Chaoying Psychotherapist [Zhongyingmei]

Late at night, Wayne Manor.

Cynthia sat in the living room, holding a carved knife and fork, and under her hand was a plate of delicate and delicious brownies with a small corner cut off.Looking sideways at the dark rose field outside, she frowned worriedly.

With a "jingle", the golden spoon touched the wall of the cup of coffee being served, and an old and gentle voice came from the side: "Do you need more milk and sugar, ma'am?"

Cynthia turned her head and smiled at the person coming.

"No, Alfred." She said, blinking a little embarrassedly, "I've already added two lumps of sugar and four spoons of milk, and if I ask for more, even the children will laugh at me."

"Preferring sweetness is not something to laugh at." Alfred smiled. "Sugar can help you think and cheer you up. I sincerely hope that Master Wayne can love everything except chocolate as much as you do." Everything except desserts, instead of drinking pure black coffee all day long, while passing every minute with a straight face."

As he spoke, he imitated Batman's appearance and lowered the corners of his mouth, making a mischievous expression.

Cynthia was teased by him and burst out laughing.

"He probably doesn't enjoy coffee, but drinks them as a supplementary drug," she said.

Alfred shrugged: "Oh, it's like this. I don't know what will happen if others drink for him, at least the few glasses I brought over."

Cynthia touched her nose: "Please, Alfred."

Alfred lowered his eyes, put the coffee on the folded napkin with a gentle expression, held the gold spoon, and stirred it skillfully.

While agitating, he said casually: "Master Wayne is a very incompetent partner, he has a bad temper, and sometimes annoys others very much - I know very well about these things Be clearer."

"But," he said softly, "you know, I'd still like...someone to make him a cup of coffee every night."

Cynthia's hands on the table slowly curled up.

She lowered her eyes and said evasively, "Because you love him, Alfred. Just as he loves you."

Alfred bent over, with an indistinct smile in his still penetrating eyes: "Isn't it the same between you?"

Cynthia was startled, raised her head, and met his knowing eyes.

After a long silence, she sighed softly.

"It's not up to me, Aff." She whispered, "I tried, but he always refuses. How can you make a person who refuses to open his mouth like the coffee you made for him? "

Alfred looked at her with a sad look, and didn't speak for a while.

So Cynthia said again: "Maybe this is my problem. I still don't have that ability. I don't know what to do, and I'm a little tired."

Alfred shook his head: "No. You're right, it's really not your fault. Master, he..."

He paused.

"His experience when he was young made him not understand how to love someone. He is not good at communicating or expressing himself. Since the old master left..."

Alfred sighed softly.

"It was my fault. I didn't take good care of him."

Cynthia frowned: "No, Alfred, you've done enough. I've never seen..."

In the middle of the conversation, there was a slight "didi" sound from Alfred's body.

Hearing this voice, all the relaxed emotions on Alfred's face disappeared.He and Cynthia looked at each other, frowned, and solemnly took out a thin communicator from his waist pocket, and turned on the screen.

After a fuzzy, "sizzling" electric sound, Bruce's tired voice came from inside.

"... Alfred." He gasped slightly, "Can you come down?"

"Okay, sir."

Alfred answered quickly, but then he paused again before saying, "Miss Cynthia is right next to me."

The panting on the communicator stopped for a while.

Bruce didn't speak, as if he hadn't reacted yet.In the silence, Cynthia stood up uncomfortably, and couldn't help saying: "Go, Afu. I'll wait for you here, it's okay."

Alfred glanced at her and sighed: "Okay. I'm sorry, Miss Cynthia, I will—"

"--Do not."

Bruce on the communicator suddenly spoke.

"No, Cynthia," he whispered, "you can come down too. . . . You come down too."

Cynthia was really stunned.

"...me?" she asked uncertainly, "but I..."

"I have something to say to you."

Bruce said over there.His voice sounds distorted, and together with the meaning of the words, it doesn't seem very real.

"Come down, Cynthia, please," he said.

