When Batman arrived back at the mansion, it was well past midnight and was just barely been conscious. He stepped out into the Batcave slowly, stripped off his cowl and his cape as he moved across the dark expanse of stone. Though he was sure he was for all purposes still living, his heartbeat and his movements were mechanical, operating not from necessity but design. It made sense, actually. At this point, everything the vigilante did was because he'd been programmed to. Everything he said and did, even things like eating and sleeping and breathing, were calculated. And they were cold. He lived like a machine did, with every thought and action limited to a pool of choices over which he'd had no say, and yet he had none of the benefits of being built from twisting wires and steel. If the vigilante could turn a dial or flip a switch, if he could be reset or turned off or just somehow, suddenly, change, then he would gladly have reached for the button himself-he looked up at the vast, cavernous ceiling, filled up with darkness and damp and the echoes of his footsteps as he drifted through corridors and rose up stairs-but it was naïve to ask for more than what one was given. Still, after years of picking up the bill for everyone else, he wondered if it was too much to ask that he at least be given what was actually his.

When he entered the mansion from the batcave and started to move towards his bedroom, he lingered for a moment on the marble staircase. Above was the crystal chandelier that was eternally speared by moonlight and the windows on every side fell in and out of darkness with the passing clouds, as though they had invisible shutters that billowed in a quiet wind. Night slanted this way and that across the marble, battling against the moon and stars for domain over the floor, but it already had the corners and the ceiling and was slowly encroaching on the entirety of the room.

The mansion had never been a warm place. Even as a child, when his parents were still alive and his nights were certain and secure, its vastness, with all its eternally empty spaces and always unwalked halls, had made it lonely. It wasn't a biting loneliness, not the type that made you curl up in the corner and cry. It was the sort that numbed you over time; that tugged at you gently and uttered whispered words before pulling you down and swallowing you whole.

"Master Bruce."

He started out of his reverie and saw there that Alfred was standing at the base of the stairs. He was still in his work clothes and his face look as if it had put on a few years over night. Bruce didn't have to ask to know what he'd been doing. Alfred had been up worrying in the sitting room as per usual, staring worriedly at walls and watches while awaiting Bruce's return, and if he kept it up he was likely going to kill himself. Still, there was something about his tight, irritated expression that made Bruce wanted to smile, though he never did. When Alfred got an eyeful of him, his face soured with worry, which was odd because the vigilante wasn't anymore beat up than usual—quite the opposite, he'd actually come out pretty well for once. Was it something in his face, then? Something in his eyes?

"Where in the world have you been?" said the butler in his concerned-patriarch voice. "Are you aware that the sun's about to rise? Do you know what the means?" He put his hands on his waist. "It means you've been out longer than the bloody moon, sir."

"You could have just called me."

"I did, but I couldn't get through. I thought we talked about this," Alfred sighed. "If you want to muck about in the city until dawn, then at least keep your communications open so that when you don't answer I at least know where to find your dead body so I can give you're a proper burial."

"Well, in any case I'm back," said Batman, but there was nothing in his voice that seemed to mean it. "And I'm alright." His words quivered on the lie. "So I'm going to bed."

"Then allow me to escort you." Alfred began to ascend the stairs, and as he came up Bruce moved back—if they came close enough, he was worried there were things he would be unable to hide. The butler noticed and paused on the steps. Whatever it was he'd noticed in Bruce from the foyer, maybe he'd already seen too much of it. No, Batman could see it already—on the painful, whispered words that hissed inside his chest, Alfred didn't need to eavesdrop. He didn't want to know.

And that was fine—no. It was good. Because in spite of himself, Bruce didn't want Alfred to know either. Though it was something only mentioned with passing, wry smiles and wan words, Alfred was one of those strange sort of optimists who always expected something, anything at all, to come from what was there. It wasn't a hope for good or bad, it was just hope, lying all alone quiet and waiting for something to change the world. For better or for worse, day in and day out, Batman knew that that hope had been resting with him. Amongst his many burdens it had been a burden on its own, but one that was weighty and strong. Like shield, or a sword. So even from where he stood looking down at Alfred, who was still standing in the light even though they were both on the same staircase, he could feel the burden growing slowly lighter before it shuddered and held firm.

"Yes," the butler murmured and began again to rise. "I'll escort you."

Batman didn't try to protest though he wished that tonight the man could just leave him alone. Even if he'd fought Alfred hand to hand, brought out his entire inventory of gadgets and stocked up skills, he doubted he'd be able to put a scratch on his convictions.

They went to Bruce's room without exchanging words, but it was an unfamiliar silence. A coward's quiet. Batman pushed open his door and looked in. There was no one inside—he didn't know why that was the first thing that crossed his mind, but it had seemed immediately most pertinent at the time. It was such a childish thing to think, though. After all, it wasn't like there would ever be anyone inside. That room had been empty since the day it was built.

He didn't check to see if Alfred was behind him when he went in, carefully treading on the outline of the long shadows traversing the floor. He pulled down the top part of his suit, and he'd had every intention to fall into bed that way until the butler tutted and pulled him back. Somehow, he must have noticed Batman's shoulder, though it was impossible to say how. It looked fine from the outside.

