Fourteen hours passed, and Alfred Jarvis couldn't have been any more relieved. Exhausted after a night's work of hastily preparing his employer's wounds, working up a suitable alibi and managing to get Dr. Lucius Fox in for an impromptu private examination of the injuries, it would have been an understatement to say he had experienced a trying night. But much to his surprise, and given the circumstances, everything had worked out quite well. Lucius had managed to set the bones that had been fractured and stop the bleeding in time to spare Wayne the trauma of going into shock. Though he had still been advised to take Bruce in for an appointment at Fox's clinic, there was no immediate rush. All that he needed to do now was allow his employer sufficient rest for the next few days.
Of course, that was what began to continually worry Alfred, as the minutes had turned to an hour, sitting silently in the kitchen and pouring himself the occasional glass of water. He knew how Mr. Wayne was, when it came to such a thing, and asking him to take it easy for awhile was about as foolish as expecting the sky to fall. At his first given chance, no matter how much pain he was in, he'd be back out there... back to chasing after criminals that would only put him through more excruciating torture, beating him down until there was nothing left to fight back. Alfred recalled what he had left, seeing in his mind's eye the stark figure of a bandaged, bruised, and bloody carcass of a man who had yet to awaken from a night of torment.
Was this how it was always going to be? Three years of this abnormal crusade proved to be damning evidence to indicate as much. It had all started confidently enough, with a few muggers put into fright and the drug dealers taken off the streets. But the more that Batman began to inspire fear in his enemies, the more deadly his enemies became. Once he had put Carmine Falcone away, everything seemed to change. And with each new criminal since, it seemed as if retaliation was always returned in full. Gotham was becoming more dangerous, and it was beginning to show. Alfred couldn't even imagine what kind of force had put him in his current condition, given all of the body armor that Bruce had been forging and perfecting over the past few months.
He took another drink, watching the antique clock mounted on the far wall. Five hours remained until the anesthetics would begin to wear off. Alfred could only pray that the pain would make Bruce realize that he needed to take a step back, before he threw himself to the mercy of Gotham's criminals once again.
"You look tired."
Alfred immediately spun around, startled by the presence of his young neighbor, Dick Grayson. The boy's uncaring stare only reinforced the fact that he had been the last person that Wayne's assistant wanted to see at a time like this.
"Mr. Grayson! My, ah... my apologies. I hadn't noticed you had come in. What are you doing here?"
Dick raised an eyebrow, noticing the sweat beading down from Alfred's brow. Tired wasn't giving it enough credit, because it was evident that something was seriously amiss. But the boy's interest declined as easily as it had shown itself, as he held up a small keycard.
"The old lady wanted me to give you this. It's the spare key to our suite."
Slowly remembering that he had requested one be made, in case of emergencies, Alfred acknowledged it with a nod as he took it.
"Ah, yes. How very thoughtful of Ms. Harriet. Be sure to tell her thank you, for me."
Grayson didn't even emote to that. He simply turned around, ready to leave as soon as possible.
"...Whatever."
Alfred only frowned, as he watched Grayson head for the door. The boy's anger was a nuisance, obviously, but it was hard not to pity him whenever one would catch a glimpse of that look beneath his eyes. Surfaces aside, it was clear that Dick was in a constant pain, wishing nothing more than to be living in an earlier time in his life - a happier time, whenever his mother and father were alive to look after his interests. Alfred and Ms. Cooper had tried to fill the void the best that they could, and Bruce had even occasionally helped out through considerable donations, but they were no substitute for what Grayson had lost. He needed to be shown that there were still people that cared for him.
"Mr. Grayson, could you wait a moment?"
Dick stopped, evidently annoyed, and making no attempt to hide it.
"What is it?"
"Nothing serious, it's just... have you eaten recently? You seem a bit starved."
Despite wanting to reply with a vulgar remark, Grayson thought about the question anyway, noticing a rumbling in his stomach. He had been without food since the previous evening, which was a meal he had barely eaten at all. Because he had been trying to avoid Ms. Cooper at every cost since she had made it clear to Dick that his behavior needed to change in order to keep living with the amount of freedom he had been given for the past few months. He was seriously getting tired of living here - much less taking orders from some maid for a rich guy. But that didn't mean he couldn't use a decent meal.
"Not since last night."
"Ms. Cooper hasn't fixed you anything for breakfast? Lunch?"
Dick shrugged.
"She's been getting groceries all day. Figured I'd just eat when she got back."
Alfred stood up from his chair.
