Help!, a batman fanfic

Summary: Batman learns to accept help in his never-ending battle.

Disclaimer: All characters belong to DC and Time/Warner; this is an original story that doesn't intend to infringe on their copyright. "Help!" song lyrics are the copyright of Lennon and McCartney. Feedback is welcome.

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Help!

By Syl Francis

(With a little help from my "friends," Lennon and McCartney)

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"When I was younger, so much younger than today,

I never needed anybody's help in any way..."

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"He says he doesn't want my help."

Alfred stared into his teacup as he spoke, concentrating on the odd pattern formed by the dark leaves that had settled to the bottom. The tea leaves inexplicably reminded him of his grandmother, a grand dame of the London stage. He'd loved visiting her back stage, meeting the other actors, and dressing up.

Alfred recalled how she'd always made his visits special, serving a sumptuous high tea just for the two of them. He'd eagerly looked forward to the piece de resistance: His grandmother's dramatic reading of the tea leaves. He smiled ruefully at the memory. Grandmother never could have predicted this situation, he thought. A warm hand reached across the kitchen table and gently enclosed his, bringing him back to the present.

"He doesn't know what he wants."

Alfred finally looked up into Leslie's warm, lovely eyes. As always, they reminded him of a clear blue sky after a spring rain. And as always, his stomach lurched suddenly, spinning out of control in a topsy-turvy jig. He swallowed but didn't look away. In response to her words, Alfred sadly shook his head.

"Master Bruce has known exactly what he wants, since--since that terrible night." Both instantly went back to the night Bruce Wayne's parents were murdered in front of him. "He wants justice."

"Does he? Does he really?" Leslie took a sip of her tea and shook her head. "I'm not so sure..." She gazed frankly at Alfred. "Revenge, perhaps. Vengeance, surely. But justice?" Standing, Leslie took both of their empty cups and saucers to the sink and rinsed them out, the stillness in the kitchen broken only by the soft sound of running water.

Alfred watched as she deliberately took a kitchen towel and gently dried each delicate dish. Placing the final saucer in the dish rack, Leslie stood for a moment with her back to him. Straightening her shoulders, she turned and faced him.

"Alfred, since Bruce returned from overseas, he's been so driven. He never smiles anymore. He doesn't show any interest in Wayne Enterprises." She held up her hand to forestall Alfred from interrupting. "And don't give me any of that--that--bat guano!--about the company being in the capable hands of Lucius Fox! You know that a Wayne has been at the helm of the company since Bruce's grandfather first started it."

Alfred reluctantly nodded in agreement.

"He just sits in that dark cave and broods," Leslie added. She returned to the table and again reached across the table and gently took Alfred's hand in hers. "I'm worried, Alfred. I'm worried that we're losing him." Leslie looked away, then down, anywhere but him. "I'm worried that we've lost him already."

Again, Alfred nodded in reluctant agreement.

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"But now these days are gone, I'm not so self-assured,
Now I find I've changed my mind and opened up the doors..."

****

Alfred blinked as he cut through the narrow beam of garish light thrown by a single, incandescent bulb. Most of the gigantic cavern was still in deep shadow, and the occasional sounds of fluttering wings and high-pitched squeaks reminded him of the presence of the cave's natural denizens. Alfred held a tray loaded with a thick, overflowing roast beef sandwich, a bowl of tomato basil soup, a chocolate brownie, and a tall glass of milk.

He gave a mental sigh. Would Bruce eat the tray's contents or ignore them just as he'd ignored almost every other meal Alfred had left him? Except this morning, Alfred reminded himself. This morning Master Bruce actually noticed what I brought him. As he made his way through the Batcave's gloomy interior, the far walls echoed eerily with the sound of metal striking metal, punctuated with an occasional curse word.

"Aw, Kee-rist!"

At this, Alfred indignantly slammed the tray on a console and walked up to a pair of feet sticking out from underneath a monster car. "Master Bruce!" he admonished sharply, kicking the feet for emphasis. He heard a startled ~thump~ followed by a metallic object striking concrete.

"Ouch! Hey, what was that for?" the muffled protest came from beneath the car. The feet suddenly disappeared, but were quickly replaced by the bewildered face of Alfred's young employer. "You kicked me!" Bruce said accusingly.

"Yes. And I'll do so again, the next time I hear such language from you, young man. I did not raise you to take the name of our Lord in vain! And mission or no mission to rid Gotham of its evil element--mask or no mask--I will not have you resort to such vulgar, uncivilized language!" Both men glared at each other. Bruce looked away first and nodded contritely.

