CRACKED

*CHAPTER 1*

Timeline: Immediately after the end of The Dark Knight…

Disclaimer: I don't own anything relating to the Dark Knight Trilogy; that's all Christopher Nolan, Warner Bros., etc.

A/N: I'm not a frequent fanfic writer or a professional, just a bored student with a love of the Nolan Batman films. This is for my entertainment only and hopefully yours as well. I do enjoy writing, so PLEASE LEAVE A REVIEW letting me know what you did/didn't like. Thanks!

BRUCE POV

"Bruce, deep down you may still be that great kid you used to be, but it's not who you are underneath, it's what you *do* that defines you."

A familiar arrowhead pressed against his palm, her scrawling letters… "Finders Keepers…"

The Batman leaned heavily on the Batpod as it zoomed towards the Gothams docks, a thousand images clouding his mind.

Harvey's face…Rachel…gone…

He squeezed his eyes tightly shut for an instant, breath catching in his throat, trying to focus on something less overwhelming. Something fixable... He let the whir of the Batpod fill his ears, the night air fill his nose. His only focus should be getting back to Alfred…

But Rachel…gone…

In an instant, the adrenaline rush shattered, crumbling the Batman façade with it. Suddenly, Bruce was bombarded with the searing pain of angry dog bites, a burning bullet wound to the chest, and countless throbbing bruises. His brain suddenly felt as if it was exploding, and his vision grew hot and blurred with salty tears. Only on a very base level was he aware that he had just arrived at the docks, the realization affirmed when he felt the Batpod ram into a pole, rocketing him into the air. The wind zipped through his mind, and for a moment, for a second even, he thought he had died...perhaps even wished it so…

Until he felt his back thud squarely on the concrete. There he lay, sprawled brokenly under the starless Gotham sky, tears streaming down his still cowl-covered face. As if out of some remaining instinct, he wearily pulled a small, bat-insignia cell phone off of his utility belt. Pressing speed dial #1, he raised the phone to the side of the cowl, waiting…

ALFRED POV

Alfred had been waiting impatiently in the bunker under the Gotham docks, as he so often did when his master took to his nightly, save-the-world antics. Tonight, he found himself seated nervously in the front entranceway. His fingers tapped anxiously against his teacup, still awaiting his master's return. He listened intently as the wall-mounted television screen fed him headlines such as "The Batman Murders Harvey Dent In Killing Spree," "Joker Captured," and "Gotham D.A. Rachel Dawes Dead in Joker's Fatal Explosion." Alfred, being reasonable, knew that there was certainly more to the first headline; surely Bruce had not violated his only rule. The second brought a vague sense of relief, only to be crushed once more by the last.

Rachel…Of course, he had already heard about Miss Dawes's saddening demise. In fact, he had already spoken to Bruce since, had tried to explain to him that his actions had not been for nothing. Although Bruce had been evidently grieving during this conversation, Alfred feared that the brunt of Bruce's sadness, the moment when he realized that Rachel was truly gone forever, was yet to come. His thoughts drifted to the letter that rested in the breast-pocket of his tailored suit jacket only moments earlier, the one in which Rachel intended to end Bruce's fantasies…the one in which she chose Harvey Dent. After seeing Bruce in such a broken state, he had failed to expose the letter, so, just a few moments ago, he had concluded that the best option would be to burn it, and he had. No sense worrying Master Wayne with the past. It could not be changed, and would only bring him more unnecessary pain.

A short, high pitched buzz jolted him from his thoughts, and instantaneously, he had torn his cell from his jacket pocket and answered, for only one person and one person only would call him at such a late hour.

But when he heard the voice at the other end of the connection, the phone nearly clattered to the floor.

"Alfred…"

The butler's heart snapped in two, hearing the tears in his master's simple word.

"Alfred…in the lot…outside the entrance…" His master seemed to be gasping for air between fragments. He swallowed, and his own words seemed to come out in a single breath.

