7:52 PM Alfred. Six days later.

I was standing at the rear galley of the aircraft preparing refreshments for Bruce when Dick called. Dick was his usual delightful self. Bruce, however, was stormy and distant.

"Bruce!" Dick said warmly. "What's up, big guy? You're looking yourself. How're you feeling?"

"Fine," Bruce replied hollowly. How I missed the vibrant tone of his voice. He had colorful highs and beautiful lows, and he sang angelically with his mother during the Christmas holidays—all that ended with their death. Although, his former voice did manifest from time-to-time when he spoke with strangers and media—only as a disguise though. For those of us whom he interacted with regularly, he used a drab, monotone shell of his former voice.

Alas, his voice was not the only thing drab and monotone about Bruce. The way he sat there, an emotionally gray statue against a cream and maroon interior, staring out of the window of the third row seat of his private jet into the vast endlessness of the Atlantic Ocean reminded me of his childhood. He would sit in the window sill of his bedroom and stare outside for hours. When I would try to rouse him, it would often take considerable energy to reach him before he would respond, it was as if his soul would leave his body. Even now, he had the same thousand-yard stare from his youth. It pained me to see him that way.

Bruce touched the answer icon and Master Dick's face—outlined with a thin bat-shape in preparation to apply his black camo-paint for a reckless romp through the town as Nightwing—and his shoulders materialized onto the screen of the display on the back of the seat in front of Bruce.

"How was Brussels?" Dick asked.

"Cold."

"When are you going to be back?"

"Soon."

"So we're going to be monosyllabic, huh?" Dick realized that Bruce was feeling exceptionally anti-social. Dick was used to it, however; fifteen years had taught him not to be horribly fazed by it. "Okay, I'll play your stupid little game. Ask me a pertinent question so I can respond in one word."

"No."

"Guess it's safe to say the surgeries didn't improve your social skills."

Bruce didn't turn his attention towards Dick and continued to stare out of the window.

Dick continued, "The doctors did improve your looks, though. That cut on the side of your face is barely even visible. The plastic surgeon did a great job. We should bring him on as staff."

"Her…"

"Whatever." Dick waved a dismissing hand into the camera before smiling devilishly. "Think about it—a bat-doctor."

Bruce wasn't amused.

"Seriously, though, you should go see that doctor more often, she did a good job nearest I can tell. The last couple surgeons didn't wow me. Maybe you should stick with her for the next couple improvements before moving on to a new one."

When visibly injured, both Bruce and Dick would fly overseas to consult with foreign plastic surgeons to have their scars repaired. In this specific case, Bruce had received a laceration on his cheek from a ricocheting bullet and Bruce Wayne couldn't viably explain how he would have received such an injury without raising suspicion. In spite of how aloof Dick Grayson and how evasive Bruce Wayne appeared to the media, their likenesses were sure to pop up in periodical somewhere and they could ill-afford wounds unlikely possessed by a Billionaire playboy and his ward turned adopted son—turned poster-child for Wayne Enterprises.

Personally, I thought they were absurdly idiotic for making a social-outing of attacking dangerous criminals and maniacs who mostly considered life to have no value. Bruce and Dick acted as though they're actions had no consequences and it irritated me to hear Dick speak of plastic surgery as yet another form of entertainment or of validation for their vigilantous activities.

"Master Dick, please don't encourage Master Bruce to continue this behavior," I asserted finally. "Cosmetic surgery should not be used as an enabler to continue the insanity that you and he involve yourselves in."

"Pfft." Dick's expression slanted. "Says the guy who acted as a bullet shield for the British Crown."

Dick Grayson graduated from Gotham State University with a bachelor's degree in sarcasm and a minor in witty retorts. I, however, was armed with a marathon of juvenile wit to counter his offensive. "It was either that or dress up as my favorite animal," I said as I placed a cup of coffee on Bruce's side table. "Do you think the underworld fears wallabies?"

"You know, Alfred, I'm not sure whether you're being serious or sarcastic."

"World's greatest detectives, indeed." I returned to the galley and listened to them continue their needless banter.

Dick returned his attention to Bruce. "Anyway—"

Bruce continued to stare at nothing through the window. "Are we done?"

"If we were done, I would have said, 'Okay, Bruce, I'll talk to you when you get back.' So no, we're not done."

"Please get to the point, then. I have matters to attend."

Dick's voice became instantly indignant. "On a transatlantic flight? No you don't. Don't rush me off the phone." There was a moment of tense silence, then Dick continued in spite of it, "Anyway, you need to check this kid out when you get back. He's a real stud."

"What kid?"

"The one that saved your life."

"Since it was the kid who saved my life—and not you—you can't hold it over my head."

