Chapter Text
Bruce getting caught was inevitable. Alfred could move like a ninja when he wanted to—and obviously, he had wanted to, because when had he ever passed up the opportunity to surprise Bruce at the worst possible moment? It was like some strange marriage contract: for better or for worse, in sickness and in health—though they didn’t talk about health; the subject made Alfred cranky.
So there was no warning: no lights flicking on in the corridor, no shuffle of shoes, no clink of china. Alfred must have been standing at the door for a while, observing Bruce. His eyes, sparkling with concealed mirth, spelled trouble.
“Maybe we should buy a scrapbook, Master Bruce. They’ve already printed some nice stickers of him.”
Half a dozen screens displayed the public’s latest obsession: a tall, dark-haired man in a tight blue onesie and a long red cape.
I’m not collecting pictures of kittens, Alfred. Perhaps if he kept his sentences short and dignified, Alfred would believe him. I’m conducting scientific research.
Alfred hummed, the sound halfway between amusement and disapproval.
Al, don’t be annoying.
“Maybe a pajama shirt too,” his butler-slash-nurse-slash-bodyguard mused. “They make them in adult sizes, with his logo on the front. According to Miss Lane’s interview, that symbol on his chest means ‘hope’ in his native language. There’s never enough of that around.”
Way to make Bruce feel guilty. Alfred shook his head. “Don’t give me those eyebrows, Master Bruce. If I may say so, I haven’t seen you this enthusiastic in years—and why not? He is something extraordinary, isn’t he? Perhaps this research of yours has some potential to expand the social circle of this household.”
If Bruce had been capable of blushing, he would have been as red as a beetroot. He turned his eyes from Alfred’s knowing face to the clock. The numbers in the corner of his screen hadn’t changed much since the last time he checked. Still a little over two hours until sunset.
He could feel the sun through the roof and walls of Wayne Manor. The cruel sphere of burning plasma made his bones and flesh ache for the cool darkness of night. The light and heat pressed him deeper into the mattress, made his breath wheeze and his eyes sting with unshed tears of pain.
I have an idea.
“Oh dear.”
Al, shut up. I’m not going out tonight.
“I see. And what will you be doing instead of your daring but stealthy rescues of Gotham’s innocent citizens?”
Meet me in the drawing room. I need a printout of that picture.
Bruce moved his eyes, and a cursor followed across the screen. The sophisticated eye-controlled computer and voice synthesizer were products of his own company. The things he was beta-testing would have many applications for people who were disabled but—unlike Bruce himself—actually alive.
Alfred came beside the bed and removed Bruce’s oxygen mask. Bruce sucked weakly from the sippy cup Alfred placed between his lips; the taste and scent of roses filled his mouth—his favorite concoction.
“Master Bruce, this would be much less painful for you if you let me—”
No!
Bruce didn’t want to sleep. A little death—whoever coined that phrase for sleep had known exactly what they were talking about. And what use were those brief moments without pain if they only make him feel worse afterward? The readings from Bruce’s body must have looked bad if Alfred was offering drugs hours before they would become nonessential.
Alfred replaced the oxygen mask over Bruce’s mouth and nose. Bruce’s eyes flicked to the clock again. Alfred noticed and shook his head, looking, for a fleeting moment, every bit his age.
*
There had been a time—years ago, surely—when Alfred had come home with a puppy. The dog had been as big as a calf and just as clumsy, still a stupid, overenthusiastic child. But she had the most soulful brown eyes Bruce had ever seen, a thick mane of jet-black fur, and, unlike most other animals, she wasn’t afraid of him. Quite the opposite. When he returned from his nightly patrols, joyful barking greeted him in the parlor. Her paws landed on his shoulders as slobbery kisses tried to cover every inch of his face.
When Ace finally passed away, Bruce insisted she be buried in the Wayne family cemetery. For years afterward, he visited her grave more often than he did his parents’ or siblings'—a fact that would have made him feel like a terrible person, if he still considered himself one. And no more dead jokes, Master Bruce, Alfred would have said about the matter.
As usual, his senses misinterpreted the clickety-clack of his own toenails for her paws, and he half expected her to dash across the hall to greet him—until he remembered the little tomb in the graveyard. A brief pang of melancholy stirred before he crushed the feeling as unnecessary.
Sharp toenails and parquet floors didn’t mix well, but Alfred had suggested that Bruce shouldn't fly indoors. The fly ban—because it was foolish to think of Alfred’s words as anything less—had come after the man’s patience finally reached its limits with the third or fourth broken antique vase. Bruce hadn’t realized he owned so many hideous knickknacks Alfred considered family heirlooms, nor did he understand why they had to be preserved. When you inherited yourself every five decades, sentimentality lost its luster. If he wanted to remember his parents, he had the original daguerreotypes. He didn’t need a broken grandfather clock to walk him down memory lane.
In the drawing room, Alfred had, as always, gone overboard. Print me a picture, Bruce had said. What he got was a vinyl banner in actual size.
“Alfred…”
“I took the liberty of photoshopping Miss Lane out of the picture.”
Bruce huffed, but he couldn’t deny the startling likeness. The red cape hung gracefully from broad shoulders, and Bruce wondered whether it served any practical purpose or was merely for dramatic effect. The man’s face was like carved marble—delicate, yet chiseled with a mature, masculine beauty.
Bruce crooked his index finger and traced the perfect cheekbone with his knuckle. The man’s face seemed to glow against his skin. A light among the darkness. "Do I really want to burn this badly?" he mumbled. "And by burning, I mean it literally."
