Prompts used:
- No. 13 cold compress
- No. 28 sacrifice
- No. 31 take it easy

Chapter 2

"I'm afraid master Wayne is currently indisposed. Yes, I will pass it on to him, of course." Alfred put down Bruce's mobile and wrote the details in a small, elegant notebook.

"I'm not so indisposed as to not be able to pick up my damn phone."

"You were asleep on the sofa ten minutes ago, sir. I didn't want it to disturb you," Alfred replied calmly and set the pen aside before turning around. He saw Bruce leaning heavily against the pillar marking the kitchen area, his posture still hunched. Clearly whatever little rest he managed to get wasn't enough. "And we can talk about that again once you don't need a break to reach the loo."

The younger man didn't comment, just pushed himself back upright and limped on to the bathroom. Alfred fought down the urge to follow him and settled for listening.

Bruce had spent the previous day and night mostly sleeping, though his long deserved rest was disturbed by bouts of cramps and nausea that kept waking him. With the extent of the bruising he saw, Alfred was concerned about possible internal bleeding, but luck seemed to be on their side. Yes, his old ward was feverish and nauseous, and almost fainted the one time he made mistake of trying to lean too much, but there was no trail of blood nor other alarming symptoms, so Alfred settled for making him drink and rest, and checking up on him regularly.

Of course, with Bruce it would only work this long. Alfred had been asleep around noon, two almost sleepless nights finally taking the better of him, when the wounded decided to get up and have a proper shower. The butler found him about an hour later, exhausted, sitting on the toilet and trying to redress his wounds. Any leaning or bending was still out of question with his bruised kidneys and slightly inflamed shot wound, but at least his stomach seemed to have settled a bit. As much as Bruce seemed already fed up with the concept of bed rest, soon he found himself resting on the sofa, too exhausted to really do anything and too sore to move. He nodded off soon after.

What worried Alfred was that Bruce complained about pain in his neck in certain positions and movements. It could be a combined result of multiple falls and the car crash when he had no suit to protect him. Sadly, they couldn't get a proper doctor visit this time. Not with a damn bullet wound and dog bites that would arise too many questions.

It seemed no assistance was needed this time and the butler counted it as a win. Bruce returned after a long while, looking just as pale and sickly as before, but steady enough. Instead of heading to his bedroom or back at the sofa, he came into the kitchen and slowly lowered himself to a chair, one arm carefully wrapped around his side. He nodded his thanks when Alfred placed a glass of fresh orange juice and a mug of tea before him. There was still a tray on the table with his half eaten lunch and he grabbed a bun he hadn't touched earlier.

Looking at his old ward, Alfred was struck by the familiarity of the picture before him. After the death of his parents, Bruce often couldn't find himself a place in the huge manor. At some point, he had taken to coming to the kitchen when he was troubled, just to have some company. Usually, he wouldn't talk about what was bothering him, but he would bring his homework or a book he was reading. More often than not, such evenings ended with the two of them engaged in a conversation about some problem Bruce encountered or an interesting fact he read about, and usually the boy seemed calmer afterwards.

Supper was the meal they often shared in the kitchen, without setting the table in the dining room. At first, Alfred opposed to that, but Bruce just kept pointing out that by the time the meal was prepared, he had already eaten half of it just snatching bits from plates. It was hardly a proper way, but since the boy knew how to behave when needed, Alfred dropped the matter.

Watching now as Bruce picked at his lunch leftovers, Alfred wondered if the young man was aware of this old habit of his, or if he had subconsciously come to seek comfort. He was no longer a boy, obviously, but with his dishevelled looks and painful tightness in his pale face, he really did look like that child that couldn't sleep, but would not open up.

As if sensing the butler's lingering gaze, Bruce looked up.

"Who called?" he asked, his phone too far to reach.

"Oh. It was Mrs Dawes," replied Alfred carefully, finally sitting across the table with his own tea. "The memorial service for Rachel is next Tuesday. I think they want things to quiet a bit first."

Bruce didn't react, not a slightest nod to acknowledge he heard. For a long time he just sat and stared at the mug before him, half eaten bun still in his hand.

Alfred waited. Back then, in the manor, he used to give the boy space, offering his silent company when needed and his steady presence, knowing it was something that grounded the child lost in grief. He hadn't pressed for confessions and usually, sooner or later, Bruce would come to him and tell the butler what was bothering him. If he didn't, Alfred didn't insist.

