Chapter Text
“Hello, kind butler! Do you keep cyanide in the pantry?”
The moment Alfred Pennyworth laid eyes on the boy currently asking for poison while holding onto a ginger cat with a fairly squashed face, he immediately knew three things: This child was dangerously intelligent, he was in dire need of a proper meal, and that he would be extremely infuriating to care for. You could call it intuition. After having raised too many strays that Bruce had brought home, he had gotten an eye for these sorts of things. And the cyanide comment. That was mildly concerning
“Master Jason,” Alfred said, raising an eyebrow at the soot-streaked trio, “I see you’ve brought home a stray.”
Jason scowled. “Not my fault. Blame him.”
Tim glanced at him and sighed. “Alfred, this is Yozo. Yozo, this is Alfred, our butler. He,” Tim muttered while gesturing towards the boy, “set his clothes on fire in the oven.”
"In my defence," the boy chirped, pointing a finger upward, “They were very wet. I didn’t want to get sick. A growing boy like me could get scurvy, y'know?” Jason and Tim gave him a nasty side-eye. He’s definitely lying, they all thought. Even Alfred, who had known him for a few minutes, was sure that the boy was callous towards his general well-being. Jason scowled and exclaimed, “You can’t even get scurvy from being wet! It’s from a lack of Vitamin C! Stop bullshitting!”
As Jason continued his tirade with the boy sticking out his tongue at him, Alfred’s gaze zeroed in on the boy’s right hand. The bandages that clung to the boy’s hand were loose, and a faint rust-coloured stain seeped through the layers.
His expression didn’t change, but his tone sharpened just slightly. “Master Yozo, if you’d follow me to the hospital?”
Yozo blinked at him. “Oh? Are you going to dissect me, Old Butler man?” He asked jokingly. Despite his playful tone, his eyes narrowed slightly by a hair's breadth.
“Only if you continue to refer to me as quote-unquote old butler man. I can’t say I enjoy the nickname too much.” Alfred said. “It seems you are not too fond of doctors.”
Yozo’s eyes widened and said in a monotone voice, “Is that so?”
He walked leisurely, taking in every detail of the manor, from the rooms they walked past, to the interior decor. He would occasionally snicker at a portrait and run a finger along the wall and mutter a few comments under his breath. Alfred wondered what the boy thought of the Manor. Was he amazed at its size or indifferent to his quarters? While the boy was relatively easy to read, that did not mean he could understand what the boy was thinking all the time.
Walking through the Manor was … interesting to say the least. Did this place have a loooooot of rooms? What was the point of this many rooms? Sure, the Port Mafia Building had a lot of rooms, but that was to accommodate the meat shields they had lying around. This was for a singular family. Was this really necessary?
Oh and the decor! It was garish as hell. The portraits were ugly, in his obviously correct opinion. They were gaudy and would showcase pointless subjects like a medieval maid or a noble in long robes shimmering robes. Frankly, it seemed like they were throwing away money for the sake of throwing money!
At least the place was clean. Whoever cleaned the place had done a great job. Even the curtains weren’t dusty at all. Every nook and cranny was squeaky clean. The one who was in charge of the cleaning needed a raise.
Camus meowed belligerently. He clearly agreed with him.
After they reached the infirmary, Dazai immediately took in the surroundings. It was sterile and cold, with medical equipment glimmering under the fluorescent lights. There were a few beds at the side of the room made of blue leather with pillows and blankets. The smell of antiseptic assaulted his sense of smell while the piercing lights momentarily blinded him.
Infirmaries creeped him out a little. Not that he would ever admit it. It wasn’t as if he had trouble dealing with clean and sterile locations. Hell, he wouldn’t even be in this predicament if it weren’t for entering that godforsaken lab. The concept of a medical checkup or having someone treat your wounds sent a shiver down his spine.
Letting a stranger—while most of the time, it wasn't a stranger— look all over your body for wounds and ask prodding questions while invading your sense of privacy made Dazai uncomfortable, while most of the time that happened he would lie. Being vulnerable, without being able to easily access weapons that could be hidden in thick clothing just felt uncomfortable.
Alfred glanced at him and said, “Master Yozo, take a seat and please show me your hand.”
Dazai, being someone of pinnacle maturity, pouted, hid his hand behind his back, and shook his head. “Why would I do that? You haven’t given me enough reason for me to trust you!”
“If you would stop behaving like a child, you would have noticed that I haven’t hurt you at all. If I wanted to harm you, I could have easily done so,” Alfred said lightly.