"Yes, Master Bruce, I'll be right there sir, just you hold on…"

"…hide the bike first…"

With that, Alfred bolted with impressive speed for a man of his age over to the secret lift that led from the underground bunker up to ground level. The ride up seemed to move nerve-wrackingly slow, but the moment the lift stopped, Alfred moved hastily towards the outer door, attempting to put on a composed face for his master.

Until he saw him.

Laying in the middle of the lot was Master Bruce, cowl still masking his young face from view. Although his heart pulled him immediately to his master's side, Alfred, faithful as ever, headed over to where the Batpod had crashed unceremoniously alongside the garage. With a few series of button pushes and keystrokes, Alfred had set the bike cruising itself down into the entrance that would lead it back underground. In the back of his mind, Alfred vaguely thanks the heavens that the police have been somehow thrown off the Batman's trail; it made the situation at least that more manageable.

Despite his many years, Alfred was soon crouched at his master's side. Bruce seemed to be unconscious, and Alfred has a fleeting urge to see remove the mask, to see the face of the boy who he had helped raise since birth. But now was not the time. Not until they were both safely underground. To his own disbelief, Alfred soon had the younger man draped awkwardly over his shoulder and is half-dragging him toward the entrance, keeping pressure on his bullet wound all the while, and then they are riding the lift back towards safety.

After what seems like a lifetime later, Alfred has carefully hoisted Bruce onto the metal slab that had been included in the medical area of the hideout, and half-supporting the masked head with his left arm, Alfred began to gently remove the cowl. Bruce stirred from the movement, his bloodshot, devastated eyes blinking in confusion. "Alfred?"

Alfred forced a smile. "Yes, Master Bruce, I'm here now." The face before him looked far younger than it should, and as he turned to open a large pack of gauze, he could not help but notice the tear tracks that marked the young man's bloody-stained cheeks. Alfred had only seen such soul-shaking sadness once before, in the eyes of an eight year-old boy, wrapped in his dead father's jacket…Alfred shook off the memory. When he had turned back, supplies in hand, Bruce had somehow managed to sit up, and had begun to tug on his Kevlar armor. A trained observer, Alfred noted that the young man's hands trembled and quaked, unable to find the latch releasing the suit's majority. Stepping forward, Alfred undid the latch carefully, and then took both of the trembling hands gently in his own.

"Master Bruce, sir, we need to get you laying down, sir, and I'll fix you right up…"

Alfred's words caught in his throat as Bruce, who had been sitting on the edge of the slab, eyes fixed unseeingly on an unknown point on the wall, slowly leaned forward. With one arm still applying pressure to his bullet wound, he positioned himself so that his forehead rested against Alfred's shoulder. Looking down in surprise, Alfred saw that young Bruce had closed his eyes, silent tears streaming.

In his shock, it took Alfred a moment, but he slowly raised one hand to the back of Bruce's head, brushing a gentle hand through the brown hair, holding the young man who may as well have been his son close against him. They remained this way for a minute or two, until Bruce's softly shaking shoulders stopped, leading Alfred to wonder whether the young man had finally succumbed to his agonizing exhaustion. But it was Bruce that cut this very thought short.

"Alfred…" It was hardly more than a whisper.

"Yes, Master Bruce?"

"Rachel…" Even softer this time.

Alfred's heart dropped. "I know, sir. I know." Once again, he carded his hand lightly over the brown locks, but the younger man showed no signs of being comforted.

"It was my fault…"

If it were possible, Alfred's heart would have plummeted even farther. Without pause, he placed a finger under Bruce's narrow chin, attempting to raise Bruce's dark eyes to meet his own, just as he had all of those years ago…

But this time, he was met with resistance.

Jerking his face away and keeping his eyes fixed upon the floor, Bruce hunched over himself. The tears had stopped, any sign of weakness buried, leaving traces of anger in their place.

"You can't say…that this time…that everything isn't my fault." Bruce gritted his teeth in between words, and Alfred guessed that it was probably a split of both pain and anger. He tried a different approach.

"Sir, we really need to be removing that bullet now. Why don't we just get you laid down?" He moved slowly closer, but as he reached toward Bruce, Bruce pulled back, putting as much distance in between himself and the butler as possible.

