He IS… Son
I hear a loud buzzing sound come from the in-house intercom. I glance at the clock- two o'clock in the morning. Master Bruce has arrived earlier than normal- a mere four hours after beginning his patrol. Once, I thought this heralded a desire for an early night. Now I know it to mean that he has found something, and needs the specialized equipment of the Cave to properly analyze it. I rise from my plush chair in the library and head to the kitchen to prepare coffee. Years of experience have taught me that a buzz on the intercom is a request for hot caffeine.
I switch the machine on and set out the cups and the sugar bowl, placing them on a silver serving tray. My memory takes me back to a time long ago. I had come down to my kitchen, intending to prepare breakfast for Master Thomas and Miss Martha. It was their twentieth wedding anniversary, and young Master Bruce had been very excited- he had expressed a desire to surprise them with "somethin' extra- specially nice". I was, therefore, unsurprised to find him in the kitchen attempting to make breakfast. He sat in the midst of a chaotic mess- flour and coffee ground and spilled juice covered the counter. The boy turned to me with an expression of abject misery and said "I tried to make it nice, like you do Alfred, but I messed it up."
I shake my head, dispelling the memory, but another one comes to me unbidden. Master Bruce clutching my chest, sobbing into my waistcoat as his parents are lowered into the grave. I remember how awkward I felt, how I had never intended to be a father, and how I had vowed to myself that this would not change. In the here and now, I smile. How easily a vow breaks.
It was only a week later that I was sitting up with the young boy, talking with him about his nightmares. I tried to calm him down and almost called him my son, but fortunately I refrained. Our relationship must always remain undefined. Master Bruce may think of me as his father, but he will never admit it for fear of doing a disservice to Master Thomas.
I pour the coffee and carry the tray down the endless stairs to the Cave. I pass the display case containing Master Jason's costume and wince. I remember how Master Bruce wept after that lamentable affair concluded- the Joker and Master Jason both apparently dead. How I had comforted him, and how I had sharply told him that it was not his fault.
"After all, Master Bruce, you told Master Jason not to confront the Joker, did you not? You begged him not to do so. He chose to ignore your instructions, and he paid the price. I shall miss the young Master as well, but he was always headstrong." My son needed to hear that, needed someone to tell him that he was not to blame for the tragic death of Jason Todd.
Again, I force myself back to the present. I find Master Bruce sitting in front of the main computer his eyes riveted to the screen. Unusually for him, he has removed his cowl and sits barefaced, bathed in the blue light of the monitor. He speaks without turning, as ever completely aware of everything around him. "What kept you Alfred?". His voice is playful, and I am fully aware that I am one of the very few people who have ever heard him this way.
"I am not the young man I was, Master Bruce. I fear those stairs are getting to be too much for my old bones" I reply. I see him wince. Few things disturb the vaunted Batman, but I know that the prospect of losing me is a fear that Master Bruce struggles with. For myself, I have seen too much of death and loss for either to remain frightening. As often occurs with gentlemen of a certain age, death has lost much of its sting to me. Nevertheless, I take pity on Master Bruce and continue "If you were to install an elevator in this blasted cave, I would be able to bring you refreshment with far greater ease"
That leads us into the familiar argument of comfort versus secrecy. I hold that an elevator would make access to the cave far simpler for me. Master Bruce maintains that such work could never be accomplished without compromising his secret identity. Never said is his true motivation- that if he were to install an elevator it would be a tacit acceptance of my mortality and eventual death.
Finally, a beeping from the computer ends the argument. I raise an eyebrow, and the young master correctly interprets this as a request for an explanation.
"I set the computer to search for the appropriate context for the clippings the Riddler sent. I also instructed it to put the in chronological order… ah, I thought so. The highlighted text spells out a message, and when read in chronological order it says… 'What standard was broken, yet still remains good?'. Hmmm…"
Fortunately for Master Bruce, I was reading a historical text before he called for me. "Gold sir. The gold standard was abandoned by the world in the seventies, yet we continue to use the phrase 'good as gold', which was inspired by that same standard". The master looks at me, and his eyes are much the same as they were on the morning of his parents anniversary, when I turned his mess into a delicious meal. Its nice to know I can still impress my son, Batman or not.
Still, he recovers quickly. Turning to his computer, he resumes typing, finally finding what he was looking for. "I thought so. There's a large shipment of gold bars arriving in Gotham tomorrow night. Undoubtedly that's what the Riddler is after. Thank you Alfred, why don't you go to bed?"
I raise my eyebrow again "What a marvelous thought, sir. If I may say so, it's small wonder you are acclaimed as the smartest man in the Justice League." Turning to the stairs, I tactfully ignore the muttered comment that sounds like 'hardly a great achievement'. Before returning upstairs I turn back to take another look at him. My employer. My charge. My son.
Batman.
A/N
I like Alfred. The only man on the planet who can make fun of Batman without any fear or repercussions.