3.
Fuzzy.
He felt downright fuzzy. He'd been dreaming, one of those pleasant dreams that takes a turn for the worst when you least expect it. Bruce couldn't quite remember details, but he did remember that he wasn't sorry that the dream was over.
It took him a moment or two to decide whether or not to open his eyes. The fog was clearing from his mind though, and many rather unpleasant things were beginning to emerge. There would be no going back to sleep now. He allowed them to open just a crack and waited for them to focus. The insides of his eyelids felt like sandpaper, and he cautiously brought a hand up to rub at them.
Upon finally peeling them open them all the way, he was surprised that there was no onslaught of light from the windows and thought for a moment that it was perhaps evening. Turning his head to view one row of windows, he noted that it was indeed day, but that Gotham was shrouded in the gloom of a thunderstorm.
It was fitting, he thought.
Alfred was at his usual post, reading a newspaper. When he looked up to see that Bruce had awoken, he carefully folded up his paper and, breaking into a smile, rose.
"Good to see you awake, Master Wayne. How are you feeling?"
Bruce took mental inventory. Most of him felt like one mass bruise- dull aches and stiffness with a few sharp twangs here and there. He wasn't even sure if the question was worth answering, but he decided to humor Alfred and said the first thing that came to mind.
"Sore." He was more hoarse than he expected. Craning his head the other way, he managed to focus on the alarm clock. 2:37 P.M. He scrubbed at his face a bit, trying to orient his thoughts.
"I missed my meeting."
"It certainly isn't the first time. I'm going to go out on a limb and say you'll be missing the one tomorrow as well."
Bruce mulled that over for a moment.
"What's my excuse?"
"You were in a car wreck, as you may recall, and are suffering from a rather serious case of whiplash."
Bruce allowed himself a smile. It was a decidedly good alibi.
"I'm afraid you've also missed lunch, but I've got some wonderful chicken dumpling soup still warm on the stove if you're feeling up to it."
He wasn't hungry, exactly. There was, however, a strange empty feeling that spread through his stomach and into his limbs- all of him felt drained, hollow, and weak. He was tired though, and no matter how empty his stomach might have felt, the rest of him felt like falling right back into a hopefully dreamless sleep. Looking to Alfred, he started to decline the offer of food. Before he could get the words out though, he took note of the harried look that still shadowed the butler's face and the deepened lines that ringed his eyes. It was then that it occurred to Bruce that perhaps, for Alfred, he should accept the food. The older man took great pleasure in feeding Bruce and would, perhaps, find it heartening seeing his young charge eating.
Bruce fought the urge to heave a sigh- the stitches would have pulled uncomfortably. Instead, he nodded.
"Sounds good to me, Alfred."
"One bowl of chicken dumpling soup coming right up then, sir. Just sit tight." The butler turned on his heel, seemingly eager to prepare the best recuperative meal he could manage.
As he waited for Alfred to return, he began to test his body, trying to gauge just how long it would take to get himself back into fighting form. With some difficulty, he pulled himself upright, until he was seated with his back against the pillow. To his dismay, he found that the stitched wounds were severely aggravated by even slight movement, and they weren't the only parts of him that had begun protesting excruciatingly. Frustration spread through him faster than the pain. Weeks. It would be weeks before he was back to normal.
Weeks that, as far as he was concerned, he didn't have.
Or maybe he had all the time in the world.
Before he could sink too far into self-pity, Alfred returned, beaming, and with a tray laden with a good sized bowl of the dumpling soup. He placed the tray carefully over Bruce's lap and stepped back, looking satisfied.
"There you are, Master Wayne."
The smell of the soup wafted up to Bruce's nose, making his mouth water. Perhaps he was hungrier than he'd thought. Eating was slow going, for he discovered that his hands were shaking and much of the soup ended up dribbled on the tray long before it got to his mouth. The portion of the hearty fare that he did manage to get down the hatch, however, had a surprisingly restorative effect. With Alfred's cooking, perhaps he'd be back in action sooner than he thought. He wiped his mouth on the napkin provided and looked to Alfred again, who had relaxed back into his bedside chair and seemed calmly absorbed in the newspaper, spectacles perched primly on his nose.
"What's the news got to say about last night?"
Alfred looked up and noticed that his ward had finished eating. He rose and wordlessly exchanged his newspaper for the tray.
"Haven't read much of the front page yet. Thought I'd wait to hear it first hand." With that, Alfred turned on his heel to dispose of the tray.
Bruce cracked a wry smile and carefully smoothed the front page. The headline didn't surprise him, but nevertheless it stung.
The Batman Shows His True Colors!
At a time when Gotham can ill afford to lose a hero, she has; and not one, but two. Harvey Dent has been declared dead- and at the hands of none other than the Batman. No fewer than six lives lost in the chaos of last night are attributed to the dark workings of the Batman. After an interview with Commissioner James Gordon this morning confirmed the worst, it is clear that the caped crusader, someone that much of the public had turned to for hope in the past months, has changed sides in the battle…
There was more, but Bruce couldn't bring himself to read it. His reaction surprised him; he'd thought that he would be able to take this in stride. He carefully folded the newspaper in his lap, an unreadable and distant expression on his face. For as sore as the rest of him was, his mind was surprisingly and almost alarmingly numb. Suddenly though, Dent's words sprang up from somewhere in the dark recesses of memory from the night before.
Why was it only me who lost everything?
From the same dark corner of his mind, Bruce's answer rang- but it rang now with a new bitterness.
