Disclaimer: I don't own The Dark Knight, or any of the books mentioned here. Only this plot.
Chapter Forty-Three: Bruce
"I can't believe him, Alfred," I say, feeling the anger claw at my throat. "I can't believe that bastard!"
"Unfortunately, sir, I believe Mr. J has just as much right to visit Ms. Dawes' grave as you." Alfred rests his hand on my shoulder, trying to calm me down.
"But he killed them."
"…Would you have reacted similarly had it been someone else's grave, sir?"
I see his point, and decide not to answer.
"Exactly, sir."
We walk along in silence, and I try to remember where we parked the car. We're in a more secluded part of the city—a cobblestone walkway that leads to one of the city's many bookstores. It's peaceful, but I'm still out-of-sorts after finding Joker in the cemetery. I'm thankful for Alfred's company—he's the only reason I can keep everything under control these days.
"You know perfectly well he'll come back later tonight, sir, and everything will patch itself up on its own. You two are, shall we say, unique in that respect."
I sigh. "I wish he hadn't come to Gotham. I wish all this hadn't happened."
"But it did, sir. And now you have to face it." Alfred chuckles. "And if I may say so, sir, 'if wishes were fishes'…"
"…'I'd be a starving man'." I finish the proverb with barely a thought, smiling at the memories it brings on. "Rachel kept that in mind more than me, I think."
"Perhaps she did. But then, perhaps her wishes were more attainable."
We continue walking in companionable silence, our shoes clunk-clunking against the cobblestones. I can feel the kindness from Alfred—my oldest friend and guardian—seeping into me, calming me down and making my thoughts more tolerable.
In the past few weeks, I've felt something change inside me. Parts of me that had once fit perfectly into my mind were becoming disjointed, not quite so fitting anymore. As if a part of me, a part I had been hiding, was starting to break free, piece by piece, like a chick cracking open the shell.
Alfred's been doing his best to keep me together—and I'm grateful for that. He's my moral compass, I guess you could say.
"Master Bruce?"
"Yes, Alfred?"
"Do you want me to add any more books to the list here?" Alfred holds out a scrap of paper, a pen already in hand.
"I think we have all of them. Peter Pan…Homer's Odyssey…" I run down the list, satisfied. "Yes, that's all of them. Mind if I keep it with me?"
"Not at all, Master Bruce. I was hoping to look for some cookbooks myself."
I smile and put the list in my coat pocket.
"Where should we put them then, sir? We only have so many places for the books…we're running short on space."
I shrug. "We'll find a spot."
Alfred gives me a small smile. "Perhaps I'll put them in a bag for you next time you 'sleep over' Mr. J's, sir?"
I roll my eyes. "I'd rather you didn't, Alfred."
Alfred chuckles. "Very well, sir."
There is another period of silence, but a more welcoming sort of feeling. I like walking with Alfred—it reminds me of my childhood, of simpler times.
But something is twisting that soft, warm feeling. Something is setting me on edge, making me wary. Alfred doesn't look as calm as he appears either—there's a familiar tenseness in his shoulders that warns me without even saying a word.
Something is wrong. I resist the urge to look behind me—that's an easy way to be killed in Gotham. In Gotham, your assassin might come from any direction. The point is that you're quite dead and nobody really cares.
With that grim thought in mind, I turn to Alfred. "Alfred?"
"Yes, Master Bruce?" Alfred's smile is wary.
"Have you given up on me yet?"
Alfred's smile becomes more genuine, as he prepares to say the familiar, soothing response.
But he doesn't get a chance. As quickly as ever, he pushes me out of the way, shouting for me to get down.
Pain erupts in my legs, and I find myself toppling to the ground, reaching out for Alfred…
And darkness greets me.
