Hi guys! It's taken me longer than expected to finish the next chapter. So I didn't want to let you wait much longer with an update so I'm just posting a short chapter for now. Thank you so much for your reviews! I love reading them. Hope you're enjoying this (albeit short) chapter. =)
Today was the day. Alfred was worried for Bruce. October 23 was always an especially dark day - and they were all dark.
He walked down the hallway of Wayne Manor, slowly inching towards the master bedroom. Curtains would be drawn. They always were.
"Seven years." The old butler said to himself. "Has it been that long?"
He knocked on the door of the master bedroom. No response from the other side.
He knocked again.
"Master Wayne?" No answer.
He knew Bruce wasn't sleeping. He wasn't sleeping much these days.
"It's past noon, sir." He said as he opened the door.
The room was dark, the air cold. Perfect conditions for a bat - he thought to himself.
The only ray of light was coming from where the thick curtains had been pulled ever so slightly to the side.
Just enough so Bruce could look out the window.
Bruce was sitting in the corner in a chair, turning his head to see outside.
The old butler was worried for his master. Bruce had aged over the last seven years. Aged more than he should have.
His face was gaunt, his features disappearing under too much facial hair.
His eyes were dull. Not even anger was left in them. They were just empty.
The usually thick brown hair was thinning.
"I have made you breakfast, Master Wayne." "No, no." He shook his head. "I'm not hungry." "You never are anymore. But you should still eat."
Bruce shook his head and got up, supporting himself by a cane. All of Batman's injuries had finally caught up with him.
"All I need is to be left alone."
"Master Wayne…"
"I mean it. Get out."
The Batman had died and now, Alfred feared, so had Bruce Wayne. In front of him was just a shadow of the man he once knew.
"Get out." Bruce said again.
Alfred sighed and obliged.
Seven years. He had hoped it would get better with time. But some wounds, even time couldn't heal.
He sat down in the kitchen by himself, eating the breakfast he had prepared.
So much death. So much despair. One can only take so much.
Alfred chewed on some toast with butter, taking a sip of Earl Grey tea. Even he couldn't escape the images. They were coming back to haunt him.
The night at the hospital when he arrived, seeing Bruce in his white shirt, covered in blood. His eyes were panicked.
Alfred closed his eyes, as if that was to make the images go away. But instead he saw them even more vividly now. Bruce's face when the doctor told him. It was like that of the young boy who had just lost his parents.
The next image he saw was that of the coffin, in dark mahogany, carefully lowered into the ground. Thick raindrops hitting the perfect wood. As if the sky had been crying too.
Alfred's eyes had been almost entirely focused on Bruce, who sat there motionless, pale, empty.
She had been dead for seven years and Bruce would never be the same.
The old butler still saw her face in front of him as if it was yesterday. She was laughing, drinking tea with him.
So much death. So much despair.
He opened his eyes again and saw Bruce outside, in his jacket.
"Like clockwork." He sighed, looking out the window.
Every year Bruce laid flowers on her grave, which was right next to his parents.
Maybe it had been a mistake to leave Bruce. Maybe it had been a mistake to come back after her death.
It seemed whatever he did, Bruce was ending up in a life of pain.
It suddenly started raining and within seconds it was pouring. A dark thunder rolling across the area.
Bruce was just standing there in the rain, not moving.
Alfred took a deep sigh, grabbing an umbrella, and walked to Bruce.
"You're going to catch a cold out here, sir." Alfred said, hoping he would be reasonable for once.
But Bruce didn't respond. He looked at the tombstone.
Catherine Victoria Hunter
*05/18/1984 - 10/23/2017
"We still have to finish it." Bruce said quietly.
"Finish what, sir?"
He didn't answer, his hand just brushing against where the tombstone was bare.
Bruce was lacking the words to describe his feelings seven years ago and not much had changed since then.
"We will." Alfred assured. "But for now, let's go inside and drink a hot tea."
"I failed her." Bruce said, barely above a whisper.
"Sir, you know that's not true."
"I failed her." He repeated, sinking to his knees. His head bowed, his hands touching the ground.
His thin coat was soaked. Alfred could see the bones from his spine sticking through. He had lost too much weight.
"Master Wayne, let us go inside until the rain is over."
But Bruce wasn't paying attention to him. "I'm so sorry." He said to her. "I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry."
"I'm so sorry." The voice said and Alfred opened his eyes, confused what had just happened.
