“Sir,” he starts, as politely as he possibly can.

“I don’t want to talk about it, Alfred.”

“Sir,” he was expecting this. He, at least, learns after twenty-odd years, “with all due respect-“

“Not right now, Alfred.”

“Sir,” not all that well, he grants, but just enough to learn the perfect tactics – the certain ways of getting under skin. And, in the end, isn’t that the most relevant thing? “I really must insist-“

“No, Alfred.”

“But sir,” he feels, humbly, that he could teach all of Master Wayne’s foes a thing or two about playing him. It is a good thing, for everybody involved, that he has never felt seriously motivated to try, “I feel that you must be made aware-“

No, Alfred.”

“Sir!” For he’s pretty sure, if seriously motivated, that he could tear this whole city down and take it back to the near perfect state that Thomas Wayne fondly recalled from his boyhood, “there are heel prints on the walls.”

“…Ah.”

And nobody, not him nor the crime bosses nor Master Bruce with his unaccountable menagerie of villainous misfits, wants that now do they?
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