Hero

The door to the Batmobile opened and Batman climbed out, wincing slightly as he put weight onto his wounded leg. "Successful night, sir?" asked Alfred, who was waiting for him with a tray of food and a glass of brandy.

"In a manner of speaking," retorted Batman. "I foiled Joker's plan to blow up the factory. But he got away. And got a few hits in."

"I can see that, sir," retorted Alfred, looking at the torn costume, bloodied and ripped. Batman hissed as he removed his mask. His head was throbbing as he took the glass of brandy from Alfred and drained it.

"Shall I run you a bath, sir?" asked Alfred.

Batman shook his head. "I still have work to do tonight. Just bring me some bandages and antiseptic."

"If you don't mind my saying, sir, you've been working a little too hard of late," said Alfred, gently. "The Joker would never have been able to get any hits in if you weren't tired and distracted. You need rest, sir."

"I can't have a rest, Alfred," he retorted. "Crime doesn't rest. Neither can justice."

"But might I suggest that justice would be better served by a man who feels well and rested," he replied. "And may I remind you, sir, that you are not the only man who pursues justice in Gotham City."

"I'm the only effective one against these super criminals," retorted Batman. "The police can't handle the likes of Joker."

"And obviously neither can you at the moment, sir," retorted Alfred.

"Don't let the wounds fool you, Alfred. He didn't get away without a beating," snapped Batman. "For every blow he got in, I gave him twenty. He's not going home tonight any less battered than me. Far from it."

"Is that justice then, sir?" asked Alfred, quietly. "Two men beating each other into a pulp until one dies from his wounds and the other from exhaustion? How is justice served by that?"

Batman shut his eyes tightly. "Alfred, you know I only do what I have to for the safety of the people of Gotham. Joker must be taught that he can't go around hurting people for fun. The only way he's going to learn is through punishment."

"Like a naughty child, then, sir?" asked Alfred, dryly. "I'm no fan of the Joker, but you'll forgive me for saying that he's probably a bit beyond that now. The way he is is entrenched in his psyche. You can't change his behavior just by beating it out of him."

"I have to try," retorted Batman. "I have to believe I can change him. Otherwise what's the point?"

"You tell me, sir," replied Alfred.

"You've never understood, Alfred," murmured Batman. "You've never understood why I do what I do. It's some need deep inside me that I have to fulfill. I am Batman. I can't get away from that now. I have to keep being Batman, I have to keep trying, I have to keep fighting. Because otherwise there's nothing left. People call me a hero. I have to be a hero, because otherwise I'll be nothing."

"You'll be Bruce Wayne," murmured Alfred. "A strong, intelligent, capable man with the potential for a bright and happy future. A future that doesn't involve dressing in costumes and battling lunatics, but settling down and being happy with a wife and family. That's all I've ever wanted for you, sir, to be happy. That's all your parents wanted for you too. Do you think they'd want to see you living your life in the shadows, clinging to the ghosts of the past?"

"I think they'd be proud to see me as a hero," murmured Batman.

"And is a hero always happy, sir?" asked Alfred.

"No," retorted Batman. "Not most of the time, in fact. A hero in real life isn't like one in the movies, Alfred. He isn't cheered by crowds, he doesn't fly off triumphantly into the sunset, and he doesn't get the girl. He's alone, because he's sacrificed everything for his cause. He's not happy. But he is fulfilled, and maybe that's more important."

"If you say so, sir," replied Alfred. "Would you like anything else besides bandages?"

"Maybe another drink," murmured Batman, handing the glass back to him.

Alfred nodded and turned to go. He paused on the stairs. "Just a thought, Master Bruce," he said, quietly. "Perhaps something for you to consider while you're working alone down here. The Joker, you say, is returning home with twenty times your wounds. How do you think the ebullient Miss Quinn will feel about that? I imagine it will upset her. I imagine she will want revenge on you for it. I imagine that the cycle of violence and vengeance will only repeat itself over and over again, until you realize that a hero isn't always about being absolutely right."

"What are you saying I should do, Alfred?" demanded Batman. "Just let Joker get away with his crazy schemes?"

"No, sir," replied Alfred. "But temper justice with mercy, as a wise man once wrote. Nothing good can come of this endless battle between you two. More people just get hurt."

"There's nothing else we can do, Alfred," muttered Batman. "There's nothing else either of us can do. He's the villain. I'm the hero. He has to try to destroy things, and I have to stop him. That's just the way it is. That's the way it works."

"Perhaps, sir, the world is not as black and white as you claim," murmured Alfred. "And perhaps being a hero is all a matter of perspective."

He left him alone. Batman sighed and went over to the computer, where his notes for this latest scheme of the Joker's glowed at him. He closed that window, and opened a new one, a picture of his greatest enemy gazing affectionately at Harley Quinn, pinching her cheek as she gazed back at him in adoration. For a moment, a strange feeling ran through him, a feeling of emptiness, of something missing, of jealousy even, for what they had. Then his reason reasserted itself once more. They were crazy. How could anyone be jealous of lunatics? Evil lunatics, he reminded himself. Lunatics who didn't care about hurting innocent people, who took great joy and delight out of mayhem and destruction. How could anyone be jealous of monsters like that?

But Alfred's words rang in his ears, and he couldn't help but wonder what Joker's homecoming was like, compared to his own. Couldn't help wondering what it would be like to come home to the adoring, loving arms of a woman, a woman who was just as hurt at seeing him in pain as he was. He knew what it was like to be loved by a grateful city – he had no idea what it was like to be loved by a single, special person. But whatever it was like, it couldn't be better than being a hero. He nodded firmly, reassuringly, as he bandaged his own wounds and worked until dawn, silent and alone. He nodded again when he went to bed at last, in his own big, empty bed. This was his life, and he was content with it. The life of a hero.