“Yes, Master Bruce, I am well aware of what you mean. If you’re quite finished with your clumsy witticisms—which would make Mr. Wilde roll in his grave—here is the tablet you asked for. As he said—”
“No quotes from him,” Bruce cut in. “Ever. I told him that young man wasn’t worth his devotion, and guess what—I was right! Damn coward, hiding behind his father’s coattails and letting Oscar rot in prison.”
Something clicked in Bruce’s mind. He narrowed his eyes at Alfred’s unreadable expression. “Alfred, are you implying my research into this fine specimen of Übermensch might have a deviant undertone?”
Alfred was a master of sighing without ever exhaling audibly. “Master Bruce, perhaps try not to quote Nietzsche when you meet him. As you should know, that particular philosopher carries a certain reputation these days—fair or not.” His voice deepened slightly. “And I wish you would stop speaking of yourself in such demeaning terms. Times have changed.”
Perhaps they had. Poor Oscar had rotted in prison because of a wisp of a man he could now legally marry. Even the thought made Bruce’s throat ache with a growl.
“That’s the spirit, Master Bruce,” Alfred said, clapping his hands. Perhaps Bruce had snarled at him. “Well? What do you think? Big and detailed enough for your inspiration?”
“It’ll do.”
And yes—it was quite inspirational. Bruce selected a photo from his collection, balanced a stylus between his fingers, and began sketching on his tablet. The color couldn’t be blue; that would be too obvious. He was an equal, not a fanboy. His current coat was dark gray, but perhaps black would serve better—dark like Ace’s fur. She’d looked like liquid shadow when she prowled the kitchen, waiting to steal the treats Alfred “accidentally” left unattended.
“And what would that be, I pray to tell… oh.”
Yes, oh. Alfred had no trouble recognizing the dark-haired young man of the original photo as Bruce, even if his figure quickly vanished beneath firm, confident strokes. The boots were fine, but sturdier ones with metal tips would be better. The vest looked good, but too impractical. And he certainly didn’t need a sad-looking spaniel or those three dead mallards hanging from the man’s hand.
The gentleman hunter was turning into something else. Bruce waited for reproach but none came. Alfred only looked thoughtful, tapping his cheek as he glanced at the bright figure on the banner.
“He’s very cheery,” Alfred said. “But that’s not the tone you’re going for, is it? You’re not aiming for approachable. More like… a ghost? A dark avenger?”
An old Gotham legend given flesh—Alfred’s meaning was clear. A grim protector who hid in the shadows.
"He’ll need a mask," Bruce murmured, slipping into the third person. He shaded the man’s face black, leaving only narrow slits for the eyes.
“No, no. Leave the lower half uncovered. There’ll be times when the situation calls for some teeth.”
“Alfred!” Bruce was scandalized.
“A threat, a promise, Master Bruce. Nothing more. If you’re going to compete with our new friend, you might as well see whose cape is longer.”
"It’s a cowl," Bruce grumbled.
“No, that looks too much like Little Red Riding Hood,” Alfred muttered. “All that fabric will block your vision. Make it tighter. And add some kind of… horns? Yes, that’s it.”
Bruce added volume to the cape. The result oozed danger and mystery—a lovechild of the Phantom of the Opera and the Grim Reaper himself. Alfred’s faint tells betrayed that he was impressed, though he hid it behind his usual sarcasm.
“What’s suddenly wrong with your overcoat? It’s long enough to look quite dashing when you leap from roof to roof.”
It had been a foolish idea anyway. Bruce prepared to delete the changes, but Alfred caught his arm. The touch made Bruce tense—not because it felt bad, but because it felt like too much.
“Maybe… maybe it’s time for a new puppy?”
He’d loved to bury his hands in Ace’s soft fur, to hide his face against her flank and whisper all the sad, broken things into her understanding canine ears.
Alfred shook his head, his voice filled with a terrible, undeserved tenderness.
“There’s no shame in wanting to belong, in hoping to find someone who understands how exhausting it is to be extraordinary. To want to be touched and cherished without fear or disgust—it’s the most natural thing in the world.”
His quick denial turned into a submissive shrug. Had he ever been able to hide anything from Alfred? “Nice word for a soul-sucking freak, Al.”
Alfred didn’t correct him, though disapproval radiated from him like heat. Bruce changed the subject. “I did some research about materials. Spandex would be the most convenient, I think.”
Alfred snorted. “You won’t wear that. You’re going into battle, not doing aerobics. We’ll use Kevlar for the torso and head. The cape should meet NFPA 701 standards—fireproof fibers or flame-retardant chemicals.”
Fire had never been a friend. Alfred could say that again. But bulletproof? That seemed excessive.
“It’s for tactical advantage, Master Bruce. You don’t show all your cards at once. Better to have an ace up your sleeve if your contact turns hostile.”
That was entirely possible. What if that impossible being didn’t like what he saw? What if he dragged Bruce into the sunlight to burn? He needed only to circle Bruce’s head and squeeze. His hands possessed enough power to stop a racing locomotive.
He’d once asked Alfred what he saw when he looked at him. I see you, Master Bruce. I see you.
Bruce had never dared ask again.
The first versions of the new wardrobe would be ready in a few days, if Bruce knew Alfred at all. But was it all in vain? Was he indulging himself while real people with real problems went unaided?
“I’ll hardly impress him,” Bruce murmured. “He flies too—and he’s stronger than I am.”
Alfred nodded toward the banner. “Let’s not forget his most devious superpower. Perhaps he’s a shapeshifting alien. In this form, though, he’s quite a dashing young fellow.”
“Indeed.”
He had managed to surprise Alfred for once. The old butler had expected denial or self-deprecation. “Master Bruce…”
“Stop it, Alfred.”
“Very well,” Alfred said softly. “But what I meant was—Metropolis isn’t that far. Don’t worry, Master Bruce. He’ll come out to play. Who could resist solving a mystery?”