The Morning Routine

[Alfred]

Alfred will be all too happy when the new Wayne mansion is completed. He didn’t enjoy wondering whether or not Bruce had made it back that night, or simply curled up underground like the animal he had become so attached to. Nor did he enjoy the traveling back and forth between the two; he simply wasn’t built for that kind of daily routine anymore. But however wasteful or draining it might be, the family butler would make coffee and breakfast for the room, whether or not there was an inhabitant. Glancing into a mirror, he fixed the tie by holding its neck and pushing up to tighten a little more. He couldn’t explain it if he tried but there was some sort of comfort in the suit he wore; if the day ever came he had to forfeit it … well, he simply didn’t think of that. The day wouldn’t come as long as he was still standing.

The kitchen began to smell of the familiar morning routine as the coffee machine burped and boiled, and the eggs sizzled. Pulling out orange juice, he poured it into a cup while his eyes hovered at a silent television, reading the lips and headlines for anything important. Though he was plenty aware that watching the news wasn’t the source for good or accurate news, it had become vital in understanding how Gotham viewed Batman – or what new psychopath had adorned a mask in retaliation. The white eyebrows of Alfred slowly moved up on his forehead as a new segment of the show took over, which was a compilation of amateur photos of Batman. Just as he turned to save the eggs from a burnt fate, a pair of ears caught his attention in a dark and rather shoddy picture of ‘The Batman’.

“Hm,” Alfred noted to himself as the hand turned the burner off and the other poured the fresh coffee. Once a full and fresh cup was poured for Bruce, the rest was used for his own and set off to the side. Shifting the eggs from the pan to plate, setting up the plate’s esthetics and covering it with a top to keep the warmth the breakfast was nearly complete. The final touch was a carefully chosen flower combination – today would be two white ones. Rubbing his hands on a towel for dryness, he picked up the tray and headed for the bedroom. Just before opening the door, he said a silent prayer that he was in fact in the room before turning the knob and opening.

[Bruce Wayne]

Crawling into bed just before dawn had easily become a habit for Gotham’s premier playboy. Leading a double life was exhausting, there were never enough hours in the day and when he did finally manage to fall into bed the bliss was always short-lived. Usually the smell of bacon, eggs and all things breakfast-like was more than enough for Bruce’s stomach to win out over his sleep-deprived mind, but today he was dead to the world. Star-fished over his king sized bed completely covered by the stylish, thick divan the sole member of the Wayne Dynasty was snoring heartily. He had taken half a sleeping tablet before he had crashed; his dreams were the sort he didn’t want to remember. Usually they involved pretty but toxic blue flowers and gunshots ringing in a chillingly familiar alley. To this day he couldn’t listen to opera scores.

The master bedroom, like the rest of the rooms in the apartment that Bruce usually inhabited, looked barely lived in. The black polished shoes he had worn last night en route from the cave were scuffed, muddy and had been kicked off onto the floor followed by a pair of thin black socks. The trail continued with a pair of blue jeans and a black long-sleeved polo and finally a black singlet which was draped precariously over the bedside table on the right. The thick drapes blinkered any light that might have been trying to prise its way into the room. For all intents and purposes, it was the perfect sleeping environment, and if Bruce had been as deeply enveloped in slumber as he appeared then he wouldn’t have heard the tell-tale turning of the doorknob to admit his faithful friend.

Bruce remained still, knowing full well the worst threat Alfred brought with him was a fully stomach. Amenable to that, he had energy enough to produce a weak smile beneath his blankets. Familiar footsteps – almost impossible to hear – rasped over the plush carpet, falling silent when they reached the vicinity of the bed. “I don’t deserve you,” he murmured, the words even further muffled by the divan.

[Alfred]

The sight of a human body in the bed gave the man a sense of relief that didn’t last long. An eyebrow rose on his forehead at trail of clothes leading to the bed, as if he were afraid he was going to be lost and needed to find his way back. Though Alfred was still deeply happy to have Bruce “home” no matter what the consequences, he would never allow the man to discover that. His lips curled downward in a small frown as his eyes hovered over the mess while he maneuvered over it to the bed. Leaning over the clump of blankets, he set the tray of breakfast down on a smooth part of the bed and turned to the blankets.