"You're right, Alfred," he said ashamedly. "Sorry." Nodding, Alfred turned on his heel and pointed at the lunch tray without looking back.

"Your lunch is on the table, Master Bruce. I'll be back in an hour. And I'd better not find it still uneaten." Alfred allowed himself a small smile as the sounds of Bruce scrambling behind him to reach the tray bounced back and forth through out the cave.

As he made his way back to the manor, Alfred recalled how only last month he'd watched Bruce string a set of lights high up in the ceiling of the Batcave. Since his return from his several years-long overseas travels, Bruce had worked steadily in the dark cave, cleaning it, adding work shelves, and an independent power source.

Although Bruce insisted on working alone and refused all offers of help, Alfred had assisted in his own quiet way--sweeping what needed to be swept, dusting whatever needed dusting--an impossible task, but one he tackled with gusto--and bringing meals three times a day that largely went uneaten.

A butler's work is never done, Alfred sighed.

Last week, Bruce installed a bank of strange, electronic equipment--computers, Alfred realized--and after bringing them online, he remained seated at the space age console well into the wee hours. This morning as in all the previous mornings since Bruce had installed the computers, Alfred discovered him still glued to the giant screen.

A series of mug shots appeared rapidly before them, finally settling on that of a nightmarish clown. The clown's maniacal eyes glared down on them, his face frozen in a permanent rictus grin. Alfred shuddered.

Not speaking, the loyal butler silently laid a breakfast tray at his young master's elbow and left, the clown's fanatical eyes leaving him feeling slightly unsettled. Later, when he returned to collect the tray, he found to his delight that Bruce had eaten everything on it. Glancing at the computer screen, he thankfully saw that the clown face was gone, replaced by a 'normal'-looking thug named 'Rupert Thorne.'

Not speaking, Alfred had retrieved the tray and turned to leave. As he climbed the stairs to the manor, a gruff voice behind him muttered, "Thanks." Smiling, Alfred felt a sudden weight lift from his shoulders. With a much lighter step, he quickly made his way back up to the secret entrance leading into the study.

Now, stepping from behind the grandfather clock, Alfred dutifully pushed it back against the wall. About to walk out of the study, his eye caught the larger-than-life wedding portrait of Thomas and Martha Wayne. Gazing up at them, he nodded gravely. "I believe our boy is going to be all right."

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"And now my life has changed in oh so many ways,
My independence seems to vanish in the haze..."

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"Master Bruce...are you absolutely certain--?" Alfred left the rest of the question unasked. He caught his employer's dark glare in the rearview mirror and shook his head. "Very well, sir...if you insist on pursuing this questionable line of work, I will offer no further protest. But don't come running to me if you happen to get yourself banged up."

At Alfred's words, Bruce allowed himself a small smile. "I'm not six years old anymore, Alfred. I can take care of myself."

"So you keep saying..." Alfred retorted under his breath. Not bothering to respond, Bruce finished checking his equipment belt. Satisfied, he pulled a dark ski mask over his face.

"The word on the street is that Rupert Thorne's mob is expecting a big shipment tonight. I'm just going to take a little looksee--that's all." He paused. "I'm sorry to involve you, Alfred, but the new car isn't ready for action, yet--"

"--And you want me to drive the car away from the Gotham City dockyards, and thus, reduce the risk of anyone tracing it back to you. In case anything happens." He rolled his eyes and muttered, "It's so nice to be needed."

In a rare show of affection, Bruce reached over and placed a reassuring hand on his childhood guardian's shoulder. "Don't worry, old friend, I'll be all right." Opening the curbside rear passenger door, he added, "I'll give you a call on the two-way when I'm done," and slipped into the night.

Headlights off, Alfred placed the Bentley in gear and drove off into the darkness.

"I should've remained on the stage," he muttered. Or in Her Majesty's Secret Service, he added silently.

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"But every now and then I feel so insecure,
I know that I just need you like I've never done before..."

****

"Alfred...?" The agonized whisper sent an immediate chill down Alfred's back. Instantly, he grabbed the hand mike.

"Master Bruce? Are you all right? Where are you?" He waited for a response. "Master Bruce?!" Impatiently, he slammed the mike down and threw the Bentley into gear. Not caring about being spotted, Alfred pulled a 180, and leaving a trail of burning rubber, roared off in the direction he'd dropped off Bruce.

