Author's Note: Originally written for sanyin in the 2006 Yuletide Treasure exchange.
In his dreams, it's always night now.
He doesn't see the bright blue eye at the top of the well, incontrovertible proof that warmth and sunshine and green grass still exist, or the shape of his father swinging down to save him from the dark. Now he's falling, he's flying, and he can't tell the black of the streets below him from the black of the sky above. Now he's the figure that blots out the light, and the faces upturned as he descends are not those of children, and he comes not to rescue, but to punish. He comes to avenge. He comes to destroy.
He wakes up.
Through the windows, he sees that the dream was right: it's full dark outside, with just a white thumbnail sliver of moon visible above the treetops. When he stands up, the room does a giddy twirl around him, and he wonders how long he's slept this time. His stomach isn't complaining, but he's as lightheaded as if he hasn't eaten in weeks, and as he looks back at the rumpled bed he realizes why.
Never mind, he thinks. Alfred will be able to get it out, and if not, sheets are a dime a dozen. Or something.
Slowly, he makes his way into the sitting room attached to his bedroom, trailing one hand along the wall just in case, eyes fixed on his feet. They're pale and stained against the polished wood floor, but they're steady, slapping down one in front of the other as ordered, and he's obscurely proud of them. His body has let him down in the past, but it isn't going to this time. Even so, it's a relief when he gets to the armchair by the sitting-room window.
He's barely settled down when a voice rumbles out from the doorway.
"I trust you slept well, sir?"
Bruce glances up, and in spite of the dizziness and fatigue, he has to smile. He's seen that look on Alfred's face a thousand times before, and he knows what it means: You are in deep trouble, Master Bruce. He wonders for a moment whether Alfred is planning to ground him or send him to his room without supper.
"Like the dead," he says in response to Alfred's question.
"Very nearly, I'm sure," Alfred mutters.
"What was that?"
"Nothing, sir. I wouldn't presume to comment, sir. I'm only here to serve you."
He rolls his eyes. "Never mind the unctuous butler act, Alfred. Just give me my scolding and get it over with."
"All right, if you insist. You left a trail of blood all the way down the corridor when you came in, your bed looks like an abattoir, and I've been scrubbing out the inside of your suit for the last two hours. In future, if you sustain a cut during your ... nighttime activities ... would you be so kind as to try applying a bit of pressure in the field? I expect at least that much of a doctor's son. Sir."
"Your request is duly noted, Alfred."
"Good." Crossing the room, Alfred puts down the silver tray he's carrying, heavy with its hospital-smelling burden of gauze and ointment and scissors, and lowers himself to his knees beside Bruce's armchair. "Where does it hurt?"
"Everywhere. But especially here."
He peels down the waistband of his pajama pants, the green plaid rusty and stiff with dried blood, and they both look at the gash underneath.
"Ugh."
"I've had worse."
"I don't want to know about it. Don't move a muscle until I've finished."
The cleaning hurts, but not so badly he can't bear it. To distract himself, he watches Alfred's hands busily disinfecting and stitching and bandaging: an old man's hands, with the signs of decay looming large in each liver spot, each swollen knuckle. They remind him of the days when one of his worst fears was that Alfred would die - not a child's abstract worry, but a cold, adult dread of the inevitable. At eleven, he'd already known how suddenly and completely death could steal a person, and he'd tortured himself with morbid fantasies of being informed by doctors that Alfred had died of some disease or accident, or worse, turning away for a moment and looking back to find Alfred dead in his chair. Another father lost.
He's spent half his life looking for fathers and clinging to them when he finds them; to Alfred, to certain of his professors at Princeton, even, God help him, to Henri Ducard. Collecting fathers, as if he thinks he can pile up so many that he'll always have a spare when one fails him through death or disinterest or betrayal. And yet he can't bear the idea of ever becoming a father himself. He doesn't know how anyone can tell a child that everything will be all right and believe it, not when everything is so clearly wrong. Even the most devoted father-figure, even Alfred whom Bruce knows would never leave of his own free will, is lying when he promises always to be there.
But Alfred is here now, and he's glad of it. Alfred's words can be sharp, but his hands are always gentle, and Bruce touches him on the shoulder in gratitude before bracing himself against the arms of the chair and preparing to stand up.
"What do you think you're doing?""I'm getting up, Alfred. Thank you for another fine repair job. I don't know what I'd do without you."
"You don't actually intend to go out in this condition, do you?"
"No, I intend to take a shower and eat dinner first. Then I intend to go out."
Alfred drops his scissors onto the tray with a clatter and sits back on the heels of his wingtips, his pouched old face drawn down in disapproval.
"You're mad, Master Bruce." His voice is blunt. "You've lost too much blood to go scampering about on rooftops."
"It wasn't that much."
"Oh? Did you measure it drop by drop?"
"I lost count after the first pint. It's no good fussing, Alfred. I am going."
"For God's sake -" Alfred loses his balance as he tries to rise, and Bruce catches him by the elbow and steadies him.
"You worry too much, Alfred."
Alfred sighs, straightening the lapels of his jacket. "I suppose you'll be all right. You always are. Only do be careful, and call me if you get into trouble."
"Of course."
An hour later he's crouching next to a chimney stack, the wind making his eyes water and freezing the uncovered bit of his face, the throbbing in his hip a low, constant drone at the back of his awareness. It's stiff and sore, but he can't feel any fresh blood leaking from it. Alfred's work, as always, is outstanding.
He looks down into the empty well of space between buildings, all the way down to the bits of paper fluttering around the street like dirty white birds, then tilts his head back and regards the blank, black sky. No blue eye above, no father, no miraculous rescue.
Only me, he thinks, and throws himself into the dark.