Laundry Day [Bruce]

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Knowing how to get blood out of clothing was an essential thing for a butler, or anyone, honestly, to know; Alfred just never thought he would be doing so much of it. And while he was eternally grateful that Master Bruce made it home safely after every long and fretful night, Alfred wished he got home more in one piece.

With last night's laundry on its way to becoming today's clean clothes, Alfred left the laundry room. Master Bruce owned upper-end laundry mats but Alfred wouldn't entrust even the most tight lipped launderer with Bruce's...personals, so to speak. Alfred sighed. 

Bruce. The elderly man made his way through the regal hallway, his gaze went lazily to the aged (but not as aged as he was) portraits on the wall. Portraits seemingly from a past life, a smiling Bruce trying to look serious, standing by his mother set in a chair and father standing behind them. One could see both parents in the child, truly his parents' boy.

Individual portraits of the late Mr. and Mrs. Wayne stood between another family portrait, one where Alfred was present. He noted how young both he and Master Bruce looked in it. Oh, how he wished Bruce would let him take these relics down, not that he made much of an effort to--outside of the offhanded comment. It was a...difficult topic to say the least, one of those topics that they both danced around. One that lingered in the air like the gloom in the manor that not even the frequently held parties could scatter it.

Bruce's obsession. Once in the kitchen, Alfred readied a small tray with toast and coffee. Nothing out of order, breakfast coffee and Bruce's obsession, his pain--Alfred's fear that he may lose him forever. It was all routine. And Alfred was a man who prided himself of a flawless daily routine. It was frightfully easy how the Batman became apart of this routine. Holding the tray by its handles on either end, Alfred walked dutifully through the manor into the secret lair below.

Once downstairs, he greeted the younger man with a typical morning greeting as he rested the tiny silver serving tray next to Bruce and the delicate equipment. Alfred trusted that his ward wouldn't knock the contents of the tray over.

"Master Bruce," Alfred started, he had been tossing to and fro in his mind this thought. If he was going to back out, now was the time. But he couldn't, for the very sake of Bruce, he couldn't, so with weighted words; he continued, "We need to have a talk."

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Pouring over digitally streamed information poignant to a particularly violent case file he had taken it upon himself to investigate and solve, breakfast/food of any sort was the last thought on his feverish mind. Reading over the hacked files of the GCPD upon his super-computer’s massive LED-HD main screen, Bruce’s focus was lost to the memorization of suspect stats, last known whereabouts, and potential contacts. The type of silence that echoed in drips and whispers within the underground bat-cave was unique and appreciated by only those who frequented such large, maze-laden tunnels, and vast cavernous dwellings. It was actually soothing to hear the cacophonous symphony of chirps and squeaks resonating from the hundreds upon hundreds of fruit bats who rested dormant high up above. Flowing fresh water mixed with the dampening sounds of the vast cave that Bruce had designated his home base to be located within.

Amidst the natural earthen surroundings of the damp, cool cave was a myriad of infused electrical equipment and high-grade technology all composed to create a station point to store endless supplies, provisions, vehicles, computer mainframes – just to name a few items. Not to mention the array of bat-suits, collection of crime memorabilia, medical stations, training arena for sparing, laboratory, library, resting quarters, weapons menagerie, research docking stations, and so very much more. The bat-cave was a true living wonder on both its own natural and manmade accord. It was here the Batman suited up, armed himself, and took to flight each night. And it was here Bruce would return to investigate, analyze, and memorize each dawn. His work was never done, and even though Bruce was tired and needed rest- the Batman was ever-ready to go and enforce his brand of justice. As a man, he had limits, but as Batman he was limitless.

Sitting in the swivel, high-backed office chair, still clad in his armored bat-suit save for the removal of his masked cowl, cape, and gloves, Alfred would find the sole-surviving Wayne heir studying the crime articles that flashed across the enormous, glowing screen. A sudden jerk to consciousness was brought on by the gentle rousing of Alfred’s familiarly English, warmly kind voice. When had he dosed off…? How the hell could he have dosed off?! There was still this case file to analyze, that crime report to investigate! Hell, he’d sleep when he was damn well dead! Bruce shifted in the confines of his computer chair and popped his neck to the side. Upon the telling ‘clink’ of the food-laden tray atop his massive desk, Bruce merely waved a hand to dismiss Alfred.

“Not hungry, Alfred. Maybe something later.” Bruce murmured in response, not daring to peel his gaze away from the hypnotically glaring computer screen.

It was then Alfred’s wizened words stated their intent to talk that Bruce would momentarily pause and cast a subtle glance over his broad, armed-suit covered shoulder. “Talk? Don’t tell me this is about the self-checkout lanes at the grocery store again… You should feel flattered that a machine IDs you every time when you’re re-stocking the brandy. People should hope to be so diligent.”

But the look cast on the shadows of Alfred’s face indicates that this is more than their typical good-natured chit-chats… All teasing aside, the same permanent etching of grave severity once more resides on Bruce’s stoic features. Tone grim and quiet.

“What’s up?”

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Seeing Bruce half-dozing in front of his work, even though his work was grim, was heartwarming. Bruce was a man now but he still had the habits he acquired during his childhood. Alfred held back a comment about how one needed to sleep first before a meal becomes breakfast, he kept it to himself because he had Bruce's attention. Oh, how he wished they'd have this discussion after Bruce had a good night's rest. Maybe him being exhausted from the night before would play to his favour?

