Bruce/Batman

The sun rises on Gotham City.

It was a quiet night: after I left the jewellery shop, there were only four attempted muggings, two attempted rapes and one attempted robbery.

It must have been the rain - keeping the criminals inside.

Using the glider function of my Batwings, I cruise from roof to roof. Beneath me, the city is beginning to wake.

The mouth-watering aroma of freshly baked bread wafts up to me.

The metal shutters of a grocery store begin to creak open, revealing shiny glass windows. A man emerges from the opening to collect a freshly printed stack of newspapers. If he notices the winged shadow blocking out the early-morning light . . . well, he knows better than to look up.

My bed is calling to me. As is a steaming hot shower. And one of Alfred's special hot chocolates with marshmallows . . . I mean, a manly tumbler of Scotch.

At the edge of the city I hop down, landing in front of a dilapidated row of garages: the shock-absorbers in my Batboots do what they're designed to. I unlock one of the garage doors, and slide into the seat of the Batpod.

Almost home, Bruce.

I didn't break any bones tonight - anyone else's bones, that is. Since Lucius's new gear arrived, I haven't worried about breaking my own bones.

But tonight I was practically a gentleman. The criminals were left handcuffed, in one piece, for the police. Although it'll be a long time before they'll even think about attempting that particular crime again - without breaking out in a cold sweat and falling to the floor in a gibbering wreck. Thanks to the modified fear toxin darts. Another of Lucius's babies.

The engine of the Batpod roars to life underneath me.

Outside the garage the air is already beginning to heat up; today's going to be a scorcher. The wind plays with my cape as I go from zero to sixty on the empty highway. Wind and the heat of the sun combine and stroke that one exposed part of me.

Life is good.

I remember what Selina said to the Maroni kid as she left the shop. And grin to myself.

Back at Wayne Manor

It's cool and dark inside the Batcave.

"A busy night, I presume?" Alfred says, helping me out of the Kevlar vest.

"Pretty quiet, actually Al. Hey, do you think I could get a hot chocolate – er - I mean, a glass of Scotch?" I reply.

Alfred wrinkles his brow in bewilderment as he hangs up the Kevlar vest. I hold my Batbelt out to him.

"I hope that the recipient of your . . . attentions tonight is in a stable condition, Master Bruce. Perhaps sir would like me to check with the intensive care unit?"

I don't understand what Alfred's getting at. "The GCPD holding cells, you mean? I didn't put anyone in ICU tonight, Alfred." I give him a friendly grin.

The familiar face of the white-haired man looks even more perturbed. "But the smiling, Master Wayne. Why else would . . . ?"

I briefly wonder if dear old Alfred is beginning to develop senile dementia. After all, he must be pushing seventy. I decide to graciously change the subject.

"Hey, Alfred. I was thinking of having Miss Kyle over for dinner. What do you think?"

There's a look in my old friend's eyes now; a mix of amusement, affection and exasperation.

"Ah, I suppose you and Miss Kyle encountered one another tonight, sir?" He seems to be suppressing a laugh. I make a mental note to book an appointment for him with a neurologist. Isn't inappropriate laughter a sign of deteriorating mental function?

"In a manner of speaking, Alfred . . . what do you think Selina would like?"

Now Alfred pauses in the middle of placing my man-tights in the laundry hamper. There it is again; that mixture of amusement and exasperation. He hands me my monogrammed dressing gown; I feel my muscles relax as I wrap myself in the heavy silk.

"I believe Miss Kyle might enjoy good quality Italian cooking. Deceptively simple, authentic and rich in history. I could prepare a Risotto ai Funghis Porcini, or perhaps my Lasagne al Forno-"

My mood darkens. The grin is gone from my face. "Forget it. I'll book us a table at Eaterion." It's just one of the restaurants that I own in central Gotham, but after a disastrous date I recently had with a fashion journalist . . . well, I have studied their menu. Several times.

And I know they don't serve Lasagne.

"Very well sir. Although, some women are more well disposed to a man who takes the time to prepare a meal themselves. It shows that one is-"

I cut him off with a gesture, while dialling the number of Eaterion. While I'm leaving a message for the manager, Alfred takes the laundry hamper up the stairs.

Ten minutes later he returns with a silver tray: a glass of Scotch rests on a small square napkin. Little beads of condensation catch the light; they cling to the heavy crystal, shimmering. Next to the Scotch is one of Alfred's special hot chocolates. With cream and marshmallows.

The elderly man is quietly shuffling out of the Batcave. Without knowing what I'm doing, I'm on my feet embracing him from behind in a rough bear hug. His body feels worryingly thin and frail as I pull him close, wrapping my arms around him tightly.

"Thank you Alfred. For everything." My voice is low and gruff and choked with emotion. I don't let him go, even though I know I should. I love him. And I can't imagine – don't want to imagine – life without him.

"You're welcome, Master Wayne." Alfred replies with an emotion that I can't place.

He squeezes my hand fiercely, and then pats it gently.

"Sir would do well to get some sleep."

"Will do Alfred." I reply gruffly, heading back to my seat.

I down the Scotch in one swallow, and get to work on those marshmallows. I should really drag myself up to the shower . . .

Before I fall asleep in my chair I think about the way Selina's body felt that one night, four years ago. How her hair smelled. How it felt to trace my rough fingertips along the contours of her face, and how she shivered as I did so. How I can't think of a good reason why afterwards, it was as if nothing had changed. Why I never told her that I wanted things to change between us.

Oh, right. Because she's not going to stop committing crimes, and I'm not going to stop . . . I'm not going to stop . . .

Sleep overtakes me. Just before I drift off I remember my parents faces, when they were younger than I am now; timeless, fixed for eternity by the flash of a camera. A snippet of a Philip Larkin poem pops into my head:

"Time has transfigured them into

Untruth. The stone fidelity

They hardly meant has come to be

Their final blazon, and to prove

Our almost-instinct almost true:

What will survive of us is love."

My snores echo off the walls of the Batcave.

Please review! You know you wanna... :-P

It would really make my day to hear what you thought of this chapter - and what could be improved.