Alfred made his way halfway down the hall before he let out a long, heavy breath. He was trying to avoid being overheard by the two women in the room he'd just left, because he didn't want to make this a thing — any more than he already had, anyway. He ran his hands through his hair and paced down to the kitchen, just to put more distance between himself and the room. It wasn't even the hypothetical children, he realized. It wasn't as though he'd decided to marry her in order to start a family, or that he had a compelling, pressing desire to be a father. If there were some reason the two of them couldn't have children, it wouldn't have changed his resolve to spend the rest of his life with Zelda. The disorienting thing was the realization, sudden and unexpected, that they weren't on the same page about something. He'd taken a step on what he thought was solid ground, only to feel it shift a bit beneath his feet, and now he didn't know what to do next.
Why didn't she want children? Was it something about him? Did she think he'd be a bad father, or that he wouldn't be capable of providing for a family? Was she worried that adding children to the mix would somehow change the way things were between the two of them? Maybe that the Fisks would focus in on the pair of them with a hypercritical gaze? The idea that she might be embarrassed by him, or preemptively exhausted by the notion of having to constantly defend him, was jarring. Zelda loved him. He knew she did. But maybe beneath that love, there was room for a much more complex collection of feelings.
The children didn't matter. If she didn't want to have any, he could live with that (well, he would have to — they were already married, after all, even if no one knew that). That part was fine. All of the uncertainty that lay behind it — the why, and all of the potential negative feelings that drove the why — was much harder for him to grapple with. He hadn't finished untangling it before Zelda called out his name, and had (stupidly) leaned back into the hallway before he had a chance to get the disappointment and insecurity off of his face.
"Yeah," he said. He swallowed, and intended to leave it at that and let her say whatever she wanted, but couldn't quite manage it. Instead he said in a rush, "It's fine. I'm not — I'm fine. It's fine." What he meant by that was anyone's guess, but he regretted saying it right away. Perhaps he'd been trying to ward off the conversation she was probably trying to start, because he wasn't ready to talk about all of this just yet. If he'd been trying to be reassuring with his words, though, his tone would have undercut the efforts immediately. He didn't sound fine, even to his own ears.
Why didn't she want children? Was it something about him? Did she think he'd be a bad father, or that he wouldn't be capable of providing for a family? Was she worried that adding children to the mix would somehow change the way things were between the two of them? Maybe that the Fisks would focus in on the pair of them with a hypercritical gaze? The idea that she might be embarrassed by him, or preemptively exhausted by the notion of having to constantly defend him, was jarring. Zelda loved him. He knew she did. But maybe beneath that love, there was room for a much more complex collection of feelings.
The children didn't matter. If she didn't want to have any, he could live with that (well, he would have to — they were already married, after all, even if no one knew that). That part was fine. All of the uncertainty that lay behind it — the why, and all of the potential negative feelings that drove the why — was much harder for him to grapple with. He hadn't finished untangling it before Zelda called out his name, and had (stupidly) leaned back into the hallway before he had a chance to get the disappointment and insecurity off of his face.
"Yeah," he said. He swallowed, and intended to leave it at that and let her say whatever she wanted, but couldn't quite manage it. Instead he said in a rush, "It's fine. I'm not — I'm fine. It's fine." What he meant by that was anyone's guess, but he regretted saying it right away. Perhaps he'd been trying to ward off the conversation she was probably trying to start, because he wasn't ready to talk about all of this just yet. If he'd been trying to be reassuring with his words, though, his tone would have undercut the efforts immediately. He didn't sound fine, even to his own ears.
MJ made the most Alfredy of sets and then two years later she made it EVEN BETTER