"I wouldn't have to if you did this thing called 'being appreciative'. I know how difficult it is for you. And what does that have to do with what I'm talking about right now?"

"Thank you, Nightwing, for doing your job a couple weeks ago."

Dick's eyes became serpentine and his visage became ever larger on the screen. "How about all those other times?"

Bruce looked at Dick firmly. "What other times?"

"Do I need to start keeping a log?"

Bruce's face emptied and he returned to staring out of the window. "What's the kid's name?"

"Finally," Dick said sitting back from the screen. "Damn, you're difficult."

"His name, Dick."

"Timothy Drake."

"And, what makes him such a stud?"

"Well, for starters, he's the regional cruiserweight champion for the New Jersey State Youth MMA Association. Me and Babs watched a couple of his fights, he's quite the scrapper."

"What's your point?"

"My point is: It makes sense why he was able to take down two armed thugs, saving your ass before I arrived. And where I'm going with is: His family is kinda of in a bind. His mother's hospitalized battling cancer and his father is struggling to make ends meet. Despite all that, Tim seems to be doing decently in school. Way I see it, since he helped you, you should help him."

The corners of Bruce's mouth turned down. "I suppose you're right, Dick," he said nodding faintly.

"Pause." Dick derailed the conversation. "What was that?"

Bruce turned toward the screen—first his eyes then his head. If looks could kill, we'd have been attending Dick's memorial service upon our arrival. "I said: You are right…Dick."

The cabin was meet with tense silence again as they engaged in a stare-down…over a video conference call. Of all the bloody preposterous bollocks that can be done with technology these days, dismal video silent-treatments were among the most childish ridiculousness that any two grown men—vigilantes notwithstanding—could engage in. Right shameful and absurd if you asked me.

"I'm impressed," Dick said giving in, "you actually made a joke. And, on the coattails of saying I was right. Nightwing for the win."

"Are we done?" Bruce asked resuming his lookout through the window.

"Not while I still live and breathe," Dick said as he fumbled with the camera. "I'll talk to you later, cupcake." His face winked out of existence.

"Master Bruce," I said as I approached to check the integrity of his coffee, he hadn't so much as looked at it, let alone touched it, "if I didn't know any better, I would think that you despise your adopted son's very presence and his counsel."

"I don't despise him, Alfred. He's just an overzealous rebel and when I give him an inch, he takes a mile."

"Sounds like someone else I know in the Wayne household." My finger shot straight up and I wobbled my head to-and-fro theatrically, "'Alfred, this place is a mausoleum and I'm leaving. Alfred, I won't standby idly and watch more people killed. Alfred, this costume isn't ridiculous, it's necessary for the persona.'"

Bruce turned in his seat finally, coming to life. "Dick's everything I never could be. He experienced the same trauma but copes so much better. I don't know why he wants to be Nightwing, he could lead a normal life. I gave him the Robin-persona because without it, he would have continued on the reckless path to crime he started on as a teenager. But now, he's outgrown Robin and he's…he's Nightwing."

"And you resent him for it?"

Bruce's face twisted. "No—I appreciate everything he does. In a different world, he'd still be a legend. But, he'd be a legendary somebody-important, not a legendary vigilante."

"So we are bloody legendary now are we?"

Bruce's mouth became a thin line. "You know what I mean."

"No, I'm not quite following you, sir. I seem to have become right hung-up on the legendary portion of your statement."

"I was talking about Dick, Alfred."

"Oh yes—him."

"Your sarcasm is unwelcomed."

"Well, sir, I shall dispense with it then. Moving on from claims of legend and back to Dick Grayson: Do you want him around or not?"

"Of course, I do, Alfred. I practically raised him. I can't imagine doing this without him."

"You have a profound way of showing it, sir. Mother Theresa herself would be envious of your empathy."

"Good grief, Alfred." The sincerity and concern drained from Bruce's face. "I just got out of surgery six hours ago. My face and side hurt. I'm in no mood to talk, much less, go back-and-forth with Nightwing."

It was clear he had no intent of drinking his coffee so I began clearing the table. "But you do it so well. It's like a sitcom…but with costumes and madmen. Of course, when I say madmen, I'm referring to the criminals, sir."

Bruce's expression was dubious. "Either way, I'm not in the mood."

"I suppose communicating that to Master Dick would be a crime against humanity."

"He didn't get the hint."

"Because you take hints so well, sir," I said dropping the dishes into the sink for effect. "On second thought, communicating how you were feeling would have required you to show weakness—or humanity. Forbid the chance of either; the world might end. Mercy me."

"Alfred," Bruce asserted over his shoulder, "are we done?"

"In the words of Nightwing: Not while I live and breathe…"