But that might have been a mistake from his part. The grieving child had grown into an angry young man who had almost confronted the murderer of his parents with a gun, then ran away for seven long years. Since he came back, Bruce was way more forthcoming about both his plans and his insecurities, especially concerning Batman, perhaps because the butler was the only person he could confide in. Knowing that, and having seen what grief could push to his then ward, now his employer, Alfred was not going to leave matters be this time.

"What happened there, Master Bruce?"

"You know what happened, Alfred, you've seen the news." Bruce spat out in contempt, jerking his head up as if broken from under a spell. "I heard."

"And you know well how news can't be trusted," Alfred pointed out. "You don't really expect me to believe that. What happened?"

"Batman has taken a final fall. One he will not rise from." Bruce looked away.

It was the most vulnerable Alfred had seen him in a long time, including unconscious Batman the previous night. "Batman did not kill Harvey Dent or those people," he said carefully and leaned across the table to cover the younger man's clenched hand with his own. "You did not kill them."

"No. I didn't."

With that, the careful façade of indifference Bruce Wayne kept shattered. He shut his eyes and drew a shaky breath, then started talking about the events of the previous night. It was a chaotic mess compared to Bruce's usual methodical way, but he did share and that was enough. Alfred could pick the rest. Some events shed light on the injuries they had to deal with now, but the most important was what transpired later with Jim Gordon and his family.

As he listened to the younger man talking about the choice Dent offered them and as the realisation sank in, Alfred wished it had never come to this. Lost in his grief, Bruce didn't seem entirely aware yet of the long-term consequences the decision Batman and Commissioner Gordon had made would bring. Perhaps neither of them was. For Alfred it was clear they had come up with this solution in a moment of grief, pain and exhaustion, without really thinking it through, and that the price could be higher than they had bargained for.

Alfred wondered if he too had a hand in that. He had told his young employer many times that Batman had the high ground, that as a symbol he could be above others and make the right choice in the hardest circumstances. Perhaps he had pushed him too far. Batman could endure what other people couldn't. That didn't mean Bruce Wayne could. It seemed Alfred might have fallen into the very trap he had warned Bruce so many times about.

A pained hiss tore Alfred from his thoughts. Bruce shifted in his chair and reached under the table to massage his knee, his other shaky hand pressed back to his side. His eyes were glassy and Alfred suspected it wasn't just because of all the emotions. Even after the shower earlier the wounded seemed a bit feverish. Now he looked ready to keel over.

"You think that was a mistake." Bruce stated, his voice way calmer and collected than his expression. Despite the clammy look, his eyes were sharp.

Ah. So much for keeping this to himself for now.

"I think right now Batman needs a break and a clear head to decide what to do next," Alfred offered carefully. He was not going to have a lengthy discussion about all possible outcomes he could immediately think of with Bruce in this state. It could wait. "And I think you need to lie down, keep that leg up. We can't have you limping too long." He rose and reached for the freezer doors.

That got him a reaction from Bruce he didn't expect now. "Are you going to bribe me with ice-cream?"

"No, sir." Alfred smiled and retrieved an ice pack. "But we do have some, if you'd like."

"No, thanks." Admitting his defeat, Bruce used the table to push himself up stiffly.

"Do you need anything else, Master Wayne?"

"Mmm. A painkiller."

Once Bruce was settled back on the sofa with his swollen knee propped up and covered with ice pack, Alfred found himself reluctant to just leave him there. He could see emotions still boiling right under the surface of exhaustion, but he didn't want to impose too much. After a moment of hovering, he turned on the TV, keeping the volume down, and skipped the news in favour of some wild nature programme.

"Did anyone else call?" The younger man asked, his voice already sleepy as the painkillers started to kick in.

"Oh yes. Mr Fox called yesterday to make sure you made it home," replied Alfred and sat in the armchair. "I told him you caught some nasty stomach bug, so I doubt anyone will want to see you on the next board meeting."

"Great." Bruce made a face, his gaze slipping indifferently on the screen. "But I guess it will work just fine."

"You do need a few days, sir," Alfred reminded him pointedly. "Oh, he also asked me to tell you that he finished the final step of your project. I assume you know what he meant."

The young man nodded and drew a sharp breath at the clearly wrong movement. Something clearly must have transpired between Bruce Wayne and Lucius Fox, but that too was something Alfred could ask about later. Surely Wayne Enterprises would manage for a few days, he thought as he watched Bruce drift into another uneasy sleep.

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