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Lucius has learned to count bruises by candlelight, fingers skipping over the rough edges of papercuts on callused hands, smoothing out the bandages that cover deeper wounds. And, if he has never quite studied the art of avoiding having to ask at all, he has at least learned not to expect an answer.
"A man could suspect you of prowling the Gotham rooftops by night," he says, swirling the whiskey in his glass as he gazes at it with a faint air of suspicion. The Wayne family wine cellar has always been a haven for peculiar tastes. "No one would ever think that a butler was such a dangerous profession."
"We're not all trained to be ninjas," Alfred responds with quiet diplomacy, sitting next to him on a couch that's far too new for the occasion. They're both far too used to the old and familiar, even if the old and familiar had been the antique woods and expensive, well-worn leather of Wayne Manor's original incarnation. Although those in charge of the rebuilding process had been tasked with reclaiming some of that old-world glory, the end result still includes many elements of the modern and the new. Thomas would never have approved. "I noticed you weren't around to help with the heavy lifting."
These little jabs are what pass for familiarity now. Lucius relaxes against deep, chocolatey leather that squeaks a little under his weight. "We have people for that, Alfred."
"Yes, indeed," Alfred parries effortlessly. "I'm one of them."
Lucius smirks around the rim of his glass. "Hm."
"Hm," Alfred repeats, and mirrors the action.
Somewhere, a grandfather clock is ticking with a low, steady accuracy Lucius already suspects of being secretly electronic. He's had too much of a hand in the design of the place not to imagine titanium plates behind every wooden façade, secret doors behind the bookcase, computer displays popping up from a desk drawer.
"Not to disparage your work," Alfred starts, with a tone that implies that disparaging is exactly what he intends to do, "but this place just doesn't smell right anymore. Used to be I could find my way around here blindfold."
Lucius shrugs, although he knows exactly what he means. "The layout is almost exactly the same. And it's a new house. It doesn't have any history yet. No spilled wine on the carpets, no little boys throwing up and pissing in every corner, no mysterious dead things in the larder."
"I'm not sure there even is a larder," Alfred mutters.
"Oh, there is."
Eyebrows perk up. "What have you done to it?"
Lucius chuckles at the note of suspicion. "Nothing. I was just a little hungry earlier…"
"Mm hmm. Well, it's you I'll be calling, Mr. Fox, if I pick up a coffee jar and find myself slap bang in the middle of that cave of his."
"I'll keep that in mind. Another?" Without waiting for an answer, Lucius gets to his feet once more and crosses to the drinks cabinet. "At least these are still of a decent vintage."
Alfred is still working on finishing his first. "You should see the mixers he has stashed away. All these new energy drinks. He still can't tell me what's wrong with a good, old-fashioned cup of coffee."
"The way he behaves at my board meetings, I don't think either would help him." Glass in hand, Lucius perches on the edge of the oak coffee table in front of Alfred, their feet just barely touching.
"I might come to those meetings sometime," Alfred says, handing Lucius his now-empty glass. "He gets more sleep than I do, these days, and I hear you have very comfy chairs."
Lucius sets the glass down carefully and, equally carefully, nudges his knee between Alfred's. "Very."
Alfred's bedroom is precisely where it had been in the old mansion, but the furniture is all new, the dark wooden beams seeming oddly well-polished, and his personal items still all in boxes stacked up by one wall. Alfred locks the door behind them out of habit, although no one can enter the building without them both being alerted, as Lucius digs through the paraphernalia evident in the topmost box.
"I thought this had all been destroyed in the fire," he says, a fingernail tracing the lines of an old silver medal.
Alfred tests the bed, and looks mildly satisfied as he begins to take off his shoes. "Some things were in storage. Master Bruce took it upon himself to replace certain others."
"It's not the same," Lucius murmurs, and he's surprised at himself when he realizes that he's said the words aloud.
"No," Alfred agrees. And then: "Come here."
Over the years, as custodians of the Wayne legacy, and as men, they've never quite understood how to be affectionate with each other. They've never had the time or the space to work out the intricacies, to casually do even as much as hug in public. But here, in the deepest, warmest part of a safe place, they can at least continue to try.
Bruises on wrinkled skin aside, Alfred is as he has always been – solid and whole in Lucius' embrace, with flavors of whiskey and varnish and unfashionable aftershave in his scent. His hand rakes through Lucius' hair, and then Alfred pulls him into a kiss.
Kisses are for pretty girls, Alfred had told him, the first time they'd ever done anything like this. Alfred, the weary soldier, then, who had found release for his desires a hundred times around the world, but never in anything like the intimacy Lucius craved. They kiss now, an act always tinged with a little aggression on Alfred's part, and Lucius attends to the suddenly desperate necessity of undressing them both. Why on earth does a butler's uniform have so many buttons?
The bed is comfortable enough, once they're both under the covers. They'll get used to it eventually, Lucius knows, even if he never sleeps here, even if Alfred barely catches forty winks on the best of days. This is a chance to wear in new grooves, to mark their territory, to carve initials in the walls where no one will ever look…
"I never figured you for a romantic in the beginning," Alfred growls, amused, as Lucius kisses his back, all the way up his spine. "All those machines…"
But Lucius is beyond conversation, sliding home with a moan of deep, deep pleasure as Alfred eagerly raises his hips to meet the thrust.
"Mm," Alfred considers with a smile, bunching up pillows under his head, "I could get used to this."
Lucius, moving still, slips his arms around his lover, and quietly agrees. There's nothing he'd like more.