Note: Hey fellow FF readers and writers. I hope all are well and managing to find some semblance of peace and happiness despite the condition of the world at present.
Anyway, I wanted to do this FF short as a tribute primarily to the Batman Animated Series and all other incarnations of the character. Also, it is dedicated to Kevin Conroy, who, as any Batman fan knows, we lost the previous year (and subsequently also the voice actors for Two-Face and Harley). And, I wish to dedicate to the other voice actors from the show and succeeding series, of course top among them being Mark Hamill AKA 'the Joker' himself, who has himself hung up the reigns of the Joker now that Kevin has passed.
Please look upon this as a sort of alternative ending and epilogue to Batman Europa. Some retconning/speculation will be done and some references to other Batman incarnations will be mentioned. Enjoy!
Not many days had passed over the last year where Alfred hadn't thought of retiring from his position; taking off the gloves, hanging up his jacket and bidding the mansion adieu. At times, he had done two thirds of the aforementioned, and almost came round to completing the final part, his metaphorical handing in of his notice. Though Robin had said he preferred Albert to remain, to continue working here, the Boy (or more correctly, grown up) Wonder could not really stop the butler if he really wished to depart. A little part of Alfred, dare he think of such repugnance, even wanted the boy to stop him. Not that it was anything malicious, goodness no! More, it was more of clarification for him, to tell himself that he was still needed, that he still had a duty here.
Do I …?
The umpteenth upon umpteenth time he had asked himself as he swept and cleaned and dusted and generally kept things in order around Wayne Manor, contemplating his self-perceived nullity, all the while Robin usually came in the day, then went out at night. Mostly, to become the new watchmen of the night, to keep everything in Gotham on track. Sometimes, he went out with friends, celebrating a birthday or a gathering or something along those lines. On occasion, he would come to the manor, or Alfred would have to bring him back somewhat inebriated and would nurse the hangover the following morning. All the while Alfred would give him the usual, dry, but no less impactful: "I had warned you to take the scotch lightly, sir." Robin would grumble and groan but would no less be thankful to the old man, who often also reminded him to: "Know your limits."
Even with Bruce no longer around, Alfred's words of wisdom always remained with the boy.
Still a ruffian at times, a tyke who needed a good hiding when first recruited.
Though, Master Wayne had not been much different at that age, or even in the years after. Even when he first began as the Caped Crusader, Alfred had been there by his side. Feeding him, ensuring he was safe, stitching up every wound (Alfred momentarily failed to suppress a smirk at one instance where Batman, in his early days, had been cut in the upper chest near his left arm, yet vehemently stated "It's just a flesh wound, Albert!" to which the butler had responded, laconically with an eyebrow raised, voice carrying its usual professional demeanour "Just, sir?").
That promptly shut him up.
I digress, dear readers. The point to take away is that Alfred had been there since the beginning, ensuring that Gotham's vigilante hero would be well to continue, come hell or high water. Not only when Batman had come back, at times only just, from the physical, but to keep up the spirits. To be the confidant for Bruce to let out his anguish and despair, his present, at times more notable than usual, self-doubt if what he was doing was really making a difference. The butler would always assure him, if at times more with more vehemence deemed acceptable by any man in such a position, that Batman was making a difference, that criminals had a reason to think twice before committing whatever nefarious schemes they had up their sleeves.
I had promised to always be there for him, from when he was still a young lad. Right up until the end, whenever it was to come for me, I swore I would be there with him.
He paused by the window, gazing out at the slowly, but surely fading light of the afternoon that soon be replaced by the evening twilight. The trees that surrounded the manner had mostly shed their leaves, leaving them almost completely bare to the elements, and covering the ground in a layer of dead ochre vegetation. Another month, maybe even a few weeks, and it would all be covered by a sheet of white. The final phase of life before the rejuvenation began in the coming year.
Life was to go on. Even in death, the world just shrugged and carried on like it was nothing, as it had done for … Lord himself only knows how long.
His face lit up a moment in stark realisation. He had some spare time, maybe half an hour before Master Robin returned for the nightly patrol. It wouldn't take long. But first, he needed to pop downstairs into the cave.
Leaves crunched underfoot, some scattering in the wind as if fleeing the present of the butler as he made his way across the garden to the small alcove hidden away. A few trees still stood, these being able to retain a larger amount of their own leaves compared to others, though they would not be too far behind before the whole forest was left bare and waiting for the spring. The breeze sent out a calm rustle overhead as Alfred passed through a gap in them, walking down a stony gravel pathway between some hedges.
