Master Bruce brooded for three days.
Alfred dutifully attended to all his usual tasks — the laundry, the intelligence-gathering, the cooking, the Batmobile's oil change — but he also worried over the intense quiet. For all the sadness and tragedy in the Batman's life, Bruce himself had attended very few funerals. More than that, he had spent even less time in the country than he had at funerals.
His black suits went to charity fundraisers, campaign events, and onto the floors of beautiful women. Yet when he returned from Smallville, his laundry had been dusty. If Alfred had taken the time to slip the fabric under the microscope, he knew he would have seen corn spores. That world was not one in which Master Bruce felt comfortable.
Yet Alfred knew it was not the foray into the Bible Belt that had Master Bruce skulking around the manor. It was the man's blockheaded belief that he could have prevented Superman's death. Alfred knew the belief was false because he had taken the time to run the numbers, working up a report that proved the inevitability of Lex Luthor's Doomsday plan. His plan had nothing to do with the contrived showdown between Batman and Superman.
Alfred found it a little frustrating that Master Bruce thought he had control over everything. This was a man, after all, who did not even fold his own underwear.
On the rainy fourth day of brooding, Alfred tackled this very chore. He dumped the laundry basket out on the master bed and folded each black item. A pair of socks rolled together, a pair of boxer briefs neatly creased in the middle… he moved each item without even noticing the monotony of its color or his job. The clean laundry was short one expected piece of clothing from each category. Alfred interpreted that as evidence that Master Bruce had embarked on another all-nighter. When he finished folding, he headed downstairs to suggest a shower and fresh attire. He himself knew that no day could be positive unless it began with a cool shower at 4:45 a.m.
Upon reaching the foot of the stairs, Alfred heard the doorbell. The tinny tinkle rattled through the foyer. His polished shoes tapped on the marble floor as he walked over to answer it, adding to the echoing cacophony in the high-ceilinged room. He looked through the peephole, a needless precaution since whoever had reached the door must have known the gate code.
A woman stood there, and her familiarity tickled at him. She was tall — a man's height — and yet she still wore a pair of elevated red pumps. Her almost exotic beauty made him look a second longer than he would have if she had been plain. He opened the door.
"Hello, madam. How may I help you today?"
Her mouth wiggled at the left corner, a barely suppressed smile trying to escape. "I'm here to speak to Mr. Wayne."
"I am not certain that Mr. Wayne is taking visitors at this time. Please come into the foyer for a moment while I inquire," Alfred replied. He held the heavy door open for her to step inside. Politely, she shook her umbrella outside before doing so. He appreciated the good breeding the gesture represented.
"Wait here please." He nodded to her and walked to the other room to the nearest intercom. He pressed the button, knowing Master Bruce would be downstairs in his lair without confirming it on the camera feed. "Master Bruce, you have a woman here to see you."
The intercom crackled. "What is her name?"
"Why, Master Bruce, I was unaware that you required names from your bevy of women."
Silence from the intercom reprimanded Alfred for his humor before it snapped back to life.
"Tell her I am not interested in seeing anyone right now."
"Yes sir."
Alfred walked back to the foyer. In profile, the woman stood at ease, and he admired the lean, muscular curve of her calves peeking out of her long overcoat. Soldiers always held themselves at attention, too aware of every part of their bodies to ever fully relax. He saw that quality in her stance and realized where he had seen her before.
"Mr. Wayne is not accepting visitors at this time," Alfred began. She opened her mouth to protest, but he continued over her, uncharacteristically bold, "However, I think we should make an exception for Wonder Woman."
She closed her mouth, the soft line of her lips transforming into a smile. She extended her hand, and Alfred closed his around it. Out of respect, he shook her hand firmly, though he would have preferred the customary bow of his head in place of physical contact.
"Diana Prince. It is a pleasure to meet you…" She trailed off, rolling her final word off her tongue in such a way that it became a question.
"Alfred Pennyworth, Miss Prince. The pleasure is entirely mine. Shall I show you to Mr. Wayne?" He relaxed once she released his hand, allow him to return to the starch formality in which he was comfortable.
"That would be wonderful."
She fell into step behind him as he moved through the rooms used for Master Bruce's rare company and into the room used only by the manor's occupants. Once a rebellious, energetic young man had been one of those occupants — not to be confused with the focused, angry youth Master Bruce had been — but Jason Todd's heavy tread had not been heard here in nearly a decade. In fact, his death had quieted many other aspects of the house. Master Bruce had chosen to be alone ever since that loss, alone in a more profound way than ever before. His sadness vibrated in the air here in a house that was increasingly serving as a memorial to Wayne loss.