“No, you don’t,” he tossed over his shoulder in a serious voice, bending down to grab the shoes first. He inspected the mud from all 360 degrees before grabbing the pants and hanging them over his arm. “I just keep reminding myself I’m too old to look after children again, so I’m stuck with you.”

Opening the barely used closet, he set the shoes on a pulled out table while plummeting the pants into an empty hamper. He turned around back to the leftover clothes on the floor and bent over again to grab them, keeping the grunts of movement deep in his throat. Patting a hand into a small white stain on the polo, he turned to toss it back into the hamper with the pants and the socks soon followed. Mentally noting to wash them later on (he left nothing to pile up), he grabbed the shoes and closed the doors.

“Pray tell, Master Wayne, will you be attending your birthday party this year?” Alfred asked nonchalantly, in that manner that meant it wasn’t really a question but rather a stern suggestion.

[Bruce Wayne]

Managing to emerge from his covers looking more than slightly injured, Bruce sat up in bed being careful not to disturb the carefully laid tray. A roguish grin soon replaced any semblance of piety on the young man’s face as he reached for a piece of toast to crunch on. After a couple of large, satisfying bites and the show Alfred provided by cleaning up after him (he had fully intended on picking up his own laundry, honest!) Bruce ran his hands through the diadem of messy brown locks atop his head and shrugged.

“Who knows?” he said, immediately realizing his mistake in answering Alfred’s rhetorical with another. Birthday parties were something that Bruce Wayne indulged in for the sake of showing off and which Batman was nearly always far too busy fighting crime to attend. Considering the last one Bruce wasn’t entirely sure who he would be attending as, only that he would be there as one or the other. Increasingly Batman commanded more of his time and he found that he must give it. Alfred had made it clear in the past that he couldn’t afford to let his night-time activities dominate – and jeopardize – his cover.

Crossing his legs and grabbing the tray which he then balanced on his lap, Bruce began cutting into his eggs. He liked his eggs runny and Alfred never over-cooked them. He remembered sitting with Rachel at the kitchen table in winter and letting her steal his bread soldiers to dunk in her eggs after she had eaten all of her own… Deciding against dunking his bread as he usually did, thanks to the memory, Bruce set about making a breakfast sandwich with his remaining toast. Taking a large bite of the egg-onion-bacon combo and chewing thoughtfully, he waved the sandwich in Alfred’s direction and risked egg yolk on the comforter with reckless abandon.

“I might grace you with my presence if you’re making those shrimp cocktails I like.” He swallowed properly and raised his eyebrows in sudden realization. “One thing’s for sure. With all this extra training I can eat whatever the hell I like.”

[Alfred]

The white eyebrows raised high on Alfred’s forehead at Bruce’s response, though he opted to not respond and hope something else would follow. Giving a final ‘look’ before entering the bathroom, he sent the shoes directly under a faucet to clean off the mud he was sure could be found somewhere else – such as the carpet. Afraid to look, he kept the hunt for mud as a leisurely afternoon activity. Looking up from the shoes, he could see a reflection of Bruce in the mirror eating and his eyes wandered back down to rub off the harder pieces of mud stuck on the sole of the shoes. Barely a smirk showed across his face at the shrimp cocktail comment (mainly because he was making them and already had the ingredients) which subsequently led him to let out a single laugh at the proceeding comment.

“Clogged arteries don’t distinguish, not even for Mister Bruce Wayne,” he warned per usual, coming out of the bathroom with a clothe drying off the pair of shoes. The seconds of silence that followed were meant for the words “nor Batman”, but some things needn’t be spoken. There was something inherent about Alfred and his relationship with Bruce that didn’t allow silence as a response – or, at least, not on the butler’s end. Rubbing the soles all around the shoe dry, he promptly placed the pair in front of a chair in perfect position and folded up the towel in his hands.