After about a minute or two, he came to a large rectangular fenced section under a huge oak tree. Under it was a large gravestone, a tall stone plinth with a cross on top. On the centre of the monument, engraved into the stone across the top, were the words: In loving memory of Thomas and Martha Wayne. Underneath that was the names and dates of their births and were worn and aged with time, though still readable.
Beneath them, much newer and easier to read, was what only made it hard for Albert to read more.
In loving memory of Bruce Wayne, taken horrifically from his loved ones and friends.
(Birth and death date). Then, Alfred and Robin's own addition.
Even in death, he guides us all.
Alfred stood before it, lowering his head a moment in respect, silently muttering a prayer for the fallen ones. He had cried a number of times here, and the most recent addition had increased the activity a substantial degree. Now, it was not so much, but the internal pain, the flickers of survivor's guilt still ebbed away at him, some days more so than others, but no less than they had done since that day last year. Sometimes, the young lad would be with him, but he had come to accept it, as had others, and moved on. Alfred had done too, life had to go on regardless, though it still hurt.
I'd always said I would never bury you, Master Bruce. Goodness knows how many times he's uttered that phrase.
Yet, how could he not? How could anyone not? Alfred was older than both of Master Bruce's parents, though only by a few years, and when they died, he'd taken over guardianship and looking after the young boy. Bruce had practically been raised by Alfred, even at one point the boy referring to him as 'dad'; even if it was accidental, it still showed how much the old man and the young meant to each other. Alfred was, for all intents and purposes, Bruce's father, not surrogate or substitute, but his father. Even if they never acknowledged it.
But the natural passage of life had meant that the old were to pass on first, and the young were to continue on. Mourning and sorrowful – hopefully – but still carry on regardless. Even here, despite the vigilante lifestyle his former master employed, Alfred, and no doubt Master Bruce, had expected the former to retire and live out his final days in the manor (of course, still making sure to keep a watchful eye on the Caped Crusader).
How things had worked out.
Lifting his head, Alfred reached into his jacket pocket, checking an old-style pocket watch for the time. 4:30. Robin would soon be here, give or take a half an hour. He'd better have bloody filled up that tank on the Royce.
As he put the watch back, his hand caught around something hard. He retrieved it, holding it between his middle finger and thumb, turning it once, maybe twice. A part of him still internally shuddered at the sight, but then who wouldn't? What he held was what had been, and to some degree, still was a symbol of one of Gotham's most notorious, and Batman's most arch-enemy.
It was a Joker card.
He moved it into his palm, thumb placed across the top to stop the breeze blowing it away. He looked down, eyeing the joker figure – the silly purple and green hat, the top of the uniform, the odd, inhuman looking face, and the sinister, toothy smile he was giving the viewer of the card. As mentioned, whenever one of these was found, Batman and Alfred held them with bated breath, wondering if they were just plain old cards one would find in a pack of cards, or if they would explode or release some sort of poison or noxious chemical to knock them out or dispatch of them permanently. "You never know what he's up to." Batman had said once after they found one card that would release poisoned spikes upon pressing the face.
A caution Alfred did not disagree with, given the dangerous ability of the man who was the card's namesake. Like much of Gotham, he had many a sleepless night (Batman too, he knew for a fact) over the plotting and machinations and devious desires of the so-called self-named 'Clown Prince of Crime'. At times, Alfred thought the Joker would be the one to deliver the killing blow to Batman, or vice-versa, or probably even both. Many times, they had fought, and one of those three results had come close to fruition. No one really knew when it would end between them.
Then this whole fiasco to Europe had happened, and Batman/Bruce had left so suddenly that he'd barely explained what was going on. In short, a virus was affecting him and the Joker and they had limited time to find the cure before it was too late. Batman had been in such a rush he did not even think of the possibility that it could be some sort of trap, a ploy by whoever it was to finish him, and potentially Joker off. The butler even considered if the clown himself was responsible, but none of it stopped Master Bruce; he'd left before he could even voice his concerns.
From there, Alfred knew very little of what transpired over the coming days, receiving only snippets of info and updates from Bruce as he went across Europe with the Joker in hand (how Alfred had not dropped the dish he was cleaning at the time, he had no answer for). His last update had been in Italy, on the way to Rome, where they believed the source of the virus that was going to kill them both would be found.
Alfred still recalled Bruce's last words: "See you home soon, old friend."
He could only piece together, albeit with extreme difficulty, was took place afterwards that night.
One big hand double the size of his own clasped around his throat, Batman struggled, gasping for breath, his already weakened strength fading as the poison ran through his system. He tried desperately to claw at his belt, his stun weapons, even his own pistol. Anything to get the towering mass of muscle to release him. Suddenly, he cried out sharply in pain. Something warm and smelling of iron ran down the front of his suit, maroon/ruby red staining his abdomen. He tried to inhale, but it just felt like his lungs were refusing to work. It came out as gasps, even somewhat strangled.
