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Overlