Chapter Text
It was 7:24am on Christmas morning when the doorbell rang through the first floor of the manor, an alert popping up on Alfred’s phone as he prepared Christmas breakfast in the kitchen. There had been an alert earlier that a last minute gift was arriving directly at the manor, and he was not in the habit of leaving packages on the porch, so he ceased in mixing the waffle batter, turned, checked the timer on the bacon crisping up in the oven, and made his way through the winding halls of the manor to the front door.
When he opened the door, however, there was not a package. At least, not in the typical sense, not in the slightest.
No, there was a child on the porch, bundled up against the cold, backpack hiked up on their shoulders, of indeterminate gender, as their hair was wrapped up in a beanie. Perhaps thirteen years old, a late puberty, perhaps? Their nose was bright red from the cold, and they blinked up at him with wide icy blue eyes, seemingly vacant in their stare. There was a bit of clear snot threatening to run, and he stared down at this child.
Their brows were fair, a shade of interesting red, a kind of red he did not see often, more orange than anything else. The same color of lashes, and a frankly stunning smattering of freckles all across their face. A few wisps of red hair had escaped their beanie, pulled down over their ears, and he slowly tilted his head.
“Hello,” he said politely. “May I help you?”
“Hi,” the child said, with a bright smile. Bright, airy, not all there. “Is this the Wayne manor?”
“Yes, it is,” he confirmed, and they nodded, seemingly satisfied with that.
“I am Jell McCormick,” they said, thrusting out a hand to shake. Alfred shook it, taking in how bitterly cold it was. “And my mom said I needed to come here when she died to ask for a paternity test, because she wanted to give my uncle a bit of trouble for taking custody. Can we do that? Sorry for ruining Christmas.”
McCormick, Alfred thought. He stared down blankly at this surprise child, and then cleared his throat.
“A paternity test for...?” he asked, though he, unfortunately, had an idea.
“Oh! Me and Bruce Wayne,” the child said.
There was a rather infamous family that once haunted the halls of Wayne galas. The redheaded McCormick family, typically interned in San Diego. If he recalled correctly, there was only one son, and the parents were dead. He had a younger sister, but... Had she been in poor health? She preferred to stay entirely out of the limelight. A professor of some humanities studies, perhaps?
“I think you had best come inside, Jell,” he said, not unkindly, and stepped aside. Oh, he was going to be waking Bruce up immediately. But... the child shouldn’t be left alone, he thought. Who was up at this early hour that could wake him? “How did you come here, Miss... Jell?”
“Oh, no miss, or mister, please,” Jell said airily as they swept inside, and wiped their nose carefully with a package of dangerously low Kleenexes. The dirty Kleenex was tucked away in their pocket. “Just Jell! Mom went onto all that trouble getting my name changed and all before she died, and got me on puberty blockers when I asked. Seems a shame to waste it, you know?”
Ah, so they was the correct assumption, Alfred thought as he closed the door with a click, blocking the chill from the winter air.
“Alright, Jell,” he agreed, and they nodded, rather firmly, at that.
“Uncle Max wants to take it out,” they complained, and ah, Alfred knew what was going on here. “Mom didn’t have a godparent for me, nothing like that, and thought Bruce oughta have a chance. Thought he might be a better than ole Max. Mom says we shouldn’t trust his computer.”
Alarm spiked, and Alfred blinked down at them, looking for a tell that they knew what that meant, they were seemingly a preteen, surely they did, but their face was... startlingly blank. They walked in a sort of airy manner, like they could scarcely be bothered to touch the ground. Looking around in a way that was so unlike the children Alfred was used to, categorizing not a single thing, their eyes seeming to look, but not take anything in.
Max.
Maxwell McCormick. Alfred was most certainly thinking of the correct family.
Tim may not have gone to sleep yet. Alfred pulled out his phone and sent him a quick text.
Alfred: If you are awake, please wake up Bruce and inform him I request his presence in the kitchen. Rudely, if you would. Perhaps throwing open the curtains and removing his blanket, though I would not be opposed to ice water.
Was he annoyed? Very. Extremely so.
But, Jell was the priority here, because those were most certainly Wayne eyes. The McCormicks tended to have startlingly green eyes.
Tim: I’m up. What’s going on?
Alfred: We have a guest.
He left it at that, and cleared his throat as he looked down at Jell.
“Would you like to accompany me to the kitchen?” he asked politely. “Master Bruce will be up in a moment.”
“Oh, sure,” Jell said, and he took in the fact that they were still shivering.
“May I inquire as to how you... came here?” he asked, as diplomatically as possible as they made their way through the manor towards the kitchen. Some hot cocoa was in order.
“Oh,” they said and blinked. “A few Greyhounds? Mom gave me an emergency fund, but it was only enough to get me here...”
This child... did not seem capable of taking multiple Greyhounds across the country unscathed. Perhaps the McCormick daughter did not live far away?
“From where?” he pressed, and they blinked up at him as they finally reached the kitchen.
“San Diego?” they said, and he paused.
A California coast city all the way to a New Jersey coast city. Surely not. On a few Greyhounds? Unaccompanied? Having lived in a rich family like the McCormicks, which did not inspire confidence in the street smarts they seemingly had, if they had done so successfully.
“By yourself?” he asked, and turned to the fridge. “Also, do you have a preference in kinds of milk? I think some hot cocoa is in order.”
“Oat, please!” they chimed, and ah, yes, certainly from California. “And yeah. I mean, I’m technically a runaway, I guess, even if Mom told me to. Wouldn’t make much sense if I ran with someone else, no?”
“Did your mother tell you to take the Greyhounds?” he asked, subtly prying for information, and Jell crinkled up their nose as he removed the oat milk from the fridge.
“No? Why would she need to do that?” they asked, and that implied that they came to that conclusion on their own. Alfred glanced back at them, taking in that utterly vacant face that practically oozed naivete from its pores. Of course, the natural conclusion would be to take a Greyhound, if you were running. Getting on a plane as an unaccompanied minor wasn’t necessarily impossible, but they were the first to receive an Amber alert. Had the child accounted for that?
... Hm, Alfred thought to himself as he got out a medium sized pot, knowing if anyone else woke up, they would likely want some as well. No one complained when it was made with oat milk rather than dairy, and this carton was mostly full.
... He was going to look forward to seeing this child throw off the entire family. He wondered how long it would take them all to figure out.
“Oh, if you’re making it from scratch, can you do nutmeg and cinnamon?” they asked, rather eagerly. “No cloves, I don’t like clove.”
Alfred blinked, also not expecting that, and looked back at them.
“Is that how you prefer your hot chocolate?” he asked, and they tilted their head.
“Yeah,” they said. “But only if you’re making it scratch. Longer boil time, more time for the spices to get infused. If you’re just using a Keurig or something, the spices don’t get in the hot chocolate, just float on the top. Like a bad cowboy coffee.”
“Do you like cooking?” Alfred asked, almost anxious, before he gathered himself. He had not had a child in the house since Jason that liked to cook. Damian had learned some in recent months, but Jason was the only one that threw himself into the lessons.
“Yeah,” they said dreamily, a vacant, doll like, yes, they were rather doll like, smile on their face. “I love cooking. Mom and I used to cook all the time before she got sick, and then I started cooking for her to help.”
Alfred’s heart clenched, and he poured the oat milk in the pot, emptying the caron.
“How long...?” he asked despite himself, and then he internally reprimanded himself. He was so good at not toeing difficult topics. Something about Jell made your guard drop. Dangerous.
“Oh, she was sick for a couple years, don’t worry,” Jell said. “The cancer would go away, then come back worse, then leave again, then would come back even worse, and, uh. Well. I was ready for it. It was a bit like—”
They cut themself off, and Alfred knew what they were about to say.
A relief.
Not to be relieved from your caretaking duties, but to know someone you loved wouldn’t be suffering any longer for no reason. He glanced back at them, and there, a flicker of emotion on that face. Eyes a bit misty, but they blinked it back, and it was gone.
“When did you leave?” he asked softly, dreading the answer.
“Oh, as soon as she sent me off,” they said, and smiled. Again. Doll like. Dreamy, ethereal, and Alfred worried he might have let a fairy into his manor on accident. “We were lucky, you know! Uncle Max didn’t show up, so I was all ready, and could just go. Mom was happy about that.”
Her funeral might have already taken place, then, Alfred thought as something like pain clenched his old heart. They said nothing about missing it, but he wondered if they were in pain about it. It did take quite some time to get here by Greyhound. At least a few days with a straight shot, and they said Greyhounds, plural, so they probably... Ah. They took a few of them to shake their scent. Clever little thing. Maybe even a week, if that was the case. Typically, for a normal middle class family, funerals took time. Life insurance payouts, if they were lucky, could partially or totally cover it, which took a while. If they weren’t lucky... Well. Savings, perhaps. Or, nothing.
That was not a problem for a family like the McCormicks. If they waived the autopsy or investigation into the death, which was very, very unlikely that it was even necessary, if she had been sick so long and was possibly on hospice care, they could have it done in a week. They might try for longer, to make sure everyone that needed to come would come, but... It was likely a more private affair. A much more private affair. It sounded like their mother did not get along with her brother, and she lived out of the limelight, uninvolved in the various family businesses. So, not many people that needed to show their face.
“Well,” he said, and smiled at them. “Paternity test or not, you shouldn’t be spending Christmas alone. Would you like to join us for breakfast?”
“... Okay!” they said, and smiled at him. This one seemed a little more... alive, he supposed. “I’m hungry.”
“Well, I’ll be sure to put on a spread,” he assured them. “Do you have any dietary restrictions?”
“Nope!” they said cheerfully, and then paused and squinted at him. “... I prefer ethically sourced, real ethical sourcing, and local, if possible.”
... Ah. He had no idea how Damian was going to react to no longer being the youngest, but he had high hopes they would wriggle their way under his defenses. Though, he may object to their name.
“The second youngest, Damian, is quite sincere about such topics, do not worry,” he said, and started getting the hot chocolate together, with the nutmeg and cinnamon sticks on standby. “We are very clear about such things in our kitchen.”
Well. The manor was going to be quite entertaining for a bit. He was going to be having fun with Jell around.