It wasn't. It was me who lost everything. We both lost Rachel- but I've just sacrificed everything that I had left to make sure the Joker didn't get the last laugh.
Was it worth it?
He sat like that for a while, blank-faced and unmoving, his thoughts wearing a hole in the carpet of his mind where they ran in aimless circles. Eventually, he sensed rather than saw Alfred's presence and managed to fight his way out of the mental trench he'd dug for himself. He blinked and found that Alfred was standing at the bedside, glass of water and another two pills in hand.
"Alfred, Harvey Dent killed five men last night."
The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them, like a wild animal being released from a trap.
Carefully, Alfred set the glass of water on the nightstand and placed the two pills next to it. After pulling the vigil chair closer to the bed in order to facilitate conversation, he then proceeded to sit.
"I daresay that makes a sorry mess of things."
"He's dead." Bruce sounded hollow.
"I know."
Bruce stared at Alfred for a moment, confused but not all that surprised that he knew.
"Thought you said you didn't read the front page?"
Alfred looked smug. "I never said I didn't turn on the television."
Bruce offered a fleeting half-smile. Then his brows drew together in something like a tired frown.
"What else did the television have to say?"
Alfred sat back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest, those spectacles still situated atop his nose. Presently, he gazed over them at his charge, carefully weighing his words.
"I think you know, Master Wayne."
A heavy silence fell upon them. After a minute or two, Alfred stood and turned to leave. Before he marched off though, he hesitated a moment and turned back to Bruce.
"You did the right thing."
Bruce began to shake his head in frustration. "My father…"
"Your father," Alfred interrupted, "would be proud." He paused a minute, then ventured on. "And so would Rachel."
Another silence fell. Bruce's gut clenched at her name, and grief rose from wherever it had been relegated to while he'd attended to the saving of Gotham. It would have overwhelmed him had the exhaustion not begun to take hold first. Exhaustion was a good diversion. Carefully, he eased himself back down, until his head once again rested on the pillow. His eyes burned and he let them slide shut.
Alfred's face again took on a look of consternation.
"I'll wake you for supper, Master Bruce."
It was the last thing Bruce heard before he drifted off into restful slumber.
It was dark outside by the time Alfred went to rouse Bruce. As the bed came into view though, he could see that it was empty, the covers thrown carelessly back. He heaved a sigh. An empty bed rarely meant something positive when it concerned Bruce. When a glance around the room didn't reveal any pajama-clad billionaires, he began to worry.
"Master Wayne?" Alfred's voice was sharp with alarm.
"I'm here."
The words, carried to him from the next room, were quiet and sad. Alfred followed their sound and as he turned the corner, the first thing that caught his eye was the flicker of the television screen. He watched for a moment, and felt his hear sink. A slideshow of Rachel was being displayed on the evening news, voiced-over with the details of the tragic explosion that took her life.
Bruce sat sprawled in the armchair in front of the TV. One arm rested carefully over his middle; the other dangled listlessly from the edge of the upholstered arm of the chair. The pained expression on his face was enough to bring tears to the butler's eyes.
"…causes of the explosion that killed Miss Dawes and severely injured the late District Attorney Harvey Dent are still under investigation. Funeral arrangements for both Dent and Miss Dawes are pending…"
When he noticed Alfred's presence, he looked up.
"When do you think they'll have the funerals?"
Alfred studied him for a moment.
"Later this week or early next, I should think."
A pause.
"Alfred, I want to go. To Rachel's."
Alfred's brows drew together, his lips pressed in a thin line.
"I'm not certain that that would be wise, Master Wayne. Considering-"
Bruce cut him off.
"She was my…" Bruce hesitated a moment. "…my oldest friend. I should be there. I need to be there."
Alfred stood silent for a moment. Then, he offered a nod.
"Very well."
He carefully surveyed his ward, who looked significantly worse for the wear. The cold light from the television illuminated a face that was somehow dark and pale at the same time. Bruce needed more than bodily nourishment, but that was the best that Alfred could offer at the moment.
"Supper's ready when you are, sir."
As he turned to go, he brushed away a tear. Whether it was for Bruce or for Rachel, Alfred couldn't tell.
A/N: Hope you enjoyed part three. Took me long enough too- had a bit of trouble with it, trying to find the direction. That's how it usually works for me though. The good news is, I have a direction now- decently clear too. There's a villain and everything! It's always good to know where something is going. The bad news is, my classes start Monday. I am anticipating a semester with less than sufficient time for sleeping and eating, much less writing.
Basically, only expect an update every two or three weeks? That's as long as I don't run out of steam or lose focus or anything- I'll post something to let you know if this dies completely. I don't think it will, but if that happens, hopefully someone else would take up the challenge of finishing it…
I did want to address one thing that has come up in the reviews, namely that of the lack of medical supplies in the bat bunker. The primary reason I went with that was due to a scene from the movie in which Bruce and Alfred are basically destroying every bit of evidence associated with Batman in the bunker in preparation for Bruce's "coming out" for lack of a better term. As I pictured them clearing the place out, I couldn't imagine them leaving all of their med stuff there. I realize that Alfred is shown manning the computers there after that so they couldn't have gotten rid of everything (maybe the computers sink in the floor like the batsuit…) , but somehow I didn't see them suddenly moving everything back ASAP. If I were Alfred, medical supplies would probably be one of the first things I'd think to move back. Unfortunately, I didn't write it that way.
It is a little dramatic. Hopefully not too bad. Just the sort of thing I was hoping to have brought to my attention though.
Thanks for reading as always- again, please leave reviews... any and all comments and critiques are greatly appreciated!