Batman and Robin: The re-Novelization
part 37
We rejoin our tale at Wayne Manor because this movie/novelization really tried hard to make us give a fuck about Alfred. Seriously, this is a movie based on a comic book where a man in a giant bat costume beats criminals senseless and somehow drives a massive car through urban traffic. And then there’s this old man with white gloves dusting off nonsense, and I’m supposed to get hard over that? C’mon.
Alfred was doing his rounds, flicking out the lights as he put Wayne Manor to bed for the night. Sure, Wayne Manor had gone onto an automated system long ago that would allow the lights to turn out every night, but Bruce took all the wiring out to punish Alfred for eating a pear that was on the counter. Bruce didn’t even like pears, but he knew Alfred did, and he left it out to tempt the old man.
Of course he’ll be unable to resist a pear. Old men love pears. They like to bite into them and pretend they’re apples, it reminds them of what it was like to be young and to be able to eat an apple without excruciating soreness the next day, what with apples being so firm and all.
Beside Alfred, Bruce slowly walked. “Alfred, I know you’re sick. I can get you the best doctors…” Bruce would be damned if he was going to let his plaything get away that easily. Death would be no escape. Whatever tubes and machines and things were required to prolong Alfred’s pain, whatever it took to extend his suffering to an exquisite degree, it would be done.
“I’ve seen the best doctors,” Alfred said testily, then drew himself up and recovered his composure. “A gentleman does not discuss his ailments, sir. It’s not civilized.”
Bruce bit back a bitter smile. It had always been a chess game. Bruce removed the glass in the microwave door and replaced it with a non-shielding glass that he had specially developed by Waynetech. The next time Alfred used the microwave, Bruce wasn’t around to witness it, but he certainly noticed the horrific burns all down one side of Alfred’s face. However, Alfred simply said that he felt the oven was a more elegant option, and that he would no longer lower himself to using a microwave. Touché.
Bruce changed the subject, “Have you ever regretted your life working here, Alfred?”
The old man shook his head. “Attending to heroes? No, sir,” he said adamantly. “My only regret is that I was never able to be out there with you.”
Bruce burst out laughing, picturing the spindly geezer in a superhero suit, having the absolute living shit beaten out of him by one of Riddler’s goons. Alfred lying on the ground, shouting, “My hip, oh, God, no!” as he was stomped by a not-particularly-intimidating thug. Bruce had to stop walking and lean on the wall, tears streaming down his face as he imagined the man, even in his advanced age, crying out for his mother as his organs failed and his body grew colder than he ever imagined possible. Damn it, why hadn’t he thought of that before!? He could’ve told Alfred he designed a special suit that would augment his strength or something, some bullshit, whatever it took to het him out on the street, ready to take on some guy with a pistol, meanwhile Alfred’s holding a Batarang. Goddamn it, the opportunities we miss…
Bruce pulled himself together, then laughed a little more, then almost got through saying, “Not all heroes wear masks,” without stopping to laugh some more. It WAS some pretty corny shit. He’d heard Superman say it one time. Or maybe Aquaman. Or maybe Wonder Woman. Mostly, it was people who were bulletproof and super good-looking and who were born literal gods—those folks were the ones who always seemed to be telling some dumpy chick that she was a superhero, at least in the eyes of her son, who was very stupid and didn’t really have the life experience to know that there were, honestly, better moms out there.
“Alfred, if I’ve never told you…I just wanted to say…”
Alfred looked up at Bruce, expectant. He knew how difficult it was for Bruce to express emotions, and he knew that somewhere beneath the pranks and the breaking down of a human man into an absolute emotional pile of manure—he knew that beneath all those actions, Bruce loved him. Loved him in kind of the way a husband cherishes a wife with the back of his hand, but still, that’s a FORM of love, right?
They turned to the sound of running steps, and the moment passed. Dick was hurrying toward them, his voice urgent. “Freeze has escaped.”
Bruce ran down the hall, catching up with Dick. They turned the corner, both giggling, shoving each other and trying to stifle their laughter.
“That was perfect timing,” Bruce said, slipping a thousand dollars into Dick’s open hand. “I had him thinking I was about to tell him I love him!”
Dick collapsed, wheezing with joy. “Are you serious!? Oh my god. What a fucking idiot!”
Bruce tried to help the younger man to his feet as both of them made their way to the Batcave, a cacophony of pure joy.