"Well, you could. Or I could make you something, if you'd want. I usually prepare Mr. Wayne's meals for him... and I'm sure he wouldn't mind."
Grayson was about to reject the offer, but he paused. The kitchen fridge was massive, and probably bigger than any the boy had ever seen. It was no secret that celebrities like Bruce Wayne could afford some of the finest foods in the world, unless they were a bunch of health nuts. Alfred patiently awaited Dick's reaction.
"Depends. What do you have?"
"Plenty, I would say. It depends on your tastes. We have several different cuts of meat, ranging from prime rib to veal, aswell as a large selection of freshly prepared vegetables and gourmet cheeses."
Dick seemed to pay attention whenever Alfred mentioned the vegetables, which struck the assistant as rare for a boy his age.
"My mom... used to make steamed broccoli for me. With melted cheese. And my dad liked to make barbecue ribs."
With a bit of a somber, yet curious gaze, Dick seemed to lose his earlier annoyance.
"Could you make that?"
Alfred smiled. Perhaps, though it would take considerable time, there was hope in reaching through to the boy yet.
"Consider it done, sir."
Pouring himself another glass of water, Alfred moved into the kitchen to begin preparing the meal. Dick simply stood still, unsure of what to do. He felt awkward to be in this place... it was just so huge and intimidating. And with so much expensive stuff at every corner, he was afraid that he'd knock over something and break it.
"In the meantime, there are several different computer games on the laptop in the den. Perhaps you can acquaint yourself with them?"
Dick didn't need to be told twice, as he rushed off into the hallway, immediately searching for any sign of the room. Alfred held back a smirk, knowing that would pique the boy's interest with ease. Maybe if they were lucky, he and Ms. Cooper could arrange for Dick to spend more time here, where he could find plenty to keep him occupied and distracted from his depression.
But as Dick opened the second door in the hall, his gaming priorities came to a complete halt at the sight before him. The boy's jaw dropped, seeing the bloodied form of Bruce Wayne, still fast asleep and oblivious to Dick's presence.
"Holy $#%^!"
A brief moment later, and Alfred came running, fearing that Dick had discovered some incriminating evidence toward his employer's nightly crusade. It turns out that he was half right, as Alfred realized that he had forgotten about Bruce's need for rest in the spontaneity of the boy's sudden appearance. Dick looked back, awestruck at what he had just seen.
"I... I..."
Realizing that this was too much for a young man to witness, Alfred quickly ushered Dick out of the room and shut the door behind him, making sure not to awaken Bruce as he did. He promptly then locked the bedroom door, knowing fully well that he should have done so in the first place.
"I am so terribly sorry that you had to witness that, Richard. Really, I should have made sure that you didn't. I take full responsibility for this."
Dick looked back at the door.
"No, it's... it's okay. I just... seriously, what the hell happened to him?"
Alfred didn't hesitate to lead Dick away from the bedroom door itself, as he began to recall the cover story he had told Lucius Fox, just earlier.
"An unfortunate accident. Mr. Wayne's luxury Porsche took a bit of a bad spill when he was coming home from work, yesterday evening. He'll be alright, but... it was quite a close call."
The boy raised an eyebrow, evidently suspicious of something.
"Shouldn't he be in the hospital or something?"
"Normally, yes. But Mr. Wayne is a man of considerable fame, and we didn't want to attract any unnecessary outside attention. The paparazzi, and such. They can be quite the pests."
Alfred shrugged.
"Besides, he has his own private physician to look after him, should something go wrong. All that he really needs now is a bit of rest and relaxation."
Dick looked off, trying to get the image of Wayne bandaged up and covered in dried blood out of his mind. Alfred opened the door to the den, indicating the laptop on the table.
"Again, I apologize for what happened. It's been a bit of a trying day for both of us."
Silently, the boy moved past him and walked over to the table, sitting down in the computer chair. Alfred looked back at the bedroom door, still hoping that Bruce wouldn't be disturbed by this sudden bit of activity.
"I'll... be in the kitchen if you need me, sir."
Dick simply nodded, not really reacting to anything as he quickly took to the computer. But he was still thinking about what he had just seen, and seriously beginning to wonder if he could eat after that.
"Screwed up..."
"Bruce? How are you feeling?"
Wayne's eyes fluttered open, as he began to dwindle into consciousness. He groaned a bit, quickly realizing that he was in a bit of pain. But also noticing that he was feeling lightheaded, indicating that either one or a number or painkillers were flowing through his system. Alfred was at his bedside, with a cup of warm tea and several more pills at the ready.
"Can you speak, sir?"
Bruce looked at him, barely awake.