"Just go to bed, Alfred," he whispered brokenly. "I don't want…anything."

"And leave you to bleed to death, sir?" Now it was Alfred's voice that dripped anger.

Bruce kept his gaze trained on the floor. "I'll…take care of it."

"Pardon me, sir, but I'm afraid you don't want to. I've seen that look in your eyes once before, from a boy with too much love in his heart. So I apologize, sir, but I refuse to sit here and watch you kill the boy I raised."

With that, Alfred moved closer, antiseptic and gauze ready, and this time, to Alfred's surprise, Bruce did not back away, and even allowed Alfred to help him lay down. Alfred began cleaning assorted wounds that peppered Bruce's chest and abdomen, his patient still refusing to look anywhere but the wall. Oh well, Alfred sighed, at least he is letting me help him. As he began to work on the gunshot wound, he felt Bruce tense under his light touch. Alfred had used what painkillers and numbing agents he had, but this, unfortunately, was one of the consequences of being the Batman. No hospitals for fear of exposure, just Alfred's limited but sufficient knowledge from the time he had spent as a military medic in his youth.

Bruce's eyes were clenched tightly in pain as Alfred skillfully removed the bullet, and he let out a single strangled cry, panting in pain, indicating that the medicine had not in fact been strong enough, as Alfred expected. It pained his heart to see the boy like this, and he could not help himself from apologizing profusely.

"I am so very sorry, Master Wayne, but we're almost finished. Not much longer at all."

He did his best to sound soothing, but Bruce could not contain another whimper as Alfred stitched and dressed the wound. Finally finished, he fetched an oversized t-shirt and a spare pair of comfortable sweatpants from a nearby trunk and managed to get Bruce into them. He was just about to pull the shirt over Bruce's weary head when he heard his voice, sounding much too small and fearful.

"Are you disappointed?"

Alfred looked up in surprise to see that Bruce had finally shifted his eyes to meet his. He considered what Bruce had said. "Disappointed in what, sir?"

"…in me…I…killed Dent tonight. The Joker corrupted him…he held Gordon's son hostage…no choice…" he trailed off, eyes darkening, and shifted his gaze once more, ashamed.

Alfred reached over as he had earlier, using a finger under the young man's chin to level their gaze. He paused thoughtfully. "Why do we fall sir?"

Bruce raised his eyes, remembering his father's words. He completed the thought. "…So that we can learn to pick ourselves up again…"

Alfred gave his first real smile of the night. "That's right, sir." He held the chin even with his own, wanting more than anything that the young man before him absorb every word. "So, to answer your question, sir, I couldn't be more proud of you if I tried. I whole-heartedly believe you would never do anything other than the right thing." He straightened. "Now, Master Bruce, I do believe we should start picking ourselves back up. And that starts with getting you to bed."

Much to Alfred's slight amusement, Bruce answered with a yawn. He allowed Alfred to help him unsteadily to his feet, and together, they headed along the path that led up to the penthouse. They were both silent on the way up, Bruce still looking desperately sad and lost, more along the lines of a wounded animal than a masked vigilante. They took their time as they finally reached the master bedroom, the last of Bruce's energy spent.

While Alfred pulled down the comforter, Bruce worked on easing his aching body onto the mattress. Once he had succeeded, Alfred tucked the covers around him, vaguely musing that he had not done so in years, in fact, since shortly before Bruce had left for his seven-year stint in Tibet. His thoughts, for the umpteenth time that night, were interrupted by that quiet, broken voice, that voice that he would give anything to give happiness.

"Alfred?"

Alfred was half-turned, preparing to leave for the night.

"Yes, Master Bruce?"

And in that moment, aged blue eyes and young brown locked. Alfred could sense from across the room that the young man's thoughts had drifted back to Rachel. He knew the trains of thought that would haunt him that night. So, without another word, he crossed to where the armchair rested in the corner of the room, slid it purposefully alongside the large be, and sat down, draping a light blanket over his lap. It was going to be a long night.

A peaceful silence, and then that mournful voice once more…

"Thank you, Alfred."

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