CRACKED

*CHAPTER 2*

A/N: Heavy on the hurt/comfort, I know, but there's never enough Alfred/Bruce out there Remember, I'm not a professional. As always, please review!

BRUCE POV

"This is where she died…"

Harvey's voice seemed to echo through his mind. His head throbbed, his eyes glued to the gruesome, raw half of Harvey's once charming face. When Harvey's bullet pierced his chest, he stumbled, but didn't cry out, his only goal to save Gordon's son. Passing Gordon's son back up to his father…his fingers slipping…landing alongside Harvey's broken body. The image of Harvey connected to barrels of gasoline…knowing that Rachel was as well…the explosion, the wretched thought of her burning…had she screamed?

Bruce snapped awake, sitting up quickly but instantly regretting it. He felt his sutures pulling taught and every bone in his body screaming in resistance. Each breath seemed to be coming much too quickly, catching in his throat before he could take control. His eyes burned with hot tears, and his hands moved to cover his ears, which were pierced by shrill screams. He shot frantic glances around the room, struggling to gain a solid sense of his location. Suddenly his only urge was to vomit, and before he knew it, he was heaving the few contents of his stomach onto the floor of the master bedroom.

Rachel…Rachel, he had to get to her, before…no, no…

"NO!"

Surely the walls were collapsing, he was on the floor, and there were hands on his back, trying to help him up. He couldn't breathe, couldn't think, she was everywhere. The screams were growing louder by the second and he could do nothing to escape them…

ALFRED POV

At long last, Alfred had managed to settle down for the night, after what seemed like hours of watching Bruce stare emptily at the off-white ceiling. The man looked lost in thought, but eventually, his fatigue had overcome him, forcing his eyes lightly shut. Content for the moment, Alfred had allowed himself to drift off…

"NO!"

Alfred was on his feet the instant he heard Bruce's cry. His heart froze as he saw that the younger man, no, the boy, was no longer on the bed. Bruce has somehow slid to the floor, screaming with his head down, ears blocking off sounds only he could hear. Alfred was at his master's side in his instant, approaching as carefully as one would a lost dog.

"Master Bruce! Master Bruce!"

But Bruce was still screaming, completely ignoring the gentle hand Alfred had set on his back as he crouched beside him. Alfred swept his eyes over his charge, searching for any outward causes of his pain. The boy had broken out in a cold sweat, and his downward cast eyes were red and tear-filled, and he seemed to be hyperventilating. He had to get Bruce off this floor. He noted the small pool of vomit, and recognizing the futility of his attempts, moved to grab some cleaning supplies from the hall closet as well as a washcloth. Wetting the washcloth in the adjoined bathroom sink, he bent down once more, approaching just as slowly. He tried again to reach out to Bruce, to whisper some words of comfort, but the creature before him was in an entirely different world.

Inching closer, Alfred reached forward, putting a hand on either side of the younger man's face. He ignored any resistance and began wiping the tear-tracked cheeks with the cloth.

"Master Bruce," he whispered, "Bruce."

Slowly the screaming died off, and on some level, Bruce seemed to realize that he was in familiar arms, on his own bedroom floor rather than in whatever hell he had thought himself in. He had broken into a fit of racking coughs, still struggling to get even a lungful of air. Alfred supported him behind the back, patting gently as it shook.

Much as they had been earlier, Bruce's eyes were shut, and his head leaned against Alfred's shoulder. His breaths still took on something of an erratic quality, but at least the frantic cries had stopped, leaving stunned silence in their wake.

"Shhhhh, Master Bruce, deep breaths," Alfred soothed, trying to mask the nervousness in his voice. "Deep breaths, sir."

The boy responded with more coughs, each of his hands grabbing a fistful of Alfred's suit jacket, as if clinging to it for dear life. The tears had not yet ceased, but with his head on Alfred's chest, Bruce began to mimic Alfred's breaths, slowly allowing Alfred's presence to calm him as it always had.

Alfred took these steadier breaths as perhaps his only chance to ease the man back into bed. He managed it, but it wasn't easy, for Alfred had already strained himself supporting Bruce's muscular body several times tonight. Ensuring that the pillows were comfortably positioned behind Bruce's head and that all was calm for the time being, he grabbed the cleaning supplies and made quick work of the mess Bruce had left on the floor. As he did so, he could sense Bruce's gaze on his back. He had known the boy long enough to know that at this particular moment, he was probably drowning in embarrassment, shame, and as always, guilt. Guilt for waking Alfred, guilt for needing help, guilt over letting his parents down, letting Harvey down, letting Rachel down, letting Gotham itself down…

After all was cleaned and put away, Alfred resumed his place at his master's bedside, taking his spot in the armchair. The older man was not surprised in the least to see Bruce awake, eyes still moist, staring blankly at the ceiling. Extending a gentle hand, Alfred lifted up the edge of Bruce's tee, praying that in his movement he had not torn his stitches. He let out a sigh of relief when he saw that they had held.

It was only now that Alfred sat back in his chair, watching Bruce, trying to imagine what horrors he had seen in his sleep. He knew that much of what he had seen of the news had been untrue: no way had the Batman murdered Harvey Dent in cold blood. He contemplated quietly, then after several minutes had passed, decided to break the silence, seeing as neither of them were likely to get back to sleep. It was now already past three.

"Another nightmare, Master Bruce?" He knew that Master Bruce had taken to nightmares from a young age, usually surrounding the night of his parents' death.

"You could call it that."

More silence, but Alfred knew better than to draw it out. "You know, sir, when bad things happen, even to the very best of us," he hesitated, searching for the right words, "Well, sometimes, sir, we need to…talk about the things we've seen, in order for these things not to destroy us…"

"I appreciate it, Alfred." His words were spoken in a whisper, his stare still hovering somewhere on the ceiling. When no further comment was made, Alfred took this as a decline to the offer.

"Very well, then. Is there anything I can do for you, sir?"

"Just…don't leave." The voice cracked slightly.

"Never, sir," he answered, "Never."

A/N: These first two chapters are kind of introductory-ish, more plot-driven stuff is on the way …Update is coming soon.