AN: I haven't posted in so long, I'm jonesing. So even though I prefer to post my fics when they're complete, I'll make an exception for this one because I've been working on it forever and I still haven't got anywhere. These are a collection of snapshots from Alfred's perspective, regarding his role his role in Bruce's life. I intended 9 installments which I still hope to write but for now, enjoy these.

Btw, I own nothing (as if you didn't know)

Fly on the wall

He was a father, a mentor, a friend, a helper but he was just grateful to be a witness.

Chapter 1: Mocking Bird

"So, ah, Alfred, apart from three years at Lord Cecil's, you don't seem to have much experience."

I squirmed, carefully balancing the cup of coffee on my lap. What could I say? I had only joined Lord Cecil's service so I could earn enough money to travel to America. It had been my dream to perform on Broadway. The West End had become too crowded lately. At the time I hadn't realized it takes more than an English accent to make it as a theatre actor in New York and my money had soon run out. The three years at Lord Cecil's had been the longest of my life. The man was a miserly, demanding old codger. And yet here I was in the same situation, not six months after securing my independence.

Though Thomas Wayne and Cecil Bourne could hardly be called the same sort. For one thing, Mr. Wayne had elected to have this interview in the living room instead of his office or study. And he had offered me a cup of coffee, which though stronger than I was used to, was much appreciated. In fact, he had received me more as a guest than a potential employee. This was not what I had been expecting from the wealthy industrialist.

I cleared my throat, trying to come up with an answer that would not make me appear desperate.

At that very moment, Fortune intervened. A baby's wail pierced the air. Mrs. Wayne, who had been seated beside her husband, stood up and excused herself.

"How old is the lad?" I asked, seizing the opportunity to draw attention away from myself for a time.

Mr. Wayne's countenance positively shone with pride. His thick brown mustache lifted in a smile.

"Almost six months," he replied with a sparkle in his eye. Mr. and Mrs. Wayne's lack of offspring had been gossip fodder for years in Gotham. Apparently, though it was never confirmed, Mrs. Wayne had suffered more than one miscarriage. Others speculated that the fault lay with her husband. Opportunists were quick to try and cash in on the lack of an heir. Finally, at age 35, Martha Wayne had given birth to the couple's first child. The naysayers were silenced, albeit temporarily, and the birth of the boy had elicited as much excitement as that of a prince. Which makes sense as the Waynes were as close to American royalty as anyone.

"What's his name?" I prodded.

"Bruce William Wayne," he answered.

"That's a fine name," I confirmed.

"Bruce was my wife's father's name," he informed me. "William was mine."

"Ah," I nodded. I took a sip of my coffee. It was lukewarm and not so pleasant.

"Thomas," his wife's voice floated in. There was some strain in her voice, though her appearance was immaculate. Her reddish-brown hair was perfectly coiffed and her clothes had not a single wrinkle in them. Her face did not betray her age and I guessed that she had not changed much since her early twenties. She was cradling her son, who was still crying, bouncing him up and down and making soothing noises but to no avail.

Mr. Wayne turned his full attention to his wife. Excusing himself quickly, he loped to the doorway where his wife was standing.

I did not mean to eavesdrop but to be heard above the wailing infant, they had been forced to speak in more than a whisper. She had fed him, she said, and he was dry, but she couldn't get him to stop crying. Thomas took the boy and held him close, rubbing his back, but still the crying would not abate. Mrs. Wayne wrapped her arms around herself, watching them worriedly. Was he sick? she asked him. Maybe they needed to call the doctor.

I don't know why I did what I did next, but I found myself approaching the harried-looking young couple. Mrs. Wayne had taken the boy back and I went to her.

"May I?" I said, holding out my arms.

Mrs. Wayne glanced at her husband, who seemed rather surprised but nodded tightly. She handed me the infant hesitantly. I made my own movements deliberately slow, as one might move to avoid spooking a deer. She finally placed the baby boy in my arms. I was almost surprised that such tiny lungs were responsible for such a terrifying sound. I held him close to my chest, and began to sing.

His parents were watching me closely, ready to snatch the boy away if I even flinched the wrong way. It was understandable, though. I was a stranger to them and he was their first child, one they had waited for for so long. I continued to sing and gradually the baby's cries began to die down.

I stole a glance at the Waynes. Their eyebrows had shot up to their hairlines. It was so comical I had to turn back to the boy to hide my smile. A few moments later, I handed the calmed infant back to his disbelieving mother, who looked liable to drop him in her shock. Luckily she didn't.

The couple still hadn't blinked, their nonplussed gazes fixed on me.

I shrugged. "My mother used to sing that song to my younger brother," I said by way of explanation. "I thought it might work."

They traded a look then without warning, Mr. Wayne let out a bark of laughter. I was so startled I nearly jumped. He clapped me on the back.

"Well, I guess that settles it, Alfred," he grinned cheerfully, offering me his hand. "You're hired."