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Alfred has been keeping track of the number of hours Master Bruce has spent outside of the manner over the past fortnight. He has spent, by the butler’s very own calculations, 304 out of the past 381 hours out of home. In the incredibly rare instance that he and the hero of Gotham do brush shoulders he hasn’t seen him do much more than wipe the dirt and grime of that day off of his face, sleep no more than five hours (if he’s lucky to sleep that long), and then roll out again not to be seen for hours.
Alfred is proud of Bruce for dropping his role as “vengeance” in favor of helping the city in more practical ways. However, Alfred knows Bruce better than anyone. There is something else to this. Almost like Bruce cannot allow himself to stop to rest, for even a moment. It is unreasonable. No one would expect any sane person to work themselves to this extent.
On hour 410 since the flooding of Gotham Bruce returns to the manor twenty-two hours after he had last been home. The sun had risen a few hours prior. The man scowls as he remembers the day before.
“Alfred, I’ll be home this evening, I promise. I need to be out there now” tThe Bat had told him, as he stumbled out of the house without a smidgen of caloric substance as far as the butler was aware. “I’ll eat something when I get home. We can have dinner, together.” The other day he had fibbed: “I’ll shower tonight”. Guess who came home and then immediately crashed on the couch?
When he sees Bruce Wayne in filthy, partially strewn off Batman attire, Alfred realizes that he is fucking done.
The man’s dark locks are matted with bits of mud. His chin has a small slash underneath it. Not deep, but certainly unsightly. Having not seen Bruce for longer than moments at a time in the past few weeks Alfred takes some time to take in the man’s appearance. His face is gaunt, and the butler swears he has become at least three shades paler. Alfred didn’t even know that was possible.
He must not have a great poker face, because Bruce is already on the defense.
“Alfred.” He clips. “I apologize for not comming you for the past few hours-“
“Past few hours?” the older man objected “it’s been nearly twenty-four. I’ve attempted to reach you on seven different occasions.” Alfred watches as Bruce fidgets with his mangy hair, his posture remaining stiff.”
“Huh. Sorry about that.” Bruce glances over to the window in an almost insultingly weak attempt to brush him off.
“You know how I’ve always felt about this hero business. I support you entirely, until it comes at the cost of your well-being.” Alfred looks to Bruce trying to command his attention through his glare.
Bruce, probably sleep deprived, challenges him a bit more than he might usually: “That’s the thing though. When have I ever expressed that what I’d be doing was without risk? Surely this was part of your understanding.
“I am aware. I find your heroism admirable, Master Wayne. But this does not waive your need for basic grooming, meals, and sleep intake.”
“There’s not much time for these things. Gotham needs assistance now.” The frustrated man seems to pull at his hair anxiously.
“Gotham won’t have any of The Batman’s precious aid if he has himself killed by way of intentional disregard for basic bodily maintenance”.
“Alfred!” Bruce nearly barks “Enough.”
“Master Wayne” Alfred nearly spat. He takes a moment to gain some composure. “If you want to be treated like a young lad, this is how you get treated like one. You know that what happened to this city is not your fault. Why are you torturing yourself in these ways?” His anger slowly fades, and his worry bleeds through to his face as he watches the defensive act Bruce has put on crumble in front of him.
“It is my fault. I could have stopped it. I wasn’t quick enough. Bright enough.” he trails off. Bruce rubs at his face in frustration, his dark eye make up already smeared across his face. He looks at the pigment in his hand and unconsciously begins to rub and scratch at them. An anxiety tick he’s had since he was a child. He hasn’t seen it as often as he did in the first several years after the passing of the Waynes, but as he’s grown into being an adult the damage to the skin becomes more severe. Bruce draws blood.
Alfred closes the distance between them to take one of the young master’s hands. Bruce seems to come to awareness of his scratching, but dismisses it as he attempts to find a reply.
“The Riddler wanted The Batman. Every killing, every maiming of this city had The Batman’s name attached.” Bruce is overthinking again. The butler watches as his expressions morph into something more distant. Internalized. Alfred recognizes this is a lead in to a dissociative episode, or an anxiety attack.
He squeezes the lad’s hand. “Bruce. Listen to me.” He waits patiently as the man works to come back to some form of awareness. The man blinks. “Yes” he utters still seemingly far away. He’s still tense.
“Bruce” he pauses as he clears his throat “There’s nothing that The Batman is responsible for but his own actions. The Batman is not the Riddler. He did not ask for what happened to Gotham or its people.”
