Please consider: neglected non-Wayne fam member. Alfred is getting older and frailer despite everyone vainly insisting otherwise so additional help has to be employed. Reader as footman, underbutler etc who being basically a stranger is treated with little respect or care that Alfred naturally gets. Like, if only they could find a better-paying job in this economy they'd quit happily. Alas reader can't so they just have to bear with everything including Alfred's criticism whenever their work doesn't meet the nigh-impossible standard. Until one gala at the Manor and the Batfam notices reader interacting with others. Hired waiters, caterers, bodyguards and the often overlooked guests like young children. Planting the seed of yandere jealousy that finally blooms when reader suddenly quits
There’s a hierarchy in Wayne Manor, silent and unspoken.
At the top was Alfred. Always Alfred.
You came in at the bottom. A footman, maybe underbutler if Alfred was feeling generous when introducing you. But no matter the title, your job was to do everything quietly. Efficiently. Perfectly.
You took orders from Alfred, and you took criticism from him too — gentle in tone but sharp in expectation. He was older now. The stiffness in his knees no longer just a temporary ache, his breath not as steady. But no one dared say it aloud.
So you became the pair of hands he could no longer be.
Or rather, they didn’t care to.
They saw what you represented — a stranger. An outsider. A servant. You weren’t Alfred, so you were lesser by default.
Tim passed you in the hallway with eyes glued to his tablet.
Jason barked once for a drink and never said thank you.
Damian barely looked at you unless you were in his way.
Stephanie dropped things she expected you to pick up.
Cass was neutral — silent as always.
Barbara never glanced away from her screen.
Duke offered a stiff nod sometimes.
And Dick? The friendliest, sure, but even his smiles were shallow — politeness, not interest.
No benefits elsewhere matched this one. No city apartment rent would tolerate your meager budget. So, you endured. Worked early, stayed late. Kept your uniform crisp.
Endless, thankless labor.
It was always a nightmare of planning, but it was Alfred’s domain. This year, he leaned heavier on your shoulder than ever before, in the quiet moments behind the pantry door or with the caterer on hold.
“You’ll greet the service at the gate,” Alfred instructed. “Make sure the waitstaff understand the silver stays in the parlor, not the ballroom.”
“Yes, sir,” you answered, already moving.
The day blurred. Security. Floral arrangements. Guest lists. Wine rotations. By the time guests began arriving, your feet ached and your white gloves felt like they were stitched with fire.
But in the bustle, you let your mask slip — just a little.
A child was clinging to her mother’s leg, shy and overwhelmed by the noise. You crouched to her height. “Want to see something cool?” you asked, slipping her a napkin folded into a crane. She beamed.
You helped a nervous waiter carry a tray, your hand steadying hers. You calmed a new caterer who had dropped her list. You laughed once — quietly, gently — with a bodyguard you recognized from previous events.
And in the shadows of the gala, several sets of eyes finally noticed you.
Dick paused mid-conversation, brows furrowing.
Jason frowned from where he leaned against a wall, drink untouched.
Tim’s gaze flicked up from his tablet.
Damian scowled, though he didn’t know why.
You looked…
Comfortable. Warm. Human.
Not the servant shadow that haunted their kitchen.
Not the invisible help who folded their towels and disappeared.
No, others saw you. Others valued you.
Jealousy started then — not the fiery, rage-filled kind. The slow, quiet kind. The type that grows in the cracks of guilt.
They’d never really spoken to you. Never bothered. And yet now, watching how kindly you smiled at others, how easily you offered help — they felt something curl tight in their stomachs.
You belonged here, didn’t you?
Didn’t you?
The next morning, Alfred knocked on your small quarters in the east wing.
Your key was left on the dresser, uniform folded perfectly.
A single note sat on top:
“Thank you. I’ve found something better.”
And just like that, you vanished from the Manor.
“What do you mean, they quit?” Bruce’s voice was low, dangerous.
“I mean exactly that,” Alfred answered, with rare softness in his voice. “They’ve been offered a new position.”
“I don’t believe they wanted you to know,” Alfred said, tone sharp for the first time in years.
Dick stood staring at the empty teacup you used to bring him.
Jason tapped a gloved finger against the marble countertop.
Damian paced. “We could find them,” he muttered. “We have resources.”
“No,” Bruce said flatly. “They’re gone.”
And then, almost spitefully: “You didn’t even know them.”
They noticed the silence in the halls. The towels not folded quite the same. The tea brewed wrong. The way Alfred looked even more tired without you quietly picking up the pieces behind him.
Their house felt colder. Their lives more chaotic.
And worse… someone else had you now.
Someone who saw the worth they never did.
It made their blood boil.
Now, they search in shadows. Not with full force — not yet. But they watch events you might attend. Scan service staff at galas. Monitor hiring records at companies that might need someone like you.
They will not let go again.
Because the moment you became someone else's cherished invisible hand, they realized:
They want you to be theirs.