“It appears you have more copycats on the loose,” he changed the subject to the news sequence he saw minutes earlier. It had been the butler’s job for years to see minute details in everything about the family, and he had extended that to Batman. He had come to know the costume by sight far more distinctly than normal – though admittingly if he was trying to spot him from a crowd of fakes at night, it would be much more difficult. However, the picture taken and shown on the television showed uneven and thinner ears. Neither of which Bruce would have nor Alfred allow. He had tossed the subject over his shoulder while leaving the room, as if his observation had been in strict passing and meant nothing. He walked straight to the kitchen where, on his way, he noticed a mud print on the carpet he glared at.

[Bruce Wayne]

The reassuring bark of Alfred’s laugh only served to egg Bruce on more; he knew that his friend was as dependent on him giving cheek as Bruce was on being chided for it. Smiling around the edges of his sandwich as the Usual Health Warning ™ was given, the heir to the Wayne dynasty fixed his green eyes on the retreating form of his confidante as he wandered hitherto. He swallowed hastily and instantly regretted the burn of a too-big mouthful fighting its way down his throat. The copy-cat problem had been quite bad a few months ago, before the city of Gotham grew even more fearful. Now, it was just plain stupid to imitate a ‘wanted criminal’.

“What the--,” he replied indignantly, raising his voice a little. “What’s wrong with these people? With the mobsters and the cops on his tale, you’d think they would have something more interesting – and life assuring – to do than play Batman.” The momentary silence on the other end of the conversation was, in Bruce’s mind, left for him to fill with something more intelligent than his outburst. He flicked his bedclothes back and swung his legs over the side of the mattress and padded in the direction of the door, nursing his sandwich. The carpet underfoot was a comforting buffer – a means of allowing him to wake fully before the chilly realisation of the tiles underfoot in the living area fully exonerated him from any thread of actual sleep that day.

Catching the glimpse of Alfred dipping into the kitchen a few seconds before him, Bruce followed and immediately hoisted himself to sit on the tiled kitchen bench. It was a familiar feeling stemming back to his childhood, when he would sit for hours and watch Alfred constructing some culinary masterpiece or another for one of his parents’ soirees. For a few moments he simply watched the butler go about his duties in the kitchen that was wholly his domain, and Bruce resisted the urge to smile. Alfred was his rock. “What do you think we should do about it?” he asked honestly.

[Alfred]

The butler’s eyebrows raised and dropped quickly at the barked comment from the bedroom; though Alfred understood the outburst, he had come to ignore them over the years and allowed the thoughts to catch up to his mouth. Being the immediate man that he was, he busied himself in the kitchen by cleaning up his own small mess over breakfast. Submerging the skillet and several miscellaneous plates under water, he scraped off a few pieces of leftovers into a paper towel. Crumpling the paper towel into a ball, he barely noticed Bruce enter in the corner of his eye and tossed the paper towel into a small garbage can. He took the time to roll his sleeves up slightly to keep them clean while turning his head back to see Bruce at the counter and turned back to the sink.

“We, Sir?” the butler retorted to the honest question, a small grin etched into his lips. Without question he would always appreciate the ‘we’ in conversations, that he was included in this mysterious night life of Bruce Wayne. But certain matters were out of the hands of the unit. Turning to face him after shutting the water off, he dried his hands on a hand towel. “Well, it seems to me they need to be stopped for their own safety. Hopefully, the police will be able to do that.”

It all depended on who these copy cats were and Alfred knew that if they were training like Bruce was, there was a good chance the police wouldn’t be able to do anything. He didn’t want to say that, however, because that would be just one more thing to add to Batman’s impeccably long one already. And it wasn’t in the man’s nature to burden Master Wayne further. Turning back to the sink, he scrubbed the skillet until satisfaction and drained the sink. He turned to his right, glancing at the running TV on mute. Shaking his head, he turned back to the small audience and leaned a hand on the counter.

