A/N: No long dissertation this time- just a simple statement. For some reason, this was hard to write. Bah. I'll be interested to hear comments… Or possibly I won't be. Either way. Any and all input is appreciated. Thanks in advance!

2.

He'd been waiting patiently at the ready for the call for assistance that he was sure would come when he heard the bat-pod make it's stealthy entrance to the bunker. Alfred was a man of action as much as his young master was, and sitting helplessly in wait for Bruce to emerge in the wee hours of each morning was nerve-wracking. It was even worse whenever he arrived at the penthouse in the morning to find an untouched bed, for then fear crept in to mix with the worry- fear that perhaps the young Bruce hadn't made it back. This evening, Alfred hadn't even bothered to leave. He knew he'd be needed- it was just a matter of when.

Ironically, it was when he was needed that he felt the most at ease. When his hands were busy, be it with readying a quick protein shake for Bruce before he needed to be up and off to work or stitching up a cut, he felt his nerves relax and the knot in his stomach loosen. When Bruce needed him, he was at the helm- and gratefully took control of the situation. There was no anticipation, no need to fret. The outcome was in his hands.

Tonight though… tonight nothing was in his hands.

Not even Bruce had control tonight, Alfred feared. The Batman- indeed, all of Gotham- had been up against someone who had been grossly underestimated. The wisdom he'd tried so hard to impart on Bruce about the sort of mind he was dealing with had not fallen on deaf ears, and neither had the words about what it meant to be the Batman. Bruce would, he suspected, have taken it all to heart and more. Now that being the caped crusader was attached more than ever to the idea of sacrifice, Alfred truly feared for him. Additionally, with Rachel's death so fresh, emotions were running high. Anger-even anger of the righteous, justified sort- imparted in and of itself just enough of a degree of self-deprecation and recklessness to make one all the more susceptible to injury. The Batman was more vulnerable than he'd ever been.

Thus, when he turned from his station at the computer just in time to watch a stumbling, shaking Bruce whip off the mask, he was not surprised to see that the face beneath was drawn, pale, and glistening with a sheen of sweat.

As soon as he'd sat Bruce down to begin the customary poking and prodding that ensued every time the Batman returned with a look on his face like the one he wore tonight, he knew that the usual supplies kept in the bunker were not going to cut it. The explosive hole through the supposedly bulletproof plate covering Bruce's abdomen was as clear an indication as any. When his fingers found the second perforation in the "indestructible" armor, Alfred's heart had nearly jumped into his throat. He would have his work cut out for him tonight.

Presently, Alfred was attempting to speed inconspicuously through the dark streets of Gotham, all the while taking periodic glances via the rearview at the man in his back seat. Discomfort was evident on his face and what little color there had been was draining, but there was little that Alfred could do at the moment to remedy that, save to try and take the corners a little less sharply. He heaved a small sigh, his face set in a grim, unreadable line. This sort of thing- the "piecing Bruce back together" sort of thing- fell into the category of things he liked least about his position with Master Wayne. It was, unfortunately, one of the things that he had become quite accustomed to of late. While it brought relief to him to know that he was able to heal, it made him sick to think that a time could come when something happened that he wouldn't be able to fix.

As they rounded the corner of the last street before the building that housed the Wayne penthouse, Alfred began contemplating how he would manage to get Bruce safely from the car to the suite without drawing unwanted attention. There were already rumors circulating about the true identity of Batman. If Bruce Wayne was spotted with the injuries he had after the events of an evening such as this one, Alfred feared that the secret would be out. While he knew precious little about the details of what had transpired over the course of the last few hours, he had a distinct feeling that now would be a most inopportune time for Bruce to go public with nighttime habits.

He hesitated as they pulled up to the curb, thinking that perhaps they should enter from a back way. As he began to pull away again in favor of driving up to the rear entrance, Bruce sat forward and quietly laid a hand on Alfred's shoulder.

"No."

