Bruce had never been a fan of aliens. They were an unknown. An unpredictable threat. He saw his friendship with the Kryptonian Kal-El as an exception to these rules, and the only one that he was willing to accept. So, when an alien vessel crashes in...
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"Master Wayne..." Alfred's voice seemed like the only real thing in Bruce's world. He glanced up from the table, where he had been staring at a small scratch for almost an hour, and met Alfred's eyes. They were red-rimmed and puffy; as if he had been crying all night, and might still burst back into tears at any given moment. "Is there anything I can get for you?"
"No. Take the rest of the day off."
Alfred shook his head, pulling out a small cloth and starting to wipe the dust off the back of each computer monitor hanging on the wall. "I will have to decline that offer, sir. I would prefer to keep working...and I'm worried about you."
"Don't." Bruce said, as if that single word would be enough to erase all concern. "I'm fine."
"Bruce, please. You can lie to everyone else but it won't work on me."
Bruce's gaze faltered back towards the scratch on the table top. Alfred hadn't used his first name since he was a teenager. It was so rare, hearing 'Bruce' instead of 'sir' or 'Master Wayne', that he suddenly felt like a child again - being scolded by his butler because his parents could no longer fill the role.
"I know," Alfred continued sadly. "It's just how you cope, but it's not healthy."
"It's fine-"
"Do you remember your parents funeral? You didn't cry. Not at all. I scarcely think you even breathed. You were like a statue. I knew that something was wrong, that this was a sign of horrible trauma, but I said nothing. I did nothing. I thought that it would pass in time, but to this day you turn into that same statue whenever you grieve. I'm telling you this, as a friend, you need to mourn Jason. You can't just pretend like it didn't happen."
"Whose pretending?!" Bruce finally roared, throwing his chair back and towering over the old man angrily. "I know what happened! I don't need you to remind me!"
Alfred, calm as ever, didn't even flinch as he said "then why didn't you attend his funeral? And why won't you let me clear out his old room? Why do you have his back-up suit sitting on its hanger like he's going to come in and claim it? Master Wayne, I understand that you have an important job that can't afford the distraction...but when you're out of that costume, you need to mourn him properly. He wasn't just a partner to Batman, he was a son. Just as you are like a son to me."
"That's enough, Alfred." Bruce finally said, though there was a sense of defeat in his voice that had scarcely been heard before. "You're dismissed."
Alfred knew better than to argue. He tucked the cloth back into his pocket, but did so with a deliberate slowness. Maybe it was his way of ensuring that Bruce had company for at least a few seconds longer. "As you wish...Master Wayne."
He shambled away, and Bruce was suddenly struck by how old he had gotten...how frail he looked compared to the burly veteran that he had once known. He averted his gaze back to that scratch, not allowing his mind to linger on the thought of yet another impending loss. Not when Jason's death was still so fresh, searing through his chest like acid. Then there was Barbara...bound to a wheelchair with no hope of regaining any mobility in her legs. All of this because he wasn't fast enough.
