This story was written for this year's Whumptober.

Prompts used:
- No. 4 shock
- No. 7 "I paced around for hours on empty, I jumped at the slightest of sounds", radio silence
- No. 26 "You look awful"
- Alt. 10 shaking

Chapter 1

Of all the duties that came with his work, waiting for Bruce Wayne had always been the hardest. During the past twenty years or so, Alfred Pennyworth had done a lot of that, first waiting for the grieving child to open up, then for the young student to come home, then for seven long years waiting for any sign of life from his former ward. Since Bruce Wayne returned to Gotham, Alfred had spent many nights waiting for Batman, first at the manor, then in the penthouse. But on some nights, when he knew Bruce was going to deal with particularly hard tasks, Alfred waited for him in the cave, or recently in the underground liar they had made their second home in Gotham while the manor was being rebuilt.

This night was different. The hangar was half empty, most of the equipment hidden in various password protected compartments, some utilised by both of them mere days ago. The Tumbler had been destroyed and what was left of it, the motor, was currently missing along with its owner. All of that made the place look sterile and foreign and while Alfred would have been more comfortable in the apartment, tonight it was vital for him to stay hidden. With Rachel gone and Joker wrecking havoc in the city, Bruce needed as clear a head as he could get and surely knowing that Alfred was waiting for him in what was probably the safest place in Gotham would at least take one worry off his mind.

And so Alfred waited. The computer was still working and after some time of nervous idleness, the butler turned it on, just in case Batman needed some help. More than once he felt the urge to contact his young master, but his hand never even hovered over the button that would dial his number. It was meant for emergencies only, and emergencies usually came from Bruce's part. Instead, Alfred tried to locate the tracking device in Batman's suit, but for some reason he couldn't get the signal. With so many things going on they might have missed some malfunctioning piece, or perhaps something was destroyed in the fighting. With no other options, the butler settled for the news on one screen and the video feed from cameras surrounding the secret entrance on the other, all while listening to the police communication canals.

His old heart sank when he heard there was an organised hunt for Batman, with all the swearing and hateful comments clearly indicating that the cops blamed the vigilante for crimes Alfred was sure Bruce did not commit. And all he could do was wait.

Finally there it was, the black motor barely stopping in time in front of the container hiding the lift. Dark figure fumbled with the lock, his movements slow and shaky and the way his whole figure slumped forced Alfred to his feet as soon as the container door shut behind Batman. Something was very, very wrong.

When the elevator sank down, it carried a motionless black figure sprawled on the platform, the monstrous motorcycle titled to the side, trapping his leg. Alfred righted it back to the standing position before kneeling by his employer, noticing red tainting the grey concrete.

"Master Wayne."

Feeling a hand on his face, Bruce suddenly jerked and growled at him in a very Batman manner, pushing Alfred without really taking in his surroundings. He tried to scramble away, his shallow breathing quickening.

"Master Wa-!" Alfred called him, backing away from his reach. He didn't have enough strength to keep the younger man down if he thought he was trying to take advantage of his state and reveal his identity. And he knew just how many unpleasant surprises the suit had for such occasions.

"Bruce!"

It worked. The wounded stilled and looked at him more lucidly. "Alfred?"

"Right so, sir."

But instead of calming down, suddenly he was frantic all over again, trying to sit and falling back with a groan.

"The gate! Alfred. Is it closed?"

"Yes-

"They were hunting me! I lost them, but- Is the container closed?"

"Yes it is." Alfred placed his hands on Bruce's shoulders, this time stilling him successfully. "I watched you close it. You're safe."

Hearing that, Bruce finally calmed and reached for the cowl and that set Alfred to work. Piece by piece he took off Batman's outfit and shoes with minimal cooperation from the wounded, and with each piece his heart sank as the extent of his former ward's injuries was making itself known.

Oh dear. Stripped off his suit down to a simple black t-shirt and underwear, bruised and bleeding on the cold floor, Bruce Wayne looked a decade younger. His arms were covered with cuts and fresh bites and the torn trouser leg just below his left knee only partly covered what seemed to be a bruised and bloody mess. But the damp front of the shirt looked the most alarming.

"What was it this time?" Alfred asked lightly as he cut the t-shirt to examine the damage, trying to keep the dread off his voice. "Dogs again? Perhaps you should consider carrying some treats."

"Bullet," Bruce rasped with a wince just as the butler revealed the wound. The suit absorbed most of the impact, but it must have been damaged enough already to let the bullet pass through and dig in the muscles. If it had gone any deeper, Batman wouldn't have made it to his hideout, but even if it wasn't a life-threatening wound, it had to be addressed, possibly before the wounded passed out for good.

"Alright. Up with you, Master Wayne."