A young nurse was standing in front of him, smiling at him. "I'm so sorry to wake you. But Mr. Wayne told me to come find you."
For a second he tried to gather his thoughts.
It had been a dream, a nightmare.
"My apologies." He said as he was sitting up straight. "I must have dozed off."
"That's quite alright." She responded. "You have been here for hours on end. You both have."
"Where is Mr. Wayne?"
"He's in room 708."
"So Mrs. Wayne…?"
"I'm sorry I don't have that information but Dr. Bruns will fill you in."
It was only a dream. Only a dream. He kept telling himself as he made his way to room 708.
He didn't fear death. He didn't fear pain. He was the Batman. But now, standing in a hallway at Gotham General, he was crippled by fear.
The moment when she got shot replayed on an endless loop. How she fell to the ground. How her life slipped away from her.
He was pacing up and down the hallway, running his hands over his face. The panic made him nauseous. The adrenaline made him so hyper, he felt ready to punch through a wall.
Who was responsible? Who would want her dead? Did they know who he was?
But those thoughts quickly made room for the thought that made him sick to his stomach. Will she live?
It had been an hour since they had rushed her into the ER.
He closed his eyes, seeing the moment she got shot over and over. Her eyes wide in shock.
He had seen his fair share of gunshot wounds. He knew when it looked bad. So when he saw the amount of blood she was losing, and how pale her skin was, he knew what it meant.
He had been searching for an exit wound. But there was none. More bad news.
"Coming through." He had heard one of the first responders say as he made his way to her.
Bruce stepped aside, to let them do their jobs. He ran his hands through his hair, feeling helpless and panicked.
The first responders put her on a stretcher. "Female in early 30s, bullet wound to the abdomen." One of them had said.
"On three." Another said as they lifted her into the ambulance.
Bruce didn't leave her side as they were riding to the hospital.
"No vitals." One of them said.
He felt nauseous. On the edge of losing it.
A first responder grabbed scissors and cut open her dress, clearing her chest.
"Push one of epi, charging to 200." One of them ordered while getting the defibrillator. "Clear."
Her entire body lifted from the electric shock and fell violently back on the stretcher.
"Still nothing."
He felt like he was having an outer body experience. It was as if he was floating above, staring down at this grim picture. He heard his own breathing in his ears, his heartbeat loudly drumming in his chest.
All his powers, all his strength, it was all useless in this moment. He couldn't do anything to save her.
"Push another epi. 360"
Her body spasmed under the electricity of the defibrillator again.
And then there it was. A heartbeat. It was the best sound he had heard in his entire life.
But he knew she wasn't out of the woods. She had lost too much blood.
Then they brought her into the ER and the team of doctors immediately brought her into the operating room.
"Mr. Wayne, we will keep you updated." The surgeon had said before he went in.
That was an hour ago. An hour that seemed like a lifetime.
He was standing helplessly in that hallway. The neon lights surrounding him in a cloak of uncertainty. His clothes still drenched in her blood. Tears were running down his face as the utter panic hit him like a gut wrenching punch.
"Master Bruce?" He heard Alfred's voice in the distance. A comforting sound.
He turned around to see if his mind wasn't playing tricks on him. But Alfred was indeed standing right in front of him.
"Alfred." He said and didn't hesitate to hug the old butler.
"I came as soon as I saw it on the news. How is she?"
"Not good." Bruce said, shaking his head. "She lost so much blood. I…I felt her die in my arms, Alfred."
He looked at the eyes of his butler - the eyes of his father, the man who raised him and had always been there for him.
"They got a heartbeat in the ambulance." He continued.
"That's good news." Alfred said.
"But she lost so much blood. She turned ice cold in my arms."
"Your hands are shaking." Alfred noted.
He stretched out his hands and now noticed they were trembling. "It's fine." Bruce said.
"You're under shock. Why don't we sit down and take a deep breath."
Bruce shook his head in protest.
"There is nothing we can do right now." Alfred said, sitting down.
Bruce followed the instructions and when he took a deep breath he realized every muscle in his body hurt. He was under so much tension. When he let the breath out it sounded shaky.
"Let's just wait what the doctors say, shall we." Alfred said. Bruce nodded, his hands still trembling.
"In the meantime, I will get us some tea from the cafeteria." He said and got up.
"Alfred?" The butler turned around. "Thank you. For being here." Bruce said.
Alfred smiled at him and nodded.
For three hours, the two men talked, though Bruce was barely able to focus on anything. His shoe nervously tapping on the floor, he checked his watch every five seconds.
