I felt like changing the pace a little this time…
Disclaimer: I don't own The Dark Knight. Only this plot.
Chapter Thirty-Three: Alfred
Sometimes, no matter how old Master Bruce gets, I still think of him as a child.
He's young—strong, filled with his opinions and his own conscience, able to turn people's heads without even batting an eye. Underneath that playboy exterior, there's pain that even the finest psychiatrists or a person like me can heal. But of course, like many young people, he tries to hide it.
It doesn't always work—not around me, at least.
No matter how on-guard he was tonight at the party, he still managed not to notice the "servers" true allegiance until it was almost too late. Luckily he trusts me with a gun—if anything had gotten out of hand, well, it wouldn't have been that way for long.
With that in mind, I keep a gun on my person as the other housekeepers and I take care of the remains of the party. I make idle chatter as I sweep up the floor of the glittering ballroom, noting the faint grit on the floor from the "servers". A tell-tale flaw—but one that Master Bruce missed.
The trouble with fancy galas is that you get easily distracted—especially if you are the host. The glittering jewelry, the glamour, the shimmering dresses and well-pressed tuxedos hide the morbid underbelly of Gotham's materialists. Sometimes, Master Bruce concentrates so much on acting like a playboy billionaire that he gets caught up in the socialite lifestyle. He'll grow out of it, I know.
Once the housekeepers are away, I make sure that none of the "panic rooms" have been discovered. Master Bruce wouldn't be happy if his secret was discovered this night…
Growing out of Batman, however, is something else entirely.
It's clear as day that, despite his code of honour, Master Bruce is becoming more "addicted" to his life as a vigilante. A certain aspect in particular…
A certain aspect whose warpaint, I note, has yet to be cleaned out of the bed sheets.
In a way, I can see why Master Bruce finds "Mr. J" so fascinating. On the one hand, he is careless and almost rakish, gadding about with his dark intentions and Glasgow grin. On the other, he is frighteningly intelligent, methodical in his schemes. Though he claims he doesn't plan, I saw the wheels turning in his garish head that morning.
Another aspect of note is that Master Bruce is not moping about quite as much as he used to. In fact, now he's growing busier than usual—more board meetings, more patrols, more parties…
As if on cue, the phone rings. I walk over to the nearest phone and pick up.
"Good evening. Bruce Wayne's residence. How may I help you?"
"It's me, Alfred," Master Bruce replies, his tone a little tense. "It looks like I'm going to be late tonight. 'Mr. J' has made plans."
I don't know what to say. I know what I want to say, but…
"Look, Alfred, I wish—God..." Master Bruce growls in irritation at his own predicament. "Okay…I'll let you know as soon as I know what's going on."
"I'll see you in the morning, sir. Merry Christmas, Master Bruce."
"And a Happy New Year, Alfred." I can hear cars honking in the background. "Thanks again."
"You're quite welcome, sir."
It appears he's growing up, though he is dealing with a grittier Peter Pan, shall we say.