Today's issue was not Master Bruce's sadness, however transcendent. Today's issue was his stubborn thought that he was responsible for Luthor's villainous undertakings. It was his inability to accept that he had been a pawn in someone else's diabolical game. The only reason one would be unwilling to accept such a thing was boneheaded, misguided pride. To err is human; to believe that one's errors alone change the world is hubris.
"May I ask how Mr. Wayne is doing?" Miss Prince inquired as they walked.
Alfred hesitated, uncertain of how much intimacy he wished to share with a stranger. He remembered speaking into the com-system during the rooftop battle with Doomsday, seeking any answer to the questions Master Bruce fired his way. Through the eyes of the Batsuit, Alfred had seen the ferocity with which Wonder Woman defended humanity and the kindness and deference with which she had treated Superman's body.
If she blamed Master Bruce for Superman's death, she would not be here today.
"He is having difficulty with the loss of Superman," Alfred finally said.
"He blames himself," she said it without the rising inflection of a question. She knew her words were fact, so Alfred did not need to agree.
He touched the pad of his finger to the screen at the metal door and then leaned down to allow the sensor to read his retina. He followed that by speaking the daily passcode — 6617879 — into the voice recognition software. The door sliced open, revealing a wide passageway down into the bowels of the manor. Miss Prince moved right behind him, a body's width back, as he began down the stairs. He could have closed his eyes and walked down without needing the handrail and also without feeling that drop in the pit of his stomach from unexpectedly reaching the last step.
As they reached the main floor below, Alfred saw the cavernous room with fresh eyes, imagining what his guest might be thinking. Machinery whirred and purred on every wall, glass cases containing gadgets glowed under security lighting, and three different Batsuits stood on fiberglass stands, waiting patiently for their chance to fight crime. What extravagance a woman such as Diana Prince must see in this operation.
When she opened her mouth, Alfred expected to hear judgment.
"Did he design all of this himself?"
He turned to look at her wondering face and felt a warm swell of pride. She saw the dedication in this madness of the man he had raised.
"With a little help." It was as close as Alfred came to tooting his own horn.
Master Bruce turned toward them from his space at the center of a command terminal. Scruff and puffiness blurred the sharp planes of his face, but his dark eyes brightened with surprise when he spotted Miss Prince. Alfred wondered if he was able to maintain a stony face as he watched Master Bruce rise from his chair and quickly, awkwardly, smooth his wrinkled shirt and wipe the stress from his face. His hasty movements did little to improve his appearance.
In the presence of company, Alfred addressed with formality.
"Mr. Wayne, Miss Diana Prince needed to see you."
"Thank you, Alfred," Master Bruce met his gaze for a long moment before he turned to Miss Prince. Though they would undoubtedly discuss the inappropriateness of this intrusion later, Wayne manners prevented it now. Other factors must have been preventing all other speech because quiet reigned. Alfred had only seen Master Bruce at a loss for words a handful of times, but his silence stretched out. Miss Prince helped him out. She moved closer, removed her overcoat, and tucked it over her arm. Beneath it, she wore a sleek blue wrap dress. Silver cuff bracelets glinted on her wrists. She cut a striking picture, even in an intimidating room like this one.
"After our dinner the other evening, I expected to hear from you again. I am not accustomed to men not calling me back," she said. She tilted her head to the left ever-so-slightly. "Particularly when I actually desire to hear from them."
Caught off-guard by the sizzle in those words, Alfred began a slow and steady step for the stairs. He balanced his desire to overhear with his polite training to exit when conversation became personal. Even more than that, he struggled against his protective desire to shield Master Bruce from scrutiny. He wanted to be there if his boy needed him.
"I have been busy." Master Bruce's answer sounded tired.
"Busy feeling guilty for a tragedy that was not your fault." Miss Prince's tone showed no sympathy. "I have been through enough wars to recognize Survivor's Guilt."
"Survivor's Guilt is something that happens when you lose an ally and you bear no fault."
"Any fault you bear is eclipsed by factors beyond your control," Miss Prince countered.
"That's not true."
"Bruce, I don't have time for you to be a blockhead," she used the word so casually that for a moment, Alfred feared he had misheard. Wonder Woman surely did not use such language. "If we are going to work together, you must at least be able to set aside personal feelings in order to function. If we are going to go on another dinner date, however, you will have to shave and change your clothes."
Alfred smiled to himself and took the stairs at a normal pace again, his concerns evaporated in the face of Miss Prince's blunt assessment of the situation.
Even the most stubborn of men would be moved by an opportunity to take Wonder Woman to dinner. Master Bruce's blockheadism may well be cured before the evening was out. Behind him, Alfred could already hear conversation blossoming.
He turned left at the top of the stairs to go put on a pot of tea. He now suspected his own night would be quiet.
AN: This fic was written for the /r/fanfiction challengeyourselfchallenge. My assigned word was "blockheadism" - an obscure noun form of a great word.