| Seven - Batman
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| The problem with Alfred was that he knew his place.
Well, all right, Bruce Wayne didn't see it as a problem, and Batman certainly didn't see it as a problem, and Alfred was absolutely incapable of seeing it as one. He was very proper, after all. But they were the only two (three?) residents of this enormous place. The armies of maids that came in during the day barely counted, and there were large stretches of time in which Bruce was playing the playboy far too hard to actually bring a lady love home. Not that Batman would want one there in any case. Dick Grayson had been an aberration, a warped lens through which Batman had seen himself. After that, Bruce's pet projects--Batman's Robins--had been a necessity, someone to bring life to the mansion, someone who wouldn't play by the rules, someone who didn't know his place. It gave Alfred someone to alternately tend to and tsk over, someone who would actually eat his food and enjoy it, someone who would muss things for him to clean up. Alfred didn't ever feel quite fulfilled unless he was graciously overlooking a Robin's glaring flaws. (He could graciously overlook Master Bruce's glaring flaws however conspicuously he cared to, and Master Bruce wouldn't even notice. Really, it was frustrating.) It gave Bruce Wayne a certain amount of social cachet (combined, inevitably, with a certain amount of gossip and scandal--none of which were ever, ever true, but he had better things to do than deny rumors that were never. Ever. Going to go away). Good works for Mr. Wayne, billionaire playboy-- --Robins for Batman. Everyone was happy. All three (four?) of them. |
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