The sound of insects, the sound of water, the operation of machinery, and the rustling of unidentifiable sources... The Bat Cave in the middle of the night is even more eerie and cold.

The elevator going up and down trembled and stopped at the bottom of the cave.

Cynthia followed Alfred out of the elevator and hurried to the interior.

The lighting in the Batcave is gradually brightening, and the familiar Batmobile is parked in the middle, the engine is still roaring, the body is slightly damaged, trembling slightly, like a dormant beast.

Bruce was leaning against the car, frowning and spraying himself with potion.

His bat mask has been taken off, his hair is messy and curled up, and there is still a trace of moisture; the corner of his eye was injured by something, and a fine line of blood is left along his cheek; the cloak is torn, and the uniform on his body is also torn , There are small holes drawn everywhere.

Apparently, Batman had a tough night.

After walking up the steps, Cynthia stood there, watching Alfred hurriedly walked up to him, and abiding by the etiquette that a butler should have, bowed down, and asked almost familiarly: "Do you need my Help, sir? Where is it, back?"

His eyes met Bruce's, and he raised an eyebrow knowingly.

Bruce looked up at Cynthia who was standing in the distance, turned around obediently, and muttered reluctantly, "On your back."

Alfred went around behind him, and Cynthia couldn't see him. He was silent for a while, and asked without much hope: "This wound can be stitched. Do you want me to stitch you, sir?"

Sure enough, Bruce didn't consider this proposal at all, and refused, "No."

Cynthia looked at him and raised her eyebrows.

As if feeling her gaze, Bruce glanced back at her, then quickly turned away without a trace.

"...it will grow by itself."

For some reason, he opened his mouth to explain again.

Alfred took the medicine bottle and sprayed it on his wound, and then helped him wrap the bandage and cotton.

While entangled, he asked: "What happened? How are they doing?"

"It's over." Bruce said simply, with a relaxed look on his brows, "The plan is ahead of schedule, but fortunately there is no danger, they should all be locked up in the Black Gate Prison by now."

"Good news." Alfred nodded, and pulled the bandage heavily, until Bruce let out a painful "Hey" before he tied the last bow with a calm expression.

"Okay, sir." He patted Bruce on the shoulder, "This is the third time this month, and I hope it's the last—I don't want to see you running home with your bitten clothes Cried and said to me 'it's a huge dog'."

Bruce: "???"

Bruce couldn't argue: "When did I say—no, when did I run home crying, Aff?"

"Perhaps." Alfred shrugged, "but you did tell me 'a huge dog' in your rags."

Bruce: "..."

Alfred helped Bruce take off the light armor, picked up the torn mask that had been thrown aside, put them together, and stood up straight.

"Well, sir," said he, "I'm going up. You can have a 'good' talk with Miss Cynthia, what you want to tell her."

He puts emphasis on the word "well."

Bruce: "..."

Bruce glanced at Cynthia who was standing aside, was silent for a while, then nodded: "I see."

The elevator slowly went up again, taking away the last trace of warmth belonging to the ground.

Cynthia and Bruce looked at each other silently, one stood by the steps, the other put his hands on the Batmobile in the middle, unconsciously rubbing the corners of the front cover of the car.

"……sorry."

Bruce focused his blue eyes on the Batmobile's wipers.

"You put it in the drawer. Sorry."

Cynthia crossed her arms.

"There's no way I'm still carrying it with me knowing what's in it." There was no emotion in her tone, "Are you sorry, Bruce?"

"…No," Bruce said.

Cynthia sighed.

"You say 'sorry,' but you don't feel sorry," she said. "You may be guilty, but if it happened again, you would do it again. I know that."

"Sorry." Bruce whispered.

"I understand why you did this." Cynthia looked at him, "but it doesn't mean I won't be hurt by it. Do you understand what I mean?"

"I see."

Cynthia took a deep breath gently.

"So..." she asked, "You said you wanted to say something to me, what is it?"

Bruce finally looked up.

"Come here, please." He said heavily, with a small image of her reflected in his cobalt blue eyes, "Come to the computer, I want to show you something."