“Otherwise they will be the target of Batman’s enemies,” he said a little late, but hit the point nonetheless. Grabbing the remote, he hit the rewind button (ah, the wonders of TiVo) to the point of the picture he recognized as not the real Batman. He hit the pause button and stopped, staring at the ears that were remarkably off. Raising a skeptical eyebrow to whoever made the costume, he shook his head in silence.

[Bruce Wayne]

At Alfred’s pointed questioning of the plural implicit in Bruce’s voiced solution, the younger man offered a broad, incorrigible grin. Wolfing back the last of his sandwich knowing full well that lunch was likely to be a ritzy affair with huge white plates and a tiny sliver of something referred to in a la carte menus as ‘veal back strap with broccolini and cashew mash’ or something equally ridiculous, the heir to the Wayne fortune was determined to get his belly filled while he could. Pressing the flat of his foot against the cupboard door beneath him and rocking his knee up and down impatiently, Bruce’s green eyes were captured and held by the television. He knew that not only were these fools compromising his situation, they were also seriously endangering their lives. He needed to so something, but what? For some reason that he couldn’t fathom (*cough* hormones *cough*), Bruce’s mind settled immediately on the image of a certain redheaded Detective. Susannah was smart and had proved trustworthy. Maybe it was time for Batman to pay her another visit.

Feeling a strange mixture of irritated that people were impersonating him and embarrassed that anyone would want to, Bruce reached out and gently took the TiVo remote from Alfred’s well-used hands. He pressed the play button, then changed channels. He didn’t particularly feel like talking shop at the moment, and even the weather would be better than having to stare at people wanting to be Batman. No sooner had the station switched, however, a mute news reporter sitting at a desk referred to a headline on the screen’s ticker-tape reading ‘Stepping Up: Batman Comes out of hiding’. The newsroom cut to footage of Batman first in a boat with a thug at night, grappling. The scene, instantly recognizable from the night of the drug bust cut away before Detective Gossamer came into it. With a small frown Bruce watched more footage, this time of him taking on Luciani’s thugs the night before. There was no sign of the other masked person who had been involved in the incident. The frown deepened and with a delicate cough Bruce turned back to the channel Alfred had been watching in the first place. He re-paused the TiVo on a full body shot of the fake Batman, tilting his head critically to one side and his eyes took in the ‘below-the-belt’ status of his lookalike.

“Well,” he said, his tone droll. “At least they got the cup right?”

[Alfred]

The experienced eyes fell down onto the empty hand and followed the remote into Bruce’s hands, briefly noting his face before turning to the mute television in comfortable silence. The way Alfred felt about the Wayne family, now reduced to Bruce but still extended to his parents, was a complex and almost indescribable sense of pride and love. As Thomas Wayne’s unending love had deeply affected Alfred, he could only hope to return the feelings in the man’s now adult son. It was the same then as now, that the butler noted every moment, facial expression and word from Bruce and let the analysis process through his head as fast as possible. Having yet to fail at this, he noted the unhappiness festering over the fakes and even the proceeding headline of “Batman’s Return”.

Even for their time together and understanding, there was plenty Alfred could not simply read off the billionaire’s face and this was precisely one of those moments. For his own opinion – which was becoming more loud and frequent with time – the fakes were hazardous to many causes and there might be no appropriate way to handle them. Turning away for a moment, he turned back over his shoulder for some ingenious proposition or plan. When he was greeted with a monotonous genitalia joke, his own serious face turned to that fatherly look of disapproval. Shaking his head, he turned his back on Bruce and left the kitchen for a moment, sharing his British accented opinion loudly,

“And thank goodness, Sir. I would hate Gotham to think Batman’s package was inadequate,” he said loudly and sarcastically, remerging from the kitchen with an envelope and set it on the counter top, an eyebrow raised. It wasn’t as if intimate subjects were embarrassing to talk about (ahem) but that they simply weren’t talked about with him. He, therefore, used the envelope as a subject change to avoid further discomfort. “This is from the new spa on 42nd street. They invite Bruce Wayne and guest for a free tour and complimentary services for .. hmm .. “your efforts”, as they put it.”