Bruce shot him a slightly disbelieving look, as if doubting his current ability to do so, but Alfred was already on his feet, leaning and reaching to help him. It took a few tries to get him standing and as all blood seemed to have drained from Bruce's face, Alfred braced himself to ease the upcoming fall, but it never came. They managed to stumble towards the working area, the young man limping heavily. Alfred pushed one of the tables to rise from the floor and steered Bruce to sit on it as it went up.

With the wounded barely responsive and clearly not in the mood nor shape to share what happened, Alfred decided to act first and ask questions later. For the first time in a really long time Bruce didn't even try do anything himself, just lied on his back and that alone told Alfred more than he wished to. Now and then Bruce bit back a groan when the butler touched a particularly sore spot as he cut off the rest of his clothes.

"Now this looks nasty," Alfred muttered to himself as he saw violent bruising covering most of Bruce's torso in varying shades of red, purple and black. Some of them seemed older, fading to green already. "Can you breathe alright lying down, sir?"

"It's fine," Bruce gasped in reply, blinking as his gaze lost focus. "Just-"

With local anaesthetic in spray, a pair of sterile gloves, and his glasses back on his nose, Alfred took the ungrateful task. He had dealt with shot wounds before, but it was many years ago during his field work. Up until a year ago, he never thought he would ever have to dust those skills. Then Bruce Wayne came back to Gotham with his ideas and before Alfred knew it, he found himself planning and strategizing again and those plans had little to do with running the Wayne manor. And with Bruce involved, field medicine came in handy.

When the bullet was out and the worst bites on the arms were cleaned and stitched, Alfred was forced to sit Bruce up in order to dress the wounds. He didn't like the glassy stare and the silence, broken only by hissing at his treatments. Deciding his old ward could use a bit of a break, the butler reached for thermos he had brought earlier and poured a cup of tea.

"Drink, sir. It's still warm."

Bruce took the cup from him with a shaky hand and sipped carefully. He managed about a half before he swayed and reached out blindly to steady himself.

"Alfred-"

The butler was ready with a bowl when Bruce spat back all the tea he just drank. Alfred held the younger man steady as he trembled, taking quick, hitching breaths.

"Easy, master Bruce. Don't close your eyes. Breathe." Having taken a proper look at the bruising at his back, Alfred helped Bruce lay down at his side before tending to his legs. Both were heavily bruised pretty much like the rest of his body, but his left calf was still oozing and his knee was beginning to swell. They would need ice for that, but this had to wait until they got back to the penthouse. For now, Alfred dealt with the nasty bite, hoping the anaesthetic he used would numb the joint a bit as well.

When it was finally over, Bruce curled at his right side, wincing as violent tremors shook his body. One look into his half open eyes told Alfred there was no way he would move now to put something on, so the butler covered him with his own woollen coat and folded Bruce's hoodie to use as a temporary pillow. Slowly, the shivers subdued to occasional trembling and Bruce settled enough for Alfred to install saline drip to compensate for the blood loss. He could see the young man swallowing hard against nausea, so there was little point in offering him more tea. The drip would have to do for now.

Looking around, Alfred sighed. This time it was him who had made a bloody mess all over. After he made sure Bruce was as comfortable as he could be given the circumstances, the butler set out to clean around. He worked steadily, methodically getting rid of all the bloodied dressings and towels and wiping out the blood. It was a long hour, but while his young master looked deadly exhausted, he couldn't really rest. Every time Alfred hoped he had nodded off, Bruce jerked with a moan and curled even more. His dazed gaze followed the butler's movements, his eyelids dropping but never really closing. A few times he tried to find a more comfortable position, only to stop immediately.

"I think we should head back home," Alfred remarked casually once he changed his own bloodied shirt and found something for Bruce to wear. "Explaining your current state to the neighbours could be a bit problematic." Truly, the manor could not be rebuilt soon enough. As nice as the view from the penthouse was, living in a skyscraper was really inconvenient in situations like this one. Still, it was unlikely they would meet anyone in the garage before dawn.

"Right." Bruce muttered in agreement and pushed himself up. Alfred helped him with the shirt, buttoning it up after he saw the way his hands shook. Bruce sat at the edge of the table, breathing and swallowing convulsively. Once he also had a hoodie on, he tried to lean and reach his shoes.

"Let me, Master Wayne," Alfred firmly shoved his hands aside and steadied him as the younger man swayed precariously.

"This is-," started Bruce, but then only sighed in defeat and slumped back. "Thank you."

"I'm not stitching you up again just because you tripped over your laces."

That earned him a ghost of a smile from his wounded employer before he braced himself and slowly got to his feet. Alfred held him steady until he was sure master Wayne wouldn't collapse immediately.

"Best take it," muttered Bruce through clenched teeth, waving at the bowl Alfred had left within reach.

"That bad?"

Bruce shot him an incredulous look. "You wanna find out? It's your car."

"No I don't. I can't take your lambo instead, since you crashed it," replied Alfred lightly and wrapped his arm around his old ward. "Let's go home."

Thank you for reading. I accept and appreciate all kinds of reviews, critics too.