Finally, after three hours, a surgeon came walking up to them.
He jumped to his feet. "We are still in the middle of surgery. I'm just giving you an update. She has lost a lot of blood. The bullet has caused a lot of vascular damage. We're currently trying to repair everything."
"Is she going to be okay?"
"It's too early for that, I'm afraid. We're doing everything we can."
But once the surgeon left, time was barely passing again. At least it meant she was still alive.
He checked his watch. He had been here for five hours. He was standing in the hallway, bracing his hands against the wall, his head sunken, the thoughts in his head racing. Alfred was still sitting, switching between reading the paper and trying to take Bruce's mind off of things.
"I'm going to get some coffee." He said to Alfred. "Do you want…"
He realized the Butler had dozed off.
Bruce walked to the coffee machine, feeding it quarters, pressing the button and waiting for the brown, caffeinated water to fill the cup.
He certainly wouldn't call this stuff coffee, but it would do the trick.
He was wide awake from the adrenaline but he felt he was getting a headache.
He took a sip of the warm coffee and immediately thought of their first date. When they flew to his estate on the island and he made her coffee.
He smiled at the thought of those memories. How perplexed she was when he flew her all the way to his estate for coffee.
But those memories were instantly followed by the realization that he could lose her, here, in this sterile hospital. This could be the end of their story.
He bit his teeth together, trying to swallow the pain and anger and suppress the tears. He leaned one arm against the machine, letting his head hang down.
"Mr. Wayne?" He heard Gordon's familiar voice.
He stood up straight and just looked at Gordon, thinking his own face was probably screaming of panic and fear.
Gordon looked apologetic.
"Is she going to be alright?" Gordon asked.
He cleared his throat. "Too early to tell."
Gordon sighed, looking to the ground. Then he continued in a soft voice.
"I wanted you to be the first to know. We got him." He said and the words sounded as hallow in Bruce's ears as they did all these years ago in the police station when he was just a young boy.
Back then, Gordon had placed a jacket around his shoulders. The only bit of comfort Bruce could recall that night. And then the commissioner walked in and said those three words as if they meant any less heartache for Bruce.
"We got him."
As if that would change something. Bring them back. Lessen the pain.
"Bruce?" Gordon asked after a while.
He cleared his throat. "Who is he?"
"Name is Ryan Wilson."
"Arkham Asylum regular?"
"No, not at all. No prior history. No arrests. Not even a speeding ticket." That made no sense. He was waiting for a connection to Medved or even a former operative for Bane.
"How long has he lived in Gotham?" Bruce asked.
"His whole life. Born and raised. His mother is a retired school teacher, his father used to work in the auto industry. Middle class family."
"So what? One day he just snapped?" Gordon nodded.
"Neighbors tell us he's an avid hunter. The quiet type. A loner. Yesterday he never came home from work. Security footage showed he instead spent hours on the roof across from the entrance to the gala."
Bruce shook his head again. "This can't be random."
This whole situation seemed all too familiar. The random act of tragedy. It couldn't happen twice in his life.
"Oh, no." Gordon said. "Nothing about this was random. In fact this was very much planned. We went to his house and looked for evidence."
"And what did you find?"
"A shrine."
"A shrine?"
"Yeah."
"Of what?"
"Of your wife."
He felt his breath stop for a moment as he let that information sink in.
"He was obsessed with her." Gordon continued. "We found hundreds of newspaper clippings. His sister tells us, Bane's reign in Gotham made his obsession only grow stronger. As you might know, your wife was a symbol of hope for people during those dark days. Gotham developed Catherine mania. For some, that went further, to darker places. Wilson became obsessed with her. And then…Catherine left Gotham. My assumption is that her returning, not alone but with you and now newly married, is what sent him over the edge. Stalkers develop a personal relationship with their objectives of desire. To them it's an actual relationship."
Bruce felt the rage in him boil. "Then why not shoot me?"
"In domestic violence cases it's not uncommon for the man to kill the wife or girlfriend after she cheated on him. It's their way of saying: If I can't have her nobody else will either."
"Mr. Wayne?" A young nurse walked up to him. "Dr. Bruns asked to meet you in room 708. It's right down the hallway."
"Is she okay?"
"I'm afraid I don't know that but Dr. Bruns will inform you."
"My butler is in the waiting area. His name is Alfred. Could you ask him to meet me there?"
"Certainly."
"Thank you."
