The Manor had not changed — not truly. The same marble floors gleamed with the same quiet dignity, the same oil portraits of ancestors watched from their gilded frames, the same faint echo followed a footstep through the grand hall. Only one thing was different. The man who strode down the corridor did so with a stride that was far too light, too soundless, for the one who’d once favored a careful, measured pace.

His shoes no longer squeaked from wear. His back no longer ached from decades of bending over Wayne dining tables and patching vigilantes. His reflection in the polished silver tray this morning had nearly startled him — smooth skin, chestnut hair flecked faintly with gray, and sharp blue eyes that no longer sank behind tired lids.

Alfred Pennyworth was young again.

The change had happened days ago, and though Bruce had set the labs to work, no explanation nor antidote had surfaced. It was… inconvenient, yes, but not catastrophic. He still made the tea. He still chastised the boys. He still kept this place in order while their nocturnal habits ensured chaos. If anything, he was moving faster than ever — up ladders, down stairs, fetching things before anyone could offer to help. He’d called it “a temporary improvement to household efficiency.”

Still, the stares persisted. From Dick’s uneasy humor to Damian’s muttered suspicions. Even Bruce had hesitated when Alfred had placed a hand on his shoulder that morning. The young face didn’t match the familiar touch.

But now… oh, now there was no hesitation.

He heard your footsteps before he saw you. The click of your shoes, the rhythm he remembered — lighter, almost eager. You were home. Another one of his strays come back to roost under this creaking roof. He had prepared your favorite tea hours ago, as though muscle memory had guided his hands before his brain had caught up. He’d even ironed the napkins, because of course he had.

You stepped into the foyer, and before he could stop himself, Alfred moved forward, warmth overtaking logic. His arms opened instinctively, voice soft but filled with the kind of joy that rarely broke through his well-trained reserve.

“There you are.”

He gathered you up with surprising strength, arms looping around your shoulders, the scent of cologne and soap still clinging to his sleeves. It wasn’t the fragile, careful embrace of an elderly man; it was firm, grounding, as though he meant to shield you from the world again for just one second.

For him, it felt as it always had — the same affection, the same care, the same steady heart behind it. But for you…

He felt you go still. Just a fraction. The hesitation of someone hugged by a stranger.

Ah.

The air shifted between you, the warmth of the hug now tinged with your confusion. He could feel your pulse quicken slightly against his chest — not fear, no, but that uncertain recognition, the flicker of trying to place a face you should know but don’t.

Alfred froze. The realization settled in like a stone dropped in water. Of course. He’d forgotten, again. Forgotten that the face you expected was lined and soft, that the hands you remembered bore years of scars and patience, not the firm grip of youth.

He eased his hold but didn’t release you fully, one hand remaining against your back as though to steady you both. His gaze softened, a rueful glimmer in his younger eyes.

The house seemed to quiet around the two of you — the ticking clock in the hallway, the distant hum of the grandfather clock in the study. Dust motes drifted in a sunbeam, catching the light like gold flecks.

He could feel the words pressing at the back of his throat — the familiar ones, the gentle, reassuring ones he’d used for years.

But he didn’t say them. Not yet.

He simply stood there, watching the confusion in your eyes grow, his thumb absently brushing the fabric of your sleeve in a quiet, absentminded comfort. Old habits. They never faded, no matter what body they found themselves in.