"Honestly, I don't know what you do to yourself," the man muttered as he walked over to Bruce's chest of drawers. He pulled open the third drawer and sure enough when his hands emerged from it inside them was a roll of bandages. In reality, there were more first-aid items in that chest than there were clothes. Alfred motioned for Bruce to sit down on the bed, and when he'd done so the elder man leaned over him and began binding the vigilante's shoulder—nice and tight so it kept him all together. "These injuries get so ridiculous, you'd think you did it on purpose sometimes."

"I'm already one kind of masochist," said Bruce, trying to keep his voice light. "I'm just trying to cover all my bases."

Alfred didn't laugh. He finished binding up Batman's shoulder, and then with a thin-lipped frown he said, "Is something troubling you, sir? You don't seem quite…" He looked at Bruce once, then dropped his gaze. "…yourself…"

The vigilante stood without answering and went to the glass doors that lead out onto his balcony. Though the doors weren't heavy, when he pulled them open his motions were slow and burdened, and he felt exhausted by the time the night sky had opened up to him. The sudden prickle of cold against his bare skin, the burn of his shoulder healing, the numbness of his fingertips as they went frigid—it all brought him a sudden, surging sense of relief that made his head light and his thoughts absurdly clear.

"What do you think of this city, Alfred?" he said as he went to the balustrade.

The butler looked at Bruce quizzically, his brows furrowed in quiet worry. "Am I to assume that that's a rhetorical question?"

The vigilante let out a quiet, mirthless sound, his lips pulling into something that could never really be a smile. It seemed out of all the things the Joker had ever tried to teach him, the one thing that had refused to stick was the way to make that grin.

Bruce gripped the balcony railing and started to pull himself onto it, then turned when he heard the butler take a quick step towards him. The man had his arm half extended and his eyes open wide, readying to catch Bruce if he fell or pull him back if he tried to jump. When their eyes met, Bruce gave him the kindest expression he could manage—which wasn't very kind at all—and Alfred bowed his head and let the Batman go. Despite the binding over his shoulder the joint ached when he moved, throbbing with a reassuring pain. He balanced easily on the thin strip of metal, and though he'd only raised himself a few feet above the floor, it felt as though he'd risen up miles. He looked up at the sky that was slowly turning blue at the edges, then down, into darkness that had yet to realize it was morning. In the distance, Gotham was just a haze of dark smog and black buildings, the occasional yellow light shining through.

"The city that doesn't want to be saved," he murmured. He put his arms ahead of him then moved them back and stretched them above his head as though he was getting ready to fly. "I wonder about it too."

"Wonder about what, sir?"

Without hesitating he answered, "How much it's worth saving."

Batman glanced Alfred's expression in the corner of his eye, and he should have wished he hadn't said it. But when you didn't know that something was wrong, you didn't really expect other people to think it either.

"What are you saying, sir?" The butler rasped, his hand extending itself again. "Of course it's worth saving. Your parents, the police force, your company and everyone it helps, they all depend on this city. They need it to be saved. They-,"

"I was kidding, Alfred." Bruce forced an uncanny smile onto his lips before he gave up on it and turned away. "Kidding." After a strange murmur, he said, "I just wanted to make sure you still believed I could."

He heard Alfred take in a thick breath through his nose, but his voice wavered and his strength, wherever he got it from, was unsure. "Of course, Master Bruce."

There was a groan from the city, a deep, sweeping sound like a great animal heaving out a breath. The vigilante watched a plume of smoke that was making its way from a faraway gasket and trailing across the sky like a storm cloud. He put his hand against his face wearily and tried to wipe the sleep from his eyes. It refused to go. "I'm tired," he said. "I think I'm going to go to bed."

Neither man moved from where he was standing, as though Bruce had uttered some sort of dare and the pair of them were engaged in a game of chicken. After a little while, he stopped caring if he lost and attempted another one of those miserable smiles. "Would you care to join me?"

Alfred smiled instinctively, and the worry in his eyes became just a little bit weaker. "Of course not, sir." He bowed his head once and retreated to the door, and before he left murmured, "Do sleep well."

To which Batman replied thankfully, "I will."

Though Bruce kept intending to go to bed, to sleep away the worldweariness that kept him so awake, he never did. He stayed standing on the railing until the blue hour, and still a little bit longer after that. He felt the brief but real moment where the earth was coldest before sunrise, and he felt it seep into his bones and never leave. Light broke on the city and died in its streets, never corrupting its pure and perfect blackness. Slowly, Bruce lifted his hands and framed it with his fingers—there it was. His entire world, and he could fit it within the gap between his thumb and forefinger. He closed his eyes, and when he felt himself beginning to tip backwards off the railing, he closed his fist on the city and pulled himself back up.

All my chapters are really short and useless for this fic, huh? …And you waited so long too…

But seriously, sorry for the time this took—you know how in school there are those great lull periods where you're practically doing nothing, and then suddenly you have half a dozen projects due and your parents are breathing down your neck to study? I have recently passed out of one of those periods, and I must say I am deeply relieved to be free from that briarpatch.

This was one of those chapters though-like when you want to write something but it just refuses to flow the way you want and there's something immediately following it that you'd much rather write but you have to get over the present hurtle first? That convoluted sentence there didn't make this chapter finish any faster, I'll tell you that. Next chap should be easier-we're heading up to Botswana for a school trip in two weeks, so I'll try to get it up before then, since I doubt I'll be able to use that time productively.

Anyway, thanks everyone! And to Wbss21 in particular: (heavy tears of speechless gratitude) I hope you all stick around!