"Master Wayne? " He turned to face the back seat.

"Alfred, I think I should go in the front way. The more people that see Bruce Wayne around the better. I can get in on my own. I'll meet you up in the penthouse."

"You're sure, sir?"

"Yeah. I'll be all right. Like I said before, if anyone asks, I'm drunk."

Alfred met Bruce's eyes. They were tired and pained but alert.

"I'll be up in a bit then, Master Bruce. Try not to leave blood in the elevator."

Bruce smiled a little. "I'll try." He carefully reached for the handle to let himself out. Alfred noted the grimace that crossed his features as he slid out of the vehicle and straightened and he waited to pull away from the curb until he could see that Bruce made it inside.

He walked straight, if a little stiffly. The long trench coat that Alfred had pushed on him back in the bunker covered Bruce nicely to his mid-shins. The lower half of the bat costume was partially visible but not very noticeable in the dark. Alfred hoped that no one observant would care to take a look.

When he saw the front door close behind Bruce, Alfred wasted no time in parking the Rolls and taking the elevator up to the top floor. From there he walked briskly to the penthouse entrance and let himself in, closing and locking the door behind him. A single light had been turned on. Bruce Wayne was sitting in the chair closest to the door, struggling out of the now bloodstained shirt.

"Easy, Master Bruce- let me help with that." Alfred's fingers, still nimble despite the years, deftly undid the buttons and slid the shirt from Bruce's shoulders. He turned on another couple lights and carefully surveyed the damage a second time. It seemed as though the gunshot wound had ceased it's bleeding. The stab was another story though, and the pad of bandages had soaked through.

"Did you get a look at the size of the knife, Master Wayne?" Alfred's careful fingers undid the wrappings from Bruce's torso.

"Yeah. Small switchblade. " His voice caught a bit as Alfred began to examine the wound more closely. "I don't think it's that bad. Bleeding like a stuck pig, though."

"It certainly is." Alfred rose, wiping his bloody fingers on a towel. "Excuse me for a moment while I fetch the supplies. Keep pressure on that until I get back."

He then left Bruce to his own devices and headed for a large closet just off of the entrance. It had probably been intended for use as a pantry but had since been re-purposed as the medical supply closet. Here were kept enough bandages, sutures and antiseptic to supply Gotham General for a month. Alfred began to stock a large sliver tray with all of the above. He then proceeded to the shelves where the medical instruments were kept and removed a scalpel and forceps. A bottle of local anesthetic and a handful of syringes completed the collection on the tray. After a last glance around the closet, Alfred made his way back to Bruce.

The stab wound was an easy fix; an injection or two of the anesthetic, a good flush with the antiseptic and three sutures to close it. The wound had turned out to be rather shallow as knife wounds went- a simple slice through muscle. No internal damage.

Now for the second problem.

"Bullet's still in there. I can feel it." Bruce's hands gripped the arms of the chair tightly. His jaw was set, teeth clenched against the pain as Alfred began to minister to it. To his chagrin, Alfred noticed that this wound was deeper than the stab, and it contained debris from the plates and fabric that should have prevented it in the first place.

"Then it's going to have to be removed, Master Wayne." Alfred's words were spoken so matter-of-factly that one might think that he removed bullets from Bruce on a daily basis. Even Bruce, who was used to Alfred's often frank nature, looked slightly taken aback by his tone. "It isn't as though this is the Wild West, sir. I've got plenty of anesthetic, a good sharp scalpel, a steady hand, and experience to boot." At that, Alfred turned to his medical tray and readied the first shot of anesthetic. "On that note Master Bruce, it might be better if you'd lie down. Make it easier on the both of us."

Bruce didn't question Alfred's request. He simply propelled himself out of the chair he was settled into, one arm wrapped protectively around his middle, and shuffled to the bed where he eased himself down with a grimace. Alfred had followed closely, ready to lend a steadying hand or a shoulder if necessary. When it seemed as though Bruce was settled and as comfortable as possible given the conditions, Alfred again readied the syringe. Then he paused.

