and pretending he could not hear screaming from the cave beneath the manor
Alfred was very clear on one rule.
“If you see something you shouldn’t,” he said while polishing silverware that definitely had batarang-shaped nicks in it, “no, you didn’t.”
Danny gave him a two-finger salute. “Sir, I am a professional at not seeing things.”
He didn’t see the armored boots vanishing down a hidden staircase.
He didn’t hear the computer whirring under the grandfather clock.
He absolutely did not notice the cave full of military-grade equipment under the house.
Danny kept his head down. Alfred got his help.
Everyone except the Wayne kids.
Danny turned from the pantry to find a boy with dark hair and suspicious eyes staring at him like he was a puzzle missing pieces.
“Uh. Danny. I work here.”
The boy—Tim, as Alfred later introduced him—tilted his head. “Why?”
That was the first red flag.
Down hallways.
Around corners.
Once, Danny turned around and Jason was just there, leaning against a wall like a haunted leather jacket.
“You’re not normal,” Jason said.
“And you flinch like someone who’s been shot.”
Danny smiled thinly. “I’m clumsy and its Gotham.”
Danny would look up from dusting a shelf and find Tim staring from the top of the stairs, notebook in hand.
Sometimes Tim wasn’t even there physically—but Danny could feel eyes.
Which was deeply unsettling when you were half-ghost.
Damian, at least, was honest.
“You are hiding something,” the youngest Wayne said flatly while Danny carried a box of decorations. “I will discover what it is.”
Danny sighed. “Kid, if you do, please keep it to yourself. I’m tired.”
Damian narrowed his eyes. “Suspicious.”
They asked what errands he ran.
Why he knew the house so well.
Why Alfred trusted him.
Why he was calm when alarms went off.
Why he wasn’t scared.
Danny snapped when he turned a corner and found all four of them standing there. Dick had shown up at somepoint and joined in.
Like a tiny, highly trained interrogation squad.
“Okay,” Danny said, voice tight. “Nope. I’m done.”
That evening, Danny knocked on Alfred’s door.
“Come in,” Alfred called.
Danny stepped inside, arms crossed, jaw clenched. “Sir. Respectfully. Please. Control your grandchildren.”
Alfred didn’t look up from his paperwork. “They’re bothering you.”
“Yes,” Danny said immediately. “Constantly. They follow me. They stare. One of them took notes. I think another tried to profile me. and Im almost positive one of them tried to take my DNA.”
Alfred hummed. “That would be Master Tim.”
“I just wanna do my job,” Danny continued, “without the added trauma. I don’t ask questions. I don’t snoop. I don’t care what’s under the house or why half the furniture is reinforced. But if they keep treating me like a mystery, I’m gonna lose it. And trust me, that won't end up being a good time for anyone.”
Alfred finally looked up.
There was something sharp behind his eyes now.
“I hired you,” he said gently, “because you know when not to look.”
“I will speak to them,” Alfred said. “You have my word.”
Danny exhaled, relief flooding him. “Thank you. Really.”
As he turned to leave, Alfred added, almost fondly,
“And Danny?”
“You’re doing very well here.”
Danny smiled, small and tired. “That means a lot, sir.”
The next day, the Wayne kids stopped following him.
They still watched, sometimes.
Alfred, meanwhile, moved through the manor with lighter steps.
And Danny Fenton—runaway, former hero, professional not-seer of secrets—kept the house running smoothly.
Which, Alfred thought, was exactly what the family needed.
Even if they didn’t know it yet.
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