A deep chuckle as Bane loosened his grip a little on Batman, satisfied that he would not be needing to worry much longer. His other arm, covered in a black, metallic sleeve, withdrew a sharp, cutting device into it, though some of the blood had splattered across his hand wrist and lower arm.
"So long, Bats," He grinned, pausing a moment to scratch his paunch, but muscled belly, almost as if this were something mundane. "Nice knowing ya!"
Batman wanted to retort, to curse him out, to say he would never be beaten. Bane had lost before; he wouldn't win now.
But it all came out a few gasps for breath, at points mixed with a sickening gurgling sound. Specks of blood began to run from his mouth. Bane just chuckled heartily, enjoying the sight before him. Batman, the Caped Crusader, the Dark Knight, the Gotham vigilante who was always there to save the day. Well, no more. The one who took out Batman wouldn't be Clayface, or Ivy or Two-Face, even that stupid Sid or whatever-his-name was. It would be h-
Bane's eyes widened; his sentence caught dead mid-way. For a moment, his hand clenched tighter, almost crushing the Batman's windpipe. They then loosened, almost like they were going to fall off. Batman, his vision darkening, though still able to see enough, saw his mouth drop open, eyes close, head fall; all in unison. Almost simultaneously, he fell forward, hitting the ground with a thud that Batman was sure he thought shook the ground a little, given Bane's size. The Dark Knight fell beside him in a heap, groaning as pain flared up his side and back. Sitting up, the sharp stabbing sensation across his stomach, he saw it sticking out of Bane's back.
A Joker card, no doubt one laced with poison.
The corners of Batman's mouth flickered upward in a small smile. "I'll be damned." Then he fell supine again, staring up at the darkened sky, any feeling around his lower half beginning to ebb away.
Footsteps approached, beaten in sound only by a cackle. An all-too familiar one. A body crashed to the ground next to Batman, coughing and rasping loudly, the sounds of spittle coming from his throat.
Looking next to him, he saw the wounded, dishevelled form of his archnemesis – well, former archnemesis. His green hair was messy and looked like it hadn't been cleaned in days (which, given their most recent journey, was no doubt the case). His purple clothes were blooded and muddy across the legs and torso, a few deeps wound across the chest and side. His bleached white skin was pockmarked and scabby and spittle's of blood marked his mouth and chin. One of his hands was ungloved, the other now hanging limp across his stomach area.
The Joker looked back at him, his eyes still holding the malicious, yet maniacally gleeful ostentation Batman knew all too well, his iconic twisted smile plastered hauntingly across his face.
"Joke's on him, right Bats?" Joker rasped, accentuating his comment with a laugh, only for it to be cut short by loud, retching coughs.
Batman turned to look upward, making some kind of grunting noise, though whether it was his usual quiet acceptance of Joker's comment, or the pain from the wound, or from Ban's toxin, or all three! It didn't matter.
Joker tittered loudly next to him. "Oh, don't be so dour now, Batsy!" Joker rasped gleefully. "After all, anyone who see's this-" he paused to cough and retch loudly, spraying ruby red across his front. "-will see the impossible. Joker and Batman, side-by-side." He raised his hand and moved it through the air slightly in front of him as if presenting a news bulletin. "What will they say in Gotham?!"
Batman breathed heavily, his eyelids growing heavy. "Touching." He grunted, though he did internally admit that even he could not believe the last few days turned out how they did.
Joker heaved, his strength fading. "Oh, Batman. Don't be so down. Think of it: we did the impossible! We took a road trip across Europe, saw the sights, and all for free too! And here we are, lying, waiting for it all to end. Ha!" he coughed again, making Batman grimace despite him feeling control over his muscles weakening.
Joker rattled on a bit more, but Batman maintained his reticence. His mind, though, was racing as the end neared. Memories, flashes of the past, some fragmented, others whole passed before his very eyes. His youngest birthday; the happy memories of private tuition; the night his parents were taken; growing up and learning in Japan and elsewhere; his first time as the Dark Knight; first time meeting the Joker (what an event), and the list went on. He tried as hard as he could to recollect the faces of those who knew him. His parents, Barbara, Gordon, Robin, the police, Alfred …
Alfred.
Another loud retch beside him brought him back to the fading reality, the night now growing darker with every passing moment, the stars above seeming to blink one-by-one out of existence. What Joker was seeing, if he was seeing anything, he had no idea.