Dazai gave a small scowl at the towering man. He was right. Not only could Alfred easily kill him —evident by the clear hint of muscle underneath the suit and his general physique being more well built than the average senior citizen of his age, but also that he did not try to harm him yet.
“And,” Alfred continued, while putting on latex gloves, “Clearly someone needs to check on you for injuries when you clearly can’t do it yourself.”
Dazai cursed internally. Right again.
He gave a loud sigh, flopped onto a bed, and raised his hand. “Get on with it. “
The butler took his hand in a way that could almost be considered gentle. The butler moved slowly but with certainty, gently unravelling the bandages that tightly wound around his hand. After the bandages were unravelled, it left a clear sight of the bullet wound in the back of his hand. The gaping wound was red and swelling, already producing pus, with slight bruising around the edges. The foul odour coming from the pus wafted into Dazai’s nostrils.
It was infected, wasn't it? Dazai didn't want to die from sepsis. Was it really suicide if he didn't cause it himself?
The butler gave him a pointed glance and said. “A bullet wound. Judging by the irregular skin tear and bruising around the entry site, you tried to dig the bullet out yourself. That was frankly foolish. Removing it was unnecessary as the bullet didn’t cause any major vascular damage. You risked making things worse. If there were metal fragments, probing the wound with your fingers could have driven debris deeper into the tissue, increasing the risk of infection or nerve damage. So, the million-dollar question: why did you do that?”
Apparently, it was suicide. That was much better. Dazai gave a lazy shrug.
“Of course. First, I have to raise your sleeves to check for lymphangitis.” Alfred monotoned. Dazai gave another shrug. Not like he has anything to hide. He raised his sleeves, showing Alfred the long bandages winding up his arm like a coiling snake. Alfred’s eyes widened as he continued to unravel the bandages.
Alfred kept his face unreadable as he nodded. “Good. I don’t see any red streaks moving up your arm. That means the infection hasn’t progressed to lymphangitis. Fortunately, it’s still localized. How long have you had it?”
Dazai pondered, while putting a finger to his chin. “Hmmm, about …two days?”
“Two days old, without medical attention,” Alfred murmured to himself. “You’re lucky it didn’t go deeper. It looks like it passed through soft tissue only and missed the tendons and bone.”
He reached for a small tray beside him. Dazai caught the smell of antiseptic as he opened a bottle and soaked a square of gauze.
“This is going to sting,” he warned, his voice level. “I need to clean the area before the infection spreads further.”
He pressed the damp gauze gently around the wound. A sharp burn lanced up Dazai’s arm. He let a hiss between his teeth. Alfred didn’t flinch.
“I know,” he said like he was talking to a child. “The saline flush will help wash out debris, dirt, tissue, whatever you might have left in there when you tried to dig the bullet out. Which is still frankly stupid. ”
He worked methodically, irrigating the wound with a clear solution until the fluid ran clean. Then he leaned back slightly, inspecting it with narrowed eyes.
Dazai glanced at the butler treating his hand and wondered aloud. “Old-butler man, you sure are good at treating wounds. You aren’t just any old butler aren’t you?”
The butler nodded. “You sure are sharp, Master Yozo. You see, I was previously a medic in the military, rather than always being a butler”
Dazai nodded. “Ahh, so you quit your job.” Oh, how he wished he could do that too, and languish in his shipping container all day.
“It was more complicated than that, but that was the main gist of it,” Alfred said while continuing to clean his wound.
“Oh?” Dazai raised an eyebrow.
Alfred continued, "Essentially, I wanted to honour my father’s dying wish and keep serving my master’s family. That was my new purpose, to help my master and their family.”
Dazai nodded. So not completely unemployed. So needlessly… saccharine. Family? What was a family? Obligation? Genetic? Did the families who had to sell off their children to pay debts to the Port Mafia ever honour each other or did they sacrifice the people around them to save their own skin. Even though he himself had seen no value in life, it doesn’t really uphold family values.
Alfred though, seemed to be hiding something from him. Even if he was from the military, he would have been discharged a while ago Skills can be lost through practice. But his hands were steady as ever. Why did he need to treat people so often that his hands have become accustomed patching people up? There was clearly something he lacked to mention. But even Dazai has his secrets —a lot of them—, so he decide to let it go for now.
“So, who's your master?” Dazai asked innocently.
Alfred ignored him.
Rude.
Dazai watched idly as Alfred continued to clean the wound thoroughly, occasionally grimacing from the stinging pain.
Dazai started, “So I’ve been thinking-”
“Congratulations.”
