Disclaimer: DC owns the characters. I borrow them. They make money off the characters. I spend money to read about them. They don't sue me. I am grateful. Clear?

A/N: Thanks to Kathy and Starbatz for the beta!

A Return to Mirth

Alfred shakes his head as he carries the dinner trays out of the cave. He never thought he'd hear that sound again in this house. Not after twenty years absence. He can still recall the last time, albeit dimly. He would have paid closer attention, had he but known.

The elderly gentleman grimaces at his own sentimentality. One should, of course, cherish every day, every hour, every waking moment, for one can never realise the significance of an occurrence until long after the fact.

He should know. There was a time when Master Bruce would rehash that fateful day with him in excruciating detail from beginning to end. His father had seen the film advertised in the morning paper. He had suggested making a family outing of it, the "perfect opportunity to introduce Bruce to one of the great classic swashbucklers of the silent era." Six years after the fact, Alfred marvelled, Master Bruce had remembered his father's precise turn of phrase. Young Master Bruce had passed the rest of the day in gleeful anticipation, laughing as he dashed about out-of-doors, duelling with fence posts, saplings… not even Martha Wayne's prized rosebushes had been spared the miniature Zorro's onslaughts.

Alfred can well recall the lad's whoop of joy when he'd burst into to the kitchen to exclaim "Mother's going to wear the pearls Father and I gave her for her birthday! The ones I picked!"

He can recall it, because that had been the last day that Young Master Bruce had burst into the kitchen like a pint-sized tornado. That had been the last day that childish laughter had rung through the halls and gardens of Wayne Manor. After that day, or more precisely, after that evening, there had been no more merriment, no more joy, only the occasional fleeting smile, tinged, more often than not, with bitterness.

The last… until now.

Six weeks ago, Master Bruce had returned home early from a night at the circus. He had returned in his other attire, but he had rung the front doorbell. He'd had one arm and a fold of his cape wrapped around the shoulders of a shaking—and shaken—eight-year-old boy. "Alfred Pennyworth," came a gentler voice than Alfred had ever heard emanate from beneath the cowl, "this is Dick. He's going to be staying with you for awhile. I'm sure that Bruce Wayne will explain things to you properly upon his return. For now, though, the boy needs—"

"A good mattress," Alfred had found himself interrupting. Dick had been practically tottering on his feet.

"Come along, lad," he'd beckoned. He'd noted, with no small astonishment, that Dick had looked up at Batman first, seeking reassurance. He'd been all the more stunned when the vigilante had nodded encouragement.

"Go on. It'll be al—" The boy, Dick, had flinched then and Batman had caught himself. "No. It won't be. But it will be… better. Go on."

A short time later, after Dick had fallen into exhausted slumber, Master Bruce had explained to Alfred what had happened earlier at the circus. "I'll be calling Rae in the morning to find out what's involved in acquiring custody," he'd finished wearily. "I just… the look in his eyes. I couldn't see him going into some foster home somewhere. I had to…" He'd let his voice trail off.

"I quite understand, sir," Alfred had replied. "I'll assist you in any way I can, of course."

It had taken three weeks for Master Bruce to let Dick into the cave. One week more to agree to augment the boy's acrobatic skills with lessons in combat, stealth, and evidence gathering. And now, two weeks later, Alfred had descended into the cave to find the two engaged in a spar. And from the training area, he had heard a sound that had not been heard within these walls in two decades.

Twenty years later, a child was laughing. And so was the man.