His eyebrows rose and dropped as if that was the most ridiculous thing he had ever heard (for it semi-was), and he pat the envelope to insinuate he should take the relaxing deal. Meanwhile, Alfred turned to continue his work per usual, never once wondering if he would enjoy time at a spa or not (he wouldn’t; he’d be thinking about what a waste of time it was).

[Bruce Wayne]

Unable to help himself now that he was in the company of someone who knew the ‘real’ him so well, Bruce’s impish grin was still in place when Alfred returned to the kitchen with the envelope. He enjoyed his little quips and Alfred’s continued admonishments; it was a never-ending game between the pair that Bruce would be lost without. The fatherly advice and good counsel aside, he loved the seemingly gruff nature of his friend dearly and would hardly know which way to turn should that comfort suddenly be snatched from his possession. He thought immediately, of course, of Rachel and the sacrifice that she had made in becoming involved with not only him but also with Gotham’s other hero Harvey Dent. There was a price to pay in fighting for the side of goodness, and Bruce shuddered inwardly to think of what it would mean if that price should rise to his dear friend’s life.

This was why the fake Batmans were dangerous. They didn’t understand the lacklustre reality of being Gotham’s most revered hero one minute and its most despised villain the next. Working with the citizens to capture the guilty was one thing and working alone against the darkness was another. The path that Bruce had found to follow, however, was so far beneath his feet now that even if he turned back he wouldn’t make it to the end before Judgement Day. He had no other alternative but to continue to move, and it was then that he made a decision to stop the false Batmans once and for all. He would need to think about this carefully. Enough innocent people had been hurt on his watch as it was.

“Oh,” was all that registered in Bruce’s mind in relation to the spa invitation. His head was so busy turning over other more industrious thoughts that the brief idea of leaving his plans to bloat in the sun seemed so wasteful, so full of greed. He shook his head briefly, knowing someone that could use the time more effectively than himself. “Actually, could you please have the spa redirect the invitation to Detective Susanna Gossamer at Gotham PD?”

[Alfred]

Alfred’s face showed a small sign of shock immediately after Bruce’s decision. Now, there was nothing else in the world the butler wanted for Bruce than for him to be happy. That obviously included finding someone he loved and trusted, but as the word Detective came out before anything else, Alfred was immediately skeptical. Bruce had naturally been a good judge of character but, as many men before him, women seemed to be his weakness. Taking the invitation back, he placed it on the counter behind him to write a small note of the woman’s name and placed it on top of the letter. He would certainly send it out today, even if he doubted the woman’s intentions.

Next to the letter was a steeping cup of tea hidden by a towel and he lifted it off, revealing a puff of white heat that disappeared immediately. Pulling the tea bag out, he grabbed a spoon, set the bag in the dip of the spoon and wrapped the string around the bag to squeeze out the remains. Setting the spoon in the sink, he turned to Bruce in silence, which was his ultimate move of disapproval or concern when it came to Master Bruce. Lifting the cup to his lips, he drank quietly.

[Bruce Wayne]

Wayne, who could hardly go for any defined period of time without feeding himself these days, plucked an apple from the fruit bowl nearby and took a large, wolfish mouthful despite his digesting breakfast. He wasn’t careless enough to miss the look of shock on his old friend’s face and, knowing Alfred the way he did, Bruce correctly interpreted the older man’s silence as his stern disapproval. Crunching obnoxiously on his apple and allowing the juice to coat his tongue, Bruce simply held the bitten fruit aloft; red, shining and full of innuendo. His would-be grin was obstructed by his mouthful and he merely grinned with his mossy-hued eyes, shrugging his shoulders in a hopeless gesture.

“What?” he asked around the sinful bite, which was far too good to be denied.

[Alfred]

It was often a wonder to Alfred that more people hadn’t been able to see right through Bruce. When he successfully lied to Gordon about the car (which the butler has yet to this day refused to comment on; why the Lamborghini), Alfred would’ve seen right through it. The ignorance isn’t in his eyes despite it successfully written on his face and lips. Perhaps he had lost the idea of perception, that he knew Bruce more than anyone or that some people clearly saw what they wanted. Gotham was out to make the billionaire a playboy, carefree idiot who slept around, partied and burned his mansion down so they were willing to accept his ignorance. Whatever the case may be, in this moment, Bruce Wayne was easier to read than a children’s book. Putting his hand up in a stop like motion, he bowed his head and turned around to set the tea down.