He parked in the shadows between two large warehouses located about a block from the docks. As calmly as he could, Alfred walked around to the rear of the car and opened the trunk. He dragged out a box-like apparatus, and taking out a screwdriver, opened the front panel. Working quickly, Alfred rearranged some of the internal wiring, making a few necessary adjustments.

Finished, he restored the front panel, studying the instrumentation. It was a powerful two-way radio that Bruce had temporarily jury-rigged onto the Bentley. Now, with a few adjustments learned during his younger, more adventurous days, Alfred had turned it into a radio direction finder.

Shaking his head, he tsked slightly. "Sloppy work," he murmured. "Obviously, I've grown a bit rusty." Making a few more adjustments, he added, "If I'm going to be of any use to Master Bruce in his dark mission, I'm going to have to sharpen my dulled skills...There! That should do it!" Connecting the mike to the receiver-transmitter, he spoke into it.

"Master Bruce, can you hear me? Come in, please." Alfred waited a few seconds for a response and then called again. He was about to abandon the radio, when he was suddenly rewarded with a weak, one-word reply.

"Alfred...?" That was all the former stage actor and British agent needed. Moving two dials on the front of the radio, he nodded in grim satisfaction when they simultaneously peaked before falling back.

"Don't worry, Master Bruce." Alfred firmly shut the trunk and took off in the direction indicated. "I'm coming."

****

"Help me if you can, I'm feeling down
And I do appreciate you being round.
Help me, get my feet back on the ground,
Won't you please, please help me?"

****

Alfred read the same page for the third time. Sighing, he laid the book aside and stood. He was pulling an all-night vigil by Bruce's bedside. Every few minutes, he'd get up and gently run his fingers down his charge's cheek. The rough stubble on his employer's chin reminded Alfred yet again, that the boy he'd raised was now a man--a man driven by inner demons that would never allow him to sit back and lead a quiet, normal life.

For the seemingly hundredth time, he checked the young man's bandages. Bruce had regained consciousness just long enough to report what had happened. During his investigation, Bruce found out that the Thorne mob had been waiting for a large shipment of weapons. He'd succeeded in sneaking onto the merchant vessel and uncovering its clandestine cargo. Unfortunately, he'd been discovered before he could make good his escape.

Alfred shook his head. The young man had been lucky, pure and simple. He'd managed to fight them off--his extensive martial arts training had paid off, apparently--but there were too many of them. Plus, they were heavily armed. Bruce had been quickly surrounded, and although he gave a good accounting for himself, couldn't hold them off for long.

"Their sheer numbers, coupled with his inexperience, worked against Master Bruce." Knowing that he couldn't fight them all off, Bruce opted to dive overboard. Thorne's men opened fire, and at least one of them got off a lucky shot, grazing Bruce along the temple. He'd weaved in and out of consciousness just enough to avoid drowning, and Alfred thanked fate for sparing his boy.

Alfred had found him under a pier, clinging to a pylon. Before losing consciousness yet again, Bruce had tied himself to the pylon with his equipment belt. Looking down at the sleeping form, Alfred felt his chest swell with pride at the memory.

"Inexperienced you may be, young sir, but you make up for it with quick thinking and sheer guts."

"Thanks..."

Startled, Alfred looked down into Bruce's dark blue eyes. They were slightly glazed due to the medication Leslie had pumped into him. Sitting carefully on the side of the bed, Alfred took his charge's hand in his.

"How do you feel, lad?"

"Like...an elephant...sat on my head..."

"And well you should," Alfred chastised. "Of all the wild, ill-conceived, idiotic--!" Alfred stopped, unable to come up with words that were strong enough to express his feelings. The knowledge that he'd almost lost his boy that night had left him feeling shaken. He felt a slight pressure on his hand, and again held Bruce's drug-dulled eyes.

"Alfred..." Bruce whispered. Alfred had to lean in closer to hear him better. "Thank you..." Bruce blinked, fighting to focus. "...For always being there...for me..." He closed his eyes at the effort, falling into a deep sleep. Alfred gave Bruce's hand a slight squeeze and gently lay it down.

Returning to his bedside chair, he picked up his book and opened it to where he'd left off. Settling in comfortably, Alfred smiled.

"Sleep well, lad. And when you wake, I'll be here by your side. And every day after that."

****

"When I was younger, so much younger than today,
I never needed anybody's help in any way.
But now these days are gone, I'm not so self assured,
Now I find I've changed my mind and opened up the doors."

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The End