"Alfred. Whuh... what happened..."
"You're home, and tucked away in bed, thank christ. You've been stitched up in several places and have suffered broken bones."
Wayne looked down at himself, assessing both the bandages and the wounds with a careful eye.
"Can't... can't feel most of it. Painkillers?"
"A few, yes. Doctor Fox was quite insistent that you keep taking them, aswell."
Bruce's eyes opened a little bit more, hearing that.
"Lucius? You mean you called him here?"
Alfred nodded.
"I warned you that this was beyond my expertise. You're only fortunate that he got here when he did, otherwise..."
Bruce sneered, a bit angry in his tone.
"I told you no doctors. You knew how I'd feel about it. He could have-..."
"He could have what? Saved your life? I'm quite certain that he did, because there were several times that I wasn't sure you'd survive the night. Your secret may have been put at risk by bringing him here, but it was not worth letting you bleed to death."
"It's worth that and a hell of alot more. That's the whole point."
Bruce tried to sit up, but grit his teeth when he did, feeling a shockwave of pain send itself throughout his body.
"But... you made a judgment call, and I can't blame you for it."
"I should certainly hope not."
"Did you at least give him a good alibi?"
Alfred gave him a look.
"Do you need even ask?"
Wayne breathed a sigh of relief.
"Alright. Just don't let it happen again."
His assistant raised an eyebrow.
"With all due respect, I am no physician. You know this fully well. And given the increasing amount of serious injury you've sustained over the past few months, I don't think it's going to be a matter of avoidance for much longer. You're going to need someone who can handle these situations, because I bloody well can't keep doing so."
Bruce silently looked away, contemplating this.
"Maybe. I guess I can see your point."
Alfred lowered the tensity of his tone, but still gave a stern expression.
"And while we're on the subject, it's probably best that I tell you Doctor Fox's recommendation. Your broken bones will need sufficient time to heal, much less realign themselves properly, so he's all but ordered you to rest as much as possible."
He didn't respond, largely because he didn't want to.
"Oh, no you don't. Do not pretend you didn't hear me, Bruce. I am being serious. You're to keep resting for at least five weeks, give or take your recovery."
"Five weeks? That's ludicrous! I'm not going to stay in bed for five-..."
"Well you're certainly not going out on the rooftops until then."
Bruce sneered.
"And who's going to stop me?"
Alfred crossed his arms.
"Be realistic, Alfred."
"No, sir. It is past time that you be realistic about this. Now I've tolerated this need of your's for some time. Putting on that cape and running around scaring people half to death. It has become your entire life, moreso than anything else lately. I've idly stood by on more than one occasion as you've deliberately put yourself in harm's way, but I cannot do that for you here, and now. You're far too injured to be of any real presence on the streets, and you damn well know it. To go out there now would only be fueling an obsession, and nothing more."
"There are criminals far more dangerous out there than in the beginning. I can't ignore them, even for my own sake."
"Criminals like the ones that put you here? Bleeding, broken, but begging for more?"
Bruce tried to answer, but couldn't find the words. Alfred looked down upon him, trying to convey a slight sympathy towards his employer's position.
"I know it's going to be difficult, but try and think of this as a much needed strategic period. Obviously, something went horribly wrong last night, and you need to address what that was from as many angles as you can. Until then, perhaps it would be wise to also focus on what Bruce Wayne can do for Gotham City, rather than Batman."
With that, Alfred handed Bruce a copy of the evening paper, and left the room. Bruce looked down at the headline, showing one of those crude drawings of himself made by a police sketch artist, under the bulletin
"Bat-Man Vigilante Narrowly Evades Capture: Are The GCPD Closing In?".
He stared at it for several moments, before turning the page in frustration. But as he looked back at the ceiling, contemplating his next move, he realized that Alfred was right. He had been becoming too obsessed with his Batman persona lately. Even now, with several cracked ribs and a pressurized bandage wrap covering up the deep bite in his arm, he was considering heading out into the night. Was he only going to be satisfied with his work when it killed him? Was there any point to fueling this madness?
Bruce looked back down at the paper, noticing another headline. This one much smaller, but much more noticeable to his keen eyes for the subject -
"Gotham Officials Still Hunt Thanksgiving Day 'Holiday' Killer. First Murder Victim Confirmed." Wayne's eyebrow arched, as he began reading the piece.
"Hh."
Either way, it seemed as if The Joker and his gang of metahumans would have to wait. There was a new killer in Gotham, and if Batman wasn't in any shape to apprehend him... then maybe Bruce Wayne could make time to look over the case.