“Your choice in women in your own, Master Bruce,” he butler commented with no sarcasm or hint of a secret message. Disappearing around the corner, Alfred grabbed a few manila envelopes of paperwork and oversight of the construction of the mansion and reappeared, walking behind Bruce to organize them further at his desk.

“One would simply think you wouldn’t choose those designed to snoop,” he finally commented under his breath as he passed back, his face hardly changing to acknowledge his comment or that he even spoke. “You have a meeting at three with your interior designer who insists on giving your room a change from the first house. She wants to bring color tiles, carpet samples and the lot – Shall I tell her you are regretfully unavailable today?” he asked while filing away the envelopes, moving onto the topic without flaw.

[Bruce Wayne]

Had Bruce realised that his old friend saw through his charade with infinite ease happily not afforded to all citizens of Gotham, he might have been wounded. He worked long and hard to develop the hapless hack of a persona that he showed to the world; the womanizing, the extravagance and the insufferable confidence with which he strolled through life seemingly oblivious to Gotham and all its suffering was the perfect alter-ego for Batman, who was painfully aware of it all and then some. He knew that Alfred was the only family he had left and throughout the years they had spent together it was only right that he have some indication of what was behind the mask. In fact, Alfred often had the uncanny ability to know exactly what was going on in his mind, and Bruce wasn’t entirely sure if this comforted him or prickled his conscience. The younger of the pair simply raised an eyebrow when the straightforward comment by the older, choosing for the moment to remain silent and reflect on any hidden meanings that had been implicit between the lines for, with Alfred, there were always morals to the story.

There were all too many expressions that Bruce could have adopted in the moments after Alfred swept by him with his muttered advice. He could have shrugged nonchalantly or perhaps even grinned, for there was no denying that he was amused by Alfred’s keen eye just as much as he was mildly unnerved by the man’s perceptiveness (not that he should have been after all these years). He could have even simply changed the subject, but instead of any of these possible reactions Bruce settled for allowing his face to fold into a mixture between embarrassment, indignation and shame, which only served to make him look like he was 14 again and preparing to ask Rachel to a dance his school was having. On Alfred’s advice he had finally asked her. She’d said no.

He blinked owlishly and allowed his mind to stumble onto the concept of meeting with the interior designer, a lovely woman who insisted on mothering him outrageously. His shoulders crumpled at the thought of having her two him around the semblance of Wayne Manor, her little pet billionaire on a leash. His green eyes whipped to the clock and back. He would still have time to train and shower before heading out of town. Bruce shook his head. “No thanks,” he told Alfred confidently. “I’ll be out there at 3. I might hit the gym first, though. Can you please hold any calls for me, Alfred?” In a flash Bruce was off the counter and in the doorway, pausing for a moment before vanishing. Thinking better of it, he curved a hand around the door frame and leaned back for his parting shot.

“And she’s not a snoop.” With that, Master Wayne was gone.

[Alfred]

Though Alfred was facing away from Bruce, his face certainly expressed surprise that the young man had decided to take on the endeavor. The woman was all too excited in the plans of the house over the house, but then again, anyone who spoke too fast seemed over zealous to him. However, it was refreshing for Alfred that he was taking the rebuilding of the mansion seriously since it had meant a lot to him to begin with. Granted, the butler completely understood the ulterior motives for the rebuilding, but he was happy to see the same house growth again nonetheless. He nodded his head when asked to hold the calls and just as he put away the last piece of paper, Bruce’s comment hit the air. Alfred’s eyebrows raised high on his forehead as he turned around to face him and a small smile appeared on the aged face while shaking his head. Walking over to the empty plates, he picked them up and walked towards the sink.

“No, of course not, sir,” he answered quietly.