It was no surprise to see Master Bruce in front of the super computer with something grisly on its massive screens. It frequently reminded him of his own father, oddly enough; the old man would every morning obsessively look over the obituaries and then offhandedly comment on what well-kept acquaintance or a close family friend had died like he was talking about today's weather. When Alfred was a younger man he viewed this with extreme displeasure but now the he was an old man himself Alfred found himself doing the same thing. He understood now. But Bruce; Bruce was a young man who shouldn't understand yet. Such grim, grisly work, Alfred had a new appreciation for the police after Master Bruce's new found...hobby.

But it wasn't new and it wasn't a hobby anymore (and while it was never just a hobby to Bruce, surely, Alfred had hoped Bruce would have grown tired of it and turn to more philanthropic ways of helping the city like the late Master Wayne Sr but with each passing day his young ward seemed to grow more and more obsessed with this city; this city and its crime.) And here they were: A familiar scene. A butler and his Master. In this godforsaken underworld. Just like the night before, the day before, the week before...

This cave was museum of past battles, of relics that Alfred had to polish. While Master Bruce was gone, Alfred tended to this place. It was to Bruce's credit in forethought that most everything was self regulating. He often wondered when he was long gone and Master Bruce was gone (hopefully in that order, he couldn't bare to think...) what would happen to this place. Would Master Richard take it over, or the current Robin? Would it be left to Gotham; kept as a museum for ever more? Bruce, he was just a man but the Batman was something more; something that could exist without Bruce? That was something Alfred believed.
He gracefully,stately folded his hands behind his back.

"Certainly not sir, though you would think those dratted machines would have a frequent customer selection. It's such a bother to have to wait for an underpaid register worker to assist me every time I forget my ID...." Speaking of diligence. What was up, indeed. Alfred would have to phrase his next words very carefully, a strike out so to speak and he wouldn't be able to have a decent chance at this for sometime, "I wish to talk about your evenings out, Master Bruce. I mean no offense by this; as you are very capable and at top of your game, sir, but with Master Richards donning his own brand of crusader and a whole slew of other proactive youth, that maybe you should consider taking some time off?"

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Bruce’s soul-searing stare of carved ice and steel now found its way back to the radiant glow projecting from the myriad of paper-thin computer screens mounted systematically before him upon the massive console. In truth, the scent of the recently provided food Alfred brought now caused his mouth to slightly water out of gnawing hunger. The promise of relaxing comfort brought on by assistance out of his heavily armored batsuit with the expectation to eventually wind up within the steaming hot confines of a cleansing shower almost made him shudder out of pure desperation. Working long nights as the Guardian of Gotham only to gallivant frivolously during endless days as the Prince of Gotham was taking its toll on the 33 year old man.

Sure, Bruce’s body was in tip-top shape, rivaling that of an Olympic athlete’s peak physical condition. His mental frame so astute in keen sharpness and intelligence that he easily outwitted and outsmart those considered to be in the top 1% of the world’s most brilliant minds. Not to mention his incredible financial assets in which happened to amass billions upon billions with each fiscal year. And yet… Despite all of Bruce Wayne’s incredible skills, attributes, and accessories – he was still just a human being. Just a single, solitary man. A man who possessed no superpowers, no meta-human abilities, and no magical gifts. He was just a man who had decided long, long ago to take on the war against crime by bringing justice to any and all who were unjust. Just a man who made it his entire life’s existence to protect the innocent, bring fear to the wicked, and uphold his own brand of moral righteousness.

It had been more than a decision, but instead it was a sacred promising and eternal vow, that was made the day his world ended at the tender age of 8 with the blood of his parents’ cold-hearted murder pooling around his feet. Nothing would change his mind as he knew his fate was forever sealed in that bat-shaped form. And yet... His faithful family servant, butler, friend, caretaker, (and in a sense, adopted father-figure) Sir Alfred Pennyworth still wouldn’t let something like Bruce’s impenetrable will of taking on the mantle of the Batman stave him off from trying to persuade the billionaire vigilante to hang up the cape and cowl in exchange for a life of happy normalcy. Now is clearly one of those times Alfred is trying to opportunely use in an attempt to convince his master of giving up the Dark Knight lifestyle. Silence met the elderly Englishman’s last words, only the echoes of quietly humming machines and faintly trickling water along with gentle squeaking murmurs from the bats nest above within the dim, dank cave was heard in response. Just the image of his broad, batsuit armored covered posterior and the back his head – thick, coal-black black hair slicked down flat – was all that faced Alfred’s kindly, pleading, warm gaze.

“Dick presides over Bludhaven – Nightwing is nothing more than a guest to Gotham.” His tone was now ice cold, stoic, unwavering. “The Outsiders are young, inexperienced, and sloppy. They may make a dent in city’s crime scene, but are nothing more than a liability waiting to happen when it comes to the Gotham Rogues. The Joker eats the likes of them for breakfast.”

A few keys were tapped on the keyboard, a new slew of graphic images now flashed on the flat high-definition screens before the two men.

“Another death, another kidnapping, another assault, another horrible act of injustice occurs within this city every 5 minutes, Alfred. Somewhere, out there, the chance of happiness and innocence is utterly destroyed by some act of depravity. As long as I am capable in any and every way possible, I will do my best to bring vengeance to such injustice.”

Bruce then swiveled around in his high-backed office chair and now faced his butler. Blue eyes locked in a stony gaze, jaw set and utterly grim. “I will never take “time off”. Not until I have managed to win this fucking war! I’m the Batman and I always goddamn will be!”