Bruce bites down on his lip in a way that looks quite painful. “I….I know. But there are people out there. They need hope. They need help.”
“Master Bruce. You have done enough for tonight. After all you are but one person, and there are many every day heroes working in Gotham right now. This is not your burden.” He swallows again, and then says before he thinks better of it: “You are not meant to be Gotham’s sole savior.”
Bruce says nothing for a long moment. “Yes. I don’t mean to say that others aren’t just as able to-“
“Then show these people the respect they are due, and trust that Gotham will not degrade further as you sleep. ” Alfred is stern, but the continual squeezes to Bruce’s hand seem to communicate warmth. He takes his other hand to the man’s hair and moves it out of his eyes. Bruce looks to him a little more, a little more attuned to his surroundings.
“Master Wayne… let’s get you cleaned up.”
Bruce looks a bit sheepish. “I can handle a bath on my own, Alfred.”
“Not to offend, Master Bruce, but your hair seems to be impossibly knotted, matted, and full of grime. You’re going to need assistance”.
The young vigilante looks as though he’d like to put up a fight, but another squeeze from Alfred silences him. He nods hesitantly.
Moments later Alfred has a bath drawn. He allows the man the privacy to bathe on his own, up until he hears an exhausted voice call.
“Okay… I’m… I’m working on my hair, now.”
Alfred steps in. He notices that the young master’s face is still covered in black eyeshadow pigment. He takes a cloth and soaks it in warm water, then gently pats around the man’s eyes. “You missed a spot” he quips.
Bruce raises an eyebrow, and looks as though he might say something. Then, when the butler brushes underneath his left, sore and tired eye he seems to melt a bit. His eyelids flutter closed.
He takes advantage of that moment to clear debris from the corners of his eyes. The warmth of the cloth causes Bruce to breathe out deeply; releasing some of the tension he’s held inside. His muscles loosen ever so slightly.
Alfred takes another cloth after having cleaned up his young master’s face- and immerses this one before cleaning behind his ears. He chuckles to himself quietly as he remembers the days of this man’s youth when he had done the same thing. Bruce cracks an eye open.
“I thought you said you were just working on my hair.”
“There’s more of you that needs a little help, first.” He smiles.
Bruce doesn’t argue. He moves to grab shampoo that is kept an arms length away, and starts to prepare to lather it in his hands.
Alfred tries not to chuckle again. “Hold on, Master Bruce.” Bruce rolls his eyes, but allows Alfred to dampen the man’s hair, and untangle some knots with his fingers. “There’s no point in washing something if you’ll just leave bits an pieces of dirt hidden away”.
Bruce winces after a particular knot is pulled loose. Alfred carefully pours a cup on water over the back of his head, and nods at Bruce as he lathers soap in his hands. He begins to rub the shampoo into his hair, but stops half short. He pauses for a moment. “Alfred?”
“Yes, lad?”
“I’m… sorry. I don’t deserve this. Your patience. Or, anything really.” He swallows. “To be clean, to eat, to rest. It’s so hard to feel that there’s a need because… what I do is hardly ever enough. What’s the point in allowing myself to feel comfort?”. His breathing spreads up, and he can hear his voice croak.
Alfred winces in sympathy, but assertively takes over in rubbing shampoo into the man’s scalp. “I accept your apology, but I do not accept this idea of yours— being ‘undeserving’” He combs out cakes of dirt. “And the point, my boy, is carrying on. Moving forward so we have the opportunity to grow. When you’re gone, Master Bruce, there’s nothing you can do to help anyone. Don’t you want to see the city thrive?” He thinks about Thomas and Martha Wayne. “Your parents were not perfect. They had their flaws, and in some ways they never understood the needs of this city. But I could see it in their eyes. They wanted to try.”
He pauses. “Lad. It will never feel like it will be enough. There is nothing about Gotham to save, other than to work every day with others to minimize human suffering, and to show compassion without patronizing the autonomy of these around you”.
Bruce stays silent as he focuses on breathing. Alfred rubs his thumb into a pressure point on the back of his head. He swears he hears a sigh of relief break through a small sob as a result.
After an amount of rest that Alfred almost deems appropriate he watches as Bruce Wayne scours through files that have been left untouched for ages. The young man bites his lip as he scribbled figures onto a page titled “Wayne Enterprise’s contribution to Gotham rebuilding efforts, 2022-23”.