Bruce Wayne was done being Batman. He was approaching 50 and he just wanted to relax, eat ravioli smothered in parmesan, and sleep like a normal person. The kids were taking over anyway, teens in better shape and with better knees than Bruce had from all the running and fighting he did for decades. So Bruce went on a trip around the world. He visited the French countryside, Mumbai—even though he still called it Bombay—and even traveled down to Cape Town, just to prove to himself that not all of Africa was just depressingly poor with every other baby getting eaten by a vulture. He went to Beirut, not for the history, but for the Jazz Festival. He drank dark beers and swayed in the heat to music that made no sense to him, sweating like he was trapped in a sauna.
He loved it all, but he knew he had to go back. Bruce had to show his face at Wayne Enterprises, even if he was hungover and miserable. So he eventually made his way back to his estate, finding Alfred just as he'd left him, sweeping the invisible dust off the porch. Alfred squinted as Bruce approached him, his face confused then surprised. Alfred opened his mouth but then closed it.
"Sir, you look different," Alfred said.
Bruce was out of breath from climbing the stairs to the porch. Maybe it was the afternoon sun getting to him, maybe the steps. How many were there, 10, maybe 20? God, it felt like a hundred. Why were there so many? He decided to demolish half of them. Immediately.
"You mean fat, Alfred," Bruce huffed. "I got fat."
"Sir, you only retired a few months ago. This is rather...sudden," Alfred said.
"It happens all the time. Look at what happened to Val Kilmer. Barbara Streisand. It's just what happens to retired people."
"Even Val Kilmer had a limit," Alfred countered as he opened the door for both of them. "When will your bags be arriving, sir?"
"Sometime tomorrow. I'm gonna go take a nap; the time difference from South Korea is killing me. And get rid some of these stairs."
And Bruce slept. He dreamed about Dick and his little friends, eager to fight crime, comparing battle scars and swapping stories about when they apprenticed under the adults. Bruce wondered if Dick thought about his old man, if he was eating right, not that downtown garbage with the greasy hamburgers that oozed American cheese out the center. It would make him fat, not that Bruce was one to talk, but it would slow him down on the chase, on the fights. Bruce wished he could see Dick, just to visit, see if he's all right. He was sure Alfred knew where the boy wonder was. Bruce was sure Alfred was sending him money.
"Master Wayne?" Alfred parted the curtains and let the moon shine on Bruce's face. "Your bags have arrived."
"You mean I slept for a day?" Bruce asked, groggily.
"More than that, sir. Approximately 28 hours." Alfred stepped aside to reveal a shadow behind him. "You also have a visitor."
Bruce squinted, but he couldn't make out anything in the darkness. He turned on the antique lamp next to him, revealing Alfred and Dick. Bruce fumbled out of bed and stood up to greet his former sidekick. "Hey, kid," he said awkwardly, almost ashamed of what he'd become. Unlike Bruce, Dick was in prime condition. His white shirt revealed the hard muscle built from training and fighting. The leather jacket that had been loose when he left home was stretched tight, pulling at the shoulders. He looked taller, past six feet, since the last time Bruce saw him.
"You must've missed me pretty badly, huh?" Dick asked. He grinned. "You look terrible."
Alfred served Dick a Juicy Lucy and Bruce a garden salad, no meat, in the dining room. Bruce watched with jealousy as Dick bit into the burger, watching the melted cheese slither out from between the patties and onto the plate. Bruce looked at his salad. How the hell was this considered a meal? How did anyone eat this and feel satisfied? He stabbed at the lettuce and eyed the kitchen door. "ALFRED, MAKE ME ONE OF THOSE!" he roared.
"Not unless you want a cardiac arrest, Master Wayne."
Fucking salad, Bruce thought. Not even Cape Town gave him salad as a meal.
"How's the Baby Justice League?" Bruce asked.
"It's Young Justice. And we're doing fine," Dick replied. "We're really learning how to fight as a team, you know? As they say, safety in numbers."
"You, uh, living okay? Eating okay?"
"Yeah. The government's actually paying us to fight crime. Pretty crazy, huh? Never thought I'd see the day," Dick said. He pointed the burger at Bruce. "You wanna bite?"
"Master Grayson, if you allow Master Wayne to eat your dinner, I will never cook for you again. Master Wayne, finish your salad."
Dick shrugged. "Sorry," he mouthed. "So, it looks like you're enjoying life on the...calmer side."
"You mean the Casual Male XXL side. Maybe you aren't wearing your contacts, because I'm bigger than a humpback whale."
"Hey, it happens. Are you, I dunno, depressed? Depression does that to people, you know. Did you consider seeing a shrink?" Dick asked.
"Listen, Dick-"
"It's Rich now."
Bruce took in a deep, annoyed breath. "Listen, Rich. I know you're not a little kid anymore, you think you know something about the world now, but you don't. You're young, naive, and trust me, there are plenty of things you don't know about me. And I'm sure as hell not depressed. I'm just at a point in my life where I feel like I don't have to be that person, the guy who has everything, the guy every other guy hates. So what if I'm the size of Sears Tower? It makes me human."
"It's Willis Tower now, not Sears."
Bruce wanted to tell Dick to shut the fuck up.
Dick stood up and stuck out a hand, and Bruce reluctantly shook it. "Listen, I wish I could stay and chat, but tonight's a little on the busy side. I'll see you later," Dick said. "Good luck with the whole retirement thing."
"See you later, Dick."
"It's Rich."
"Yeah."
Alfred came out of the kitchen and led Dick to the front door. Bruce held up the silver tray to his face, just to see the damage one more time. Dick, he looked the way Bruce did half a lifetime ago, something Bruce could only sort of get back with Botox and plastic surgery. He couldn't help but feel jealous of his youth. Bruce's grizzly beard was peppered with gray, and his once sharp chin was blurred from the second one growing beneath it. Whatever, it's not like anyone cared anymore. Poison Ivy sent her son off to Brown, and Harley Quinn's daughter was getting married next June. Cat Woman only screamed over the phone from her fluctuating menopausal hormones, and Bruce couldn't even think about what the rest of the former women of his life were like now. He knew they were all getting old, and that was that.