"Whaddaya, Bats?" Joker wheezed, looking at him one more time. "Our final act … (he breathed heavily, the sound of death rattling away in his throat) – "together! Our closing act on the stage of the world."
Batman grunted, staring skyward once again. "Climactic." He mumbled laconically, half a grunt.
Joker giggled lightly, head facing the blackness above, his heart slowing to a crawl in his chest. "If you say so, Bats!" A pause, as he took a deep breath. "Looks like the final page is here, old boy." He said, his voice now calm, collected. Even normal, daresay I. "Abyss is awaiting! Still w-we had some good times, right?! Plenty of laughs!" He could only titter, and weakly at that.
The Dark Knight beside him didn't react, didn't look at him. Didn't even blink as his eyes began to glaze over, a dry tear mark down his cheek.
"It's Bruce," He muttered laconically.
Silence was his reply, broken only by the death rattle he'd heard all those years ago in that dark alleyway.
A light chuckle. "Not bad!" He heard the clown breath, barely a whisper, undertone of a whimper palpable. "So long, Old Friend."
With a sudden intake, then a sharp exhale, the Joker went still, hand closest to Batman falling to the ground. One eye was closed, the other half open: both glazing over. Mouth hung agape, the last etch of a smile on his face.
Batman closed his eyes, one last breath forcing its way out, one final grasp at the straw of life. Then, his head fell back, cocked to one side facing the clown.
The Dark Knight moved no more.
It had been a sight that made headlines across the world the next morning. The Italian police had been alerted to the fight, but had turned to find parts of the Colosseum torn apart and the bodies of three men, one the size of and what looked like a jacked-up WWE character, and another two, one in a bat suit, the other in a weird clown costume. Some were familiar with the clown and the big, muscled guy, though almost everyone recognized the man donning the famed uniform of the Cape Crusader. Quick as a flash (quite literally), the League came and took him and the other bodies back.
The funeral for Batman, disguised ironically as the death of Batman's alter-ego, Bruce Wayne, who was reported to have been ill for some time with an undiagnosed condition and had tragically passed in his sleep, was a quiet affair. Many of Gotham's wealthiest and/or finest were in attendance, among them the head of the Gotham police and his family. Some even from outside, such as Metropolis and Jump City, were in attendance. Oddly enough, to the surprise of Alfred, Harvey Dent (wearing some kind of prosthetic), and a woman he had recognised by her bizarre red and white hat to be Harley – no doubt she found out that her beloved 'pudding' had been found next to Batman – sobbing into a tissue were present as well. He knew that Harvey was a friend to Bruce (though never knowing his true identity at night) and Harley … well, she was one of the few who no doubt knew about how Batman would never have killed Joker, Alfred, Robin, Barbara, and maybe the other League among them. However, she likely only knew just as much as he [Alfred] did about what happened in Rome.
They would all speculate. Offer theories, look over any CCTV footage that may have been there, present conjectural conclusions. Even now, a year later, I can see them pondering endlessly.
Another sigh. Either way, it did not matter. The harsh reality was Bruce, AKA Batman, was gone; Joker and Bane a long with him. Some did find it comforting that two of Gotham's worst were dead (some had already spun tales of how Batman had taken them both on, being fatally injured in whatever fight their lacking minds fantasised about). Alfred had even heard them muttering about it during the service, like it was a breath of fresh air. A moment of anger had seized him them, and he'd needed to recall all his professional training and tact to keep him from giving them a mouthful, though it only just worked.
While, admittedly, he could not deny that it would be a lot safer in Gotham without Joker and Bane (Two-Face and Harley as well; the former he'd heard also died somehow whilst the latter hadn't been seen almost immediately after the funeral), he knew that their ridiculous sensation Batman had become a real vigilante, that he'd done what everyone wanted him to do for years. Alfred knew Batman/Master Bruce would never have done that, even to the Joker.
Oddly enough, I can't help but be grateful to Joker. At least … at least Master Bruce didn't die alone.
The sound of a car approaching made him turn momentarily in the direction of the gate going up to the mansion. Through a gap in the trees, he saw a Royce heading up towards there. Robin was back. Hopefully with that bloody car full. But it would good to see Master Robin again for today. They had grown rather fond of one another since Master Bruce's passing, two friends often finding some kind of comfort with one another.
Toying with the card in his hand for a moment, though not daring to press upon the face, Alfred gave a small smile, as if once more extending his gratitude towards the most unlikely of people. He returned it to his pocket and, stepping to the side of the gravestone, rested his hand upon it.
"Sleep well, Master Bruce," he muttered respectfully, then set off back in the direction of the mansion, the crunching leaves the only sound penetrating the silence of the air.