He walked down to the room as fast as he could. The doctor wasn't there yet. He sat down, nervously running his hands through his hair.
The door opened. He got up in anticipation, his stomach in knots. Nothing had prepared him for this moment.
"Is she alive?" The words left his mouth in a panic.
The doctor closed the door. It seemed like forever for him to answer the question. One simple question. Answer it!
"Yes, she is alive." The doctor finally responded.
Relief flooded his system to the point where he felt himself almost collapse, steadying himself against the wall with one hand.
A knock on the door and Alfred walked in. The old butler looked worried at Bruce.
"She's alive." He quickly responded.
"Thank God." Alfred said.
"That is the good news." The doctor said. "But she's not out of the woods yet. The next 24 hours are going to be critical in her recovery. She had major vascular damage."
"I brought you a change of clothes." Alfred said after he returned from Wayne Manor.
Bruce didn't even know he was gone. He had spent every second by her side, watching her sleep, listening to her heartbeat on the monitor.
"I'm fine." Bruce said absently.
"Master Wayne, you're still covered in blood." He looked at his shirt and realized the butler was right.
He had rolled up his sleeves hours ago and washed his hands but around his torso, his white shirt was dark red.
He got up and nodded at Alfred, taking the shirt from him and going to the bathroom to get changed.
Looking at the mirror in the bathroom he realized how broken and exhausted he looked. His eyes were bloodshot, dark circles underneath it. His skin color was a shade paler than normal.
He splashed his face with cold water, seeing even then that he turned the water slightly red.
He must have had some of her blood on his face and in his hair from when he ran his hands through his hair after the first responders arrived.
Letting his head sink further, he washed his hair until the water ran clear.
He dried himself off and then, for a moment, just sank to the floor. Sitting there. Resting his head against the wall.
He hadn't been able to protect her. Again.
After a few minutes he got up again, putting on the fresh shirt and walked back to her room, sitting on a chair next to her. Listening to her heartbeat.
I opened my eyes. I felt exhausted.
Looking up at the ceiling, I had no idea where I was.
Then I realized - this was a hospital. Slowly the events came back to me. Did I really get shot? That hadn't been a bad dream?
Then I saw Bruce, sleeping in a chair next to me.
He looked exhausted.
The clock on the wall read 2 pm.
I had been out for at least 20 hours, depending on which day it was.
I lifted my blanket to see what the damage was, but I couldn't see much under my hospital gown.
At least all limps were still attached.
My throat was burning.
I pressed the nurse-call button, hoping for some water.
I didn't want to wake Bruce.
I wasn't in any pain, probably because they had me pumped full with pain meds. I felt like I was wrapped in cotton, with the dull pressure on my stomach.
In that moment Bruce shifted in the chair and then slowly opened his eyes.
For a second he just looked at me and then he jumped to his feet, taking my hand.
"How are you feeling?" He asked with a big smile on his face.
"Fine." I lied.
He had tears in his eyes as he moved a strand of my hair from my face, holding my hand.
"I'm so glad you're awake." He said in a soft voice.
"What's the damage?" I asked.
His expression grew darker. "Bullet wound to the abdomen." He said. "You lost a lot of blood." He said as he took my hand and kissed it. "The doctors weren't sure you were going to make it."
I nodded, not really surprised by that since my last memory was me thinking I was going to die. Waking up and being alive was the surprise.
I saw silent tears streaming down his face as he smiled at me.
"I'm fine now." I said.
He nodded. "I know."
A nurse walked in. "Good to see you up Mrs. Wayne. How are we feeling?"
"Great." I lied.
"Great?" The nurse asked and smiled. "You won't pass a lie detector test with that crap, sweetie."
She walked over and checked my pulse, looked into my eyes, and checked my vitals. "I'll have the doctor come check on you."
"Can I get some water?"
"I'll get you some ice chips."
Once she left I turned to Bruce. "So, how bad is it?"
"No permanent damage. They are just worried about post-surgery infection."
"Who did it? One of Medved's goons?"
Bruce bit his lips together and shook his head. "No. But that's not important right now. They have the guy."
"Not important? How is that not important?"
"Because what's more important is that you get better."
"You just said I have no permanent damage."
"You don't."
"Then what?"
"I just want you to concentrate on yourself right now."
"I'm fine."
"You died in my arms, Cat." Bruce said in a strong voice.
I was quiet. I knew he wasn't lying.
I remembered walking into white light. I remembered the feeling. The feeling of dying.