Today was no exception, Alfred noted, stepping out of his employer's bedroom, tray in hand. This was unlike Bruce Wayne, who would force down bloody slabs of meat when sick rather than risk loss of muscle mass.
But Master Bruce hadn't been himself since The Joker died. Alfred expected some change, naturally. But he had hoped his master might relax. Instead, Bruce had attacked Gotham's criminal population with renewed intensity. When Alfred questioned him, Bruce had explained the necessity of striking while the power vacuum remained.
Eminently sensible. Yet Bruce's urgency seemed like that of a man running out of time.
Alfred found Bruce in the Batcave, of course. Already suited, sending revised specifications to Lucius for the new Batmobile.
"Sir," Alfred ventured. "Given that we have no pressing leads this evening and sundown is not for another forty-five minutes, I thought I might tempt you with what remains of your breakfast."
"Forty-two minutes." Bruce kept his eyes on the Batcomputer screen.
Alfred paused for a moment, wondering what possible could have driven the man he raised to keep secrets from him. For the first time in thirty years.
"Very good, sir," Alfred said, before leaving the room.
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