Dazai stuck out his tongue petulantly, “As I was saying, what makes us human? What does someone like you, who clearly has been through the gutter of being a military medic, think of being human? It’s said that someone who goes through a war loses a piece of themselves.”
A stinging pain lingered on his skin as another clean cut was made across his thigh. Fingers gripped his leg tightly as the sensation of the cold scalpel slicing into his skin enveloped the flesh. The scalpel was like a sharp knife cutting through rare steak. He could feel the blood trickling down the side of his thigh while Mori went to get tweezers.
“Where did you learn to treat bullet wounds ?”
“Dazai! Are you curious about how I became a doctor? Well, I suppose it started back when I was a wee chi-”
“Enough. ”
“Ah well, only since you asked so nicely!”
“Do you not have anyone else to treat my wounds? Or is it just you?”
Dazai took a sharp intake of breath as the bullet was being pulled out.
“Ah no, I had an … apprentice one might say. Her ability could only heal people on the brink of death., so I suppose she would not be useful for you. She was one of my favourites! Y’know, she was a medic in the Great War. It was a pity she had to be sent to an isolation facility. I wanted to recruit her again, but someone else got there first!”
“Is that so?”
Alfred gave him an unreadable expression and replied, “I believe that what makes us human is our purpose. My purpose, as a butler, is to support my master, while my purpose as a military medic, is to help treat people in a war.”
“And you think that has value?”
“When people have a purpose, they put in their blood, sweat, and tears into something that they believe in and want to fulfil, that’s when people are the most human.” Alfred replied.
Dazai hummed, tapping his finders on the bed frame and said blankly, “If being a human is to fulfil a sort of purpose, a belief, what about people who lose that purpose, set by themselves of society? Lose that humanity? Back where I came from, medics were meant to heal people and make them alive and functioning. What if a medic can’t heal people anymore? Are they still human?”
Alfred paused for a moment before replying. “Of course, they remain human. If someone loses their purpose, they can always find another. The concept of being human is adaptable. While having a purpose might make someone seem more human, lacking one does not make them any less human. The idea of a human is abstract. My opinion of a human doesn’t make anyone else any less human. Everyone is Human, from the kindest most upstanding person to the most despicable human alive. ”
Dazai nodded idly, resting his head on his palm. Of course, he’d think like that. Hath not a Jew eyes, after all. Though that wasn’t quite the question he asked. He was truly more curious than anything.
“The tissue’s inflamed, but still viable,” he said after a pause. “That’s good. I’m not closing it, stitching it now would only trap infection inside. I’ll pack it lightly with sterile gauze to let it drain.”
Hmmm. Mori would always stitch his wounds up. That’s interesting, he supposed.
“There,” he said finally, securing the end. “Keep it elevated, and don’t remove the dressing. I’ll start you on antibiotics. Oral should do for now, unless you start running a fever. And you’ll need a tetanus shot.”
Dazai flexed my fingers slightly. It obviously hurt, making him wince a little, but they still moved.
“Don’t push it. The wound needs rest if you want to keep that hand functional.” His tone softened as he gathered the bloodied gauze. “You were lucky. Next time, let someone trained do it. Pain you can live with. Infection, you might not.”
Dazai nodded and proceeded to ignore all of it. Infection, what’s that? Is it a new suicide method? Well technically it was, he supposed.
Alfred gave him pills and a glass of water. “Take these for the infection. Remember to drink enough water to flush the toxins out. I shall now be taking my leave with the Cat. He needs to be cleaned up. Have a rest first. You can then be treated for your other injuries and tested for smoke inhalation. ” Alfred bowed and left through the door with Camus in tow.
Dazai watched as the tall butler left the infirmary. Now it was just him, the pills. Might as well get this over and done with.
After grabbing the pills and inspecting them, Dazai noted that the pills were odourless, signalling that they were just basic antibiotic pills and not at all cyanide. Shame. He wished to smell the almon-like scent of the poison.
He ate the pills and sat there in silence, assessing the situation. He was now stuck with vigilantes —he assumed from the guns and outfits. Well, weirder shit had happened to him.
Now the problem is how was he going to get back to his own reality? He clearly needed to find the two ability users who transported him here in the first place. But were they even in this universe? They had to be. Miyuki could have easily shot him when he was incapacitated. Even if their goal was to dispose of him permanently without a body, the Port Mafia would still go after them to at least find him.
So they had to be in Gotham. Would it be wiser to leave this probably heavily guarded area and search for them himself, or act docile for more information? Decisions, Decisions.
Well he had enough time to figure it out. He was good at improvisation after all.
Dammit, he need a drink.