Disclaimer: They belong to DC. I love them, but I don't own them.
Context: After Officer Down and immediately prior to Bruce Wayne: Murderer. Alfred has left Wayne Manor for Brentwood Academy.
Thanks to Juliet for the beta!
What Comes Out in the Wash
As much as he hated to admit it, Bruce suspected that Alfred might have done him a favor. He'd needed this reminder. After all: it was foolish to rely on something that could be taken from you. Over the years, he'd come to rely on Alfred for far too much. From bandaging his wounds, to cooking his food, to doing his laundry to… well, that was in the past.
Bruce sighed. He hadn't realized before just how dependent he'd grown on the older man. He glanced up at the kitchen ceiling. The stew he'd been planning to have for dinner still hung there, with no sign that that it was likely to come unstuck any time soon. He made a mental note to avoid the pressure cooker in future. As he dialed the number for Luigi's Pizza, he found himself wondering whether it might be more convenient for him to contact their head office and suggest that they open a location on the manor grounds. Perhaps one of the outbuildings could be renovated. His next door neighbor, J. Devlin Davenport would be horrified at the very idea, Bruce thought with an uncharacteristic smirk. This would definitely bear looking into.
After he'd placed the order, Bruce started toward the cave. He took a few steps forward, then stopped. He was forgetting something. Now what… ah! He had to put the wash in the dryer! He shook his head. He honestly didn't know how Alfred had managed to keep everything straight without a day-timer. Still, Bruce thought, he was learning.
Bruce remembered the last time that he'd attempted to do laundry. He'd made the mistake of washing his tux. At least now, he knew what the green circle meant on a washing instructions label. Smiling, he opened the washing machine lid and lifted out an armful of wet clothes.
The smile died.
Gray. Everything in the aforementioned armload was the same shade of dingy gray. Well, not entirely. The Hawaiian print shirt he'd worn because it had literally been the last clean top hanging in his closet unless he wanted to wear the Kevlar to the office—and he'd been debating it—was now several shades of gray. So was the tie-dyed T-shirt that Dick had made for him in grade seven arts-and-crafts. Bruce never dreamed that he'd one day be desperate enough to wear the thing in public. He winced.
On the plus side, it appeared that he was temporarily free from the burden of having to color-coordinate his wardrobe. And it seemed that he had learned three important lessons. First: always remember to separate lights from darks. Second: in the event that lights and darks must be washed together, be sure to do so in cold water. Third… Alfred was irreplaceable.
Bruce nodded to himself. He would call Alfred tonight, after he and Sasha got back from patrol. Alfred would almost certainly still be awake and awaiting Tim's return. It would be the perfect time. He wasn't sure exactly what he was going to say, but, he reflected, Alfred was usually pretty good about reading between the lines. Bruce debated whether he ought to telephone Vesper as well. He definitely owed her an apology. Well, he'd look in on her while he was scouring the city, and check how she was doing. If she'd taken his picture off the dartboard, he'd try to reach her tomorrow. Maybe show up at her door with flowers in the afternoon.
He smiled as he shoved the clothes into the dryer and set the controls at random. With any luck at all, he wouldn't have to deal with problems such as these for very much longer.