Underneath a large mansion on the skirts of Gotham City, Bruce Wayne returned from another long night of fighting crime and injustice. His muscles burned with exhaustion and he would need to ice his shoulder overnight if he wanted to use it tomorrow. The exceedingly powerful engine of the Batmobile purred to a stop and panels slid out of place to allow Bruce to exit. It was early morning and he anticipated Alfred to be at his elbow to take his cape and hand him a cold press, but the elder gentleman was nowhere to be found. The familiar anxiety twisted dully in his stomach.
"Alfred?" Bruce called out on the intercom system he had wired into the house. He had explained to Alfred the security applications, but it was clear that Alfred knew their real intent. It was obvious that Alfred was growing older, and it pained him to travel up and down stairs, especially between the main house and the cave. With the intercoms in place, Alfred could check in on Bruce like he inevitably would without the wear and tear on his tired joints. For the most part, Alfred refused to use the system, but more and more frequently he would ask if Bruce was still alive and when he intended to eat without making the long trek to the cave.
"Alfred?" His stomach twist a little tighter at the silence on the line. In an effort the quell the mounting discomfort in his gut, Bruce jogged upstairs in search of his guardian. His legs wobbled beneath him as he pressed further into the mansion, checking the spots where he would expect Alfred to be. The kitchen was empty, save for two plates sitting out, boldly contradicting the perfect order that Alfred had always imposed on the household. Bruce tore through the house more quickly, slamming doors and treading moisture from his boots on to the oriental carpets. His knuckles rapped loudly on the heavy wooden door to Alfred's personal quarters. With his heart pounding in his ears he threw the door open.
It took him a while to understand what he was seeing. Blackness ate around the edges of his vision as he took in the broken glass of water on the floor, the leg which was twisted a little too far to be comfortable. Water. A body. Pearls… No. Not pearls. Not this time. He kneeled beside him, straightening the leg to bide some time before he pressed a wrist, searching for a pulse. It was steady. Stable. His breathing was a little raspy, but constant, and there was no obvious sign of damage. The calloused hands which had an hour ago broken a man's grip on a gun, pinned him, cuffed him, now shook and fumbled for a phone. Two rings. Two rings too long.
"Amanda. Amanda, please. I need help." He could hear papers rustling around on the other line.
"Bruce? What's the matter? Where are you?" A couple miles away, Amanda Waller grabbed her dark, wool jacket off the hook and slipped it around her shoulders.
"It's—not me," he choked, feeling his throat strangle his voice away. "Please, Amanda. It's Alfred." An uncontrollable shake wracked his body and his breath was harsh and shallow into the phone.
"I'm on my way, Bruce. You know how to move him. Get him downstairs into the medical bay. I'll be there in five minutes." Bruce nodded an affirmation which couldn't carry over the phone before the line went dead. He lifted the slight frame into his arms, heart aching at the limpness, the thin limbs, and the fragile bones. Powerful arms pulled him close, gently, as he carried something as fragile as a baby bird and precious as life itself. Alfred was in his arms, on the medical table, Amanda shooed him away. Everything spun around him as he wrestled his cape off of his shoulders. He thought he was ready for this. He wasn't prepared for this. Nothing could have prepared him for this. He was numb and glassy-eyed by the time Amanda joined him in the living room. The couch dipped beside him as slender hips rested on the cushion.
"He's had a stroke. His condition is… stable." The pain in the blue eyes which studied her was palpable.
"Is he going to be okay?" Firm lips settled into a grimace as he awaited the news. Body Language. Her eyes slipped sideways, away from him.
"It's hard to say. Bruce… he's in a coma," a gentle hand settled on his shoulder, hoping to ease the blow. A coma. His mind repeated, unhelpfully. A coma. Symptoms and signs of a stroke raced through his head. The odds of recovery. Possible long term effects. "The odds are against him, but he's still fighting."
"Of course," his voice was warm with confidence he couldn't actually muster. "Is there anything we can do?"
"Just keep him comfortable. Only time will tell," she nodded, heading downstairs to get her coat. Just like Bruce, she was guarded, a little too cold, too aloof. She'd given him many stitches, supplies, and helped set a couple of his broken bones. She could patch up the holes and keep everything where it should be, but no one could fix the scars Bruce wore on the inside. She wouldn't be so arrogant as to try. Bruce was calling her a cab by the time she was back upstairs, heading towards the door.
They'd done everything they could, and only time would tell.