"I expect that this will take the edge off- however, depending on where the bullet has lodged itself, that may be all it does."

"Thought you said this wasn't the Wild West." Bruce had brought one arm up to cover his face, as though he were simply trying to block out the light and return to a pleasant sleep.

"Well sir, I have yet to use your best Scotch for an antiseptic," was the Butler's snappy reply.

A weak chuckle escaped Bruce, followed by a wince. At this, Alfred was immediately all business again.

"Enough chatting now, sir. And hold still."

He quickly injected the first dose of the anesthetic, then a second, then a third. When he was satisfied that Bruce was sufficiently numb, at least superficially, he began to gently search with the forceps. Upon closer inspection, the wound contained much less debris than Alfred had previously thought- but the slug was nowhere to be seen. When he'd done as much as he could do before making an incision, he stopped to check the status of his patient.

Bruce's eyes were closed, as if he were deep in concentration. Alfred noted the flush of color high on his cheek bones- a fever was beginning, no doubt borne of exhaustion and pain. It would pass with a good night's sleep, he knew, but the worst of the necessary treatment was yet to begin. To inflict more pain on the already pain riddled body of a man who was as much a son to him as anyone made his gut clench unpleasantly, and the phrase "this is going to hurt me more than it's going to hurt you" had never rung truer to him than at this very moment. Duty called though, and, as always, Alfred was ready to follow through on whatever was asked.

"I'm going to make an incision now. Be prepared."

Bruce swallowed and nodded, never opening his eyes.

"Go for it."

Alfred, his hand steady as any surgeon's, made the quick cut. A sharp hiss of breath and a jerk from Bruce let him know that his hunch about the anesthetic's limits had been correct, but he soldiered on, determined that this surgical procedure would be quick. It was a great relief to the old butler when almost immediately, the dull shine of a bullet was apparent though the fresh flow of blood. One hand calmly dabbed at the blood from the incision with a pad of gauze while the other deftly handled the forceps. It took a moment or two of fishing about with the instrument before he was able to grip the slippery bit of metal well enough to remove it, but remove it he did.

"There, Master Wayne. No worse than pulling a tooth." The bullet hit the tray with a thin clank of finality. "Just a quick wash and a stitch or two and we'll be done for the evening."

Bruce's eyes opened a crack. He raised his head a bit to watch as Alfred stitched him up, then let his head fall back on the pillow again. "So much for bulletproof." His voice was hoarse, a ghost of the gravelly voice of the Batman.

Alfred finished taping gauze over both sets of stitches, then stepped back to survey the rest of Bruce's body. Bruises had begun to pop up everywhere, but time would heal those as surely as it would heal the more serious injuries his young master had sustained. With a small sigh, he returned all of the used instruments and other refuse from the evening to the tray. Both he and Bruce would live to fight another day.

Wordlessly, he straightened and went to dispose of the tray into the kitchen where it would be cleared and the surgical instruments sterilized for their next use. After a last quick stop in the medical supply closet, he returned to Bruce's side. Noticing that they had yet to remove the bottom of the bat-suit, Alfred moved to do just that, helped Bruce to slide into a more comfortable pair of pajama pants, and then under the covers of his bed. It was then that Alfred produced a pair of white, unmarked pills and a glass of water.

"What's this?"

Alfred said nothing, only gesturing for Bruce to take them, which he did, albeit suspiciously.

"Just take them. And don't ask me where they're from either. We don't need the drunken, playboy, billionaire of Prince of Gotham to gain a reputation for being a prescription drug addict as well."

With that, Alfred pulled up his chair in preparation for his customary vigil. He watched as Bruce began to relax under the effects of the drug, and ventured a small smile.

It looked as though everyone might get some rest tonight, thank God. Alfred knew that Bruce had a long road ahead of him yet, and in more ways than one.