Disclaimer: None of the characters or their histories belong to me; I'm just borrowing from DC Comics and whoever has bought the rights.
"Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful, committed people can change the world. Indeed, it is the only thing that ever has." Margaret Mead
The frothing water and fluttering bats settled back into their usual calm as the roar of the Tumbler faded into echoes and fell silent. Alfred sighed softly, his shoulders slumping in exhaustion only now that he was alone. But they straightened almost immediately as he began gathering the medical supplies and returning them to their places. The only thing that held Alfred's world together was what small semblance of order and propriety he'd managed to maintain through the years. He was most certainly not going to lose that now.
He closed the cabinet firmly and turned to retrieve his tuxedo jacket, rolling down his sleeves as he went. Master Bruce had needed several stitches and been suffering from smoke inhalation, and Alfred knew that by all rights he should not be out trying to save the world but recuperating in bed. However, it was a proven fact that the young master loathed inaction, and never more decidedly than when he felt Gotham needed him, or after two days of bed rest. As both of these conditions were present, Alfred knew that nothing could have stopped Master Bruce from carrying out his self-appointed Crusade and had made no attempt to restrain him.
Alfred also knew, however, that even if he wished only for the Master's well-being, there was more at stake than the life of Bruce Wayne and the peace of mind of his butler. Neither Alfred nor Master Bruce would have been able to live with the guilt of knowing that they hadn't done all they could to save the hundreds of lives that were hanging in the balance especially if their reasons were purely selfish. What good was Gotham's Protector if he let her die to save himself?
The smell of smoke and ash was unpleasantly strong, even down in the ever-present mustiness of the Cave; but the sounds of fiery destruction from above were no longer so prominent. He assumed that stately Wayne Manor had at last crumbled into nothingness, taking so many priceless mementos with it. He'd been shocked when he'd returned from depositing Miss Rachel in her apartment to find his home engulfed in flames and surrounded by armed guards. He'd known without a shadow of a doubt that Master Wayne was still inside, and had simply rushed in without thought. It had been an extremely foolish thing to do, he saw now; but he couldn't regret it, since he had been able to save the young master. Although it seemed he'd only succeeded in sending him off into what he was sure would become another impossible situation.
Alfred forced himself to relax into a nearby chair, knowing that worrying would help no one. However, he couldn't help wondering whether even the Batman could save the people of Gotham from something of this magnitude. Master Bruce had informed him of the presence of Ra's al Ghul; and although Alfred knew nothing about the man, the look of fear in Master Bruce's eyes, despite his efforts to conceal it, had given him reason to pause. He knew that the quick explanation of having known him from the years abroad did not even begin to reveal the depth of Master Bruce's knowledge of the man, nor the young Master's own feelings for him; for beside the fear in the young man's gaze, there was also the pain a child feels after being betrayed by an elder he trusts and believes in.
Alfred sighed again. There had been a time in Master Bruce's life when Alfred had been perfectly attuned to all the young man's moods and feelings. He'd been able to read his heart through his eyes – windows to the soul, they called them – and in turn Alfred had been the boy's confidant and closest friend.
Seven years of separation had ended that. He'd seen it as soon as Master Bruce boarded the privet jet for the journey home. The lost young boy who had disappeared so suddenly had returned a man. The man Alfred had seen sitting across from him that day had been intent on a purpose, a reason for living. It had soothed many of Alfred's fears while creating heretofore unimagined new ones. In truth, the young Master's plan for his life and the future of Gotham had frightened Alfred beyond all reason; but the surety and calm in Master Bruce's manner had eased the doubts that had immediately begun to grow in the older man's mind.
He'd assisted Master Bruce in his endeavor; had guided him, counseled him, questioned him, and bantered with him. But after the Batman's thrilling debut into Gotham's night life, Alfred's worries had surfaced one hundredfold. The reality of what Master Bruce was doing had winded him as he read the morning paper and the rather lengthy article concerning the "anonymous man in bat costume" who had captured the infamous Carmine Falcone. The article had gone into depth about the odds such a man would face if he continued fighting crime in the under levels of Gotham City.
Alfred had balked.
But he had buried his fears behind his usual calm exterior and proper etiquette. He'd spoken no word of quitting to his young charge, and had given him advice on how to continue his activities without coming under suspicion. The entire time his good sense and almost fatherly devotion had been screaming that they should retire the Batman immediately and count his single deed for the city as above and beyond the call of duty. He'd begun to wonder if the Batman was truly intended to save others, or if he existed only to pull Bruce Wayne through the guilt and pain of his loss twenty-two years before.
It had been enough to worry Alfred with Master Bruce missing for seven years and Miss Dawes throwing herself into the corrupt legal system of the city to try to make a difference. Now he almost wished Master Bruce would return to his life of hiding, rather than putting himself into the line of fire of every two-bit thug and villain within the city limits. One of his young charges is harm's way was stressful enough; two would likely put him in his grave.
Watching Master Bruce during the two days of his indisposition had driven the feeling home more firmly. The delirious cries and mutterings of the young man had tortured Alfred to an unimaginable degree, and he'd been a frantic mess when he called Mr. Fox. Even working together, they had found it very difficult to get Master Bruce to cease struggling against them to get a blood sample. When Fox had finally returned with the antidote, Alfred was firmly of the opinion that Batman should cease to exist, and he'd been angry more than worried during his little jaunt into the Narrows after Miss Rachel.
But when he'd seen the utter defeat in Master Bruce's once more open gaze as they sat huddled in the lift car, he'd felt his old heart tighten in a new fear: the fear that the young man who had seemed so invincible only hours before was about to admit defeat. Alfred knew that it would have completely crushed Master Bruce to acknowledge he'd failed completely; and quite possibly, it would have reduced him to the bitter rebel he had become in the years following his parents' murders. So Alfred had once again hidden his own fears and recalled words of advice from Dr. Wayne that had often rallied the young man's spirits in years past.
The ruse had worked perfectly, and the young master had risen with new resolve. In fact, it had been somewhat difficult to convince him to submit to Alfred's medical treatment. But reason had at last prevailed, and it had not been long before Gotham's Avenging Angel had rushed into the fray, leaving an old man alone to ponder the situation and mourn the losses already suffered. He knew it would be hard for both of them to accept that all they had known of Thomas and Martha Wayne, all their earthly possessions, had been destroyed, leaving only fading memories in the minds of those who had known them. For himself, Alfred wasn't sure how much more loss he could endure. Life seemed filled more with pain and suffering than happiness and rejoicing, and the downs far out numbered the ups.
The voice of his dear late friend and employer echoed once again in his mind, "And why do we fall, Bruce? So we can learn to pick ourselves up."
Alfred smiled softly to himself, "You still haven't given up on me; have you, Thomas, my old friend"
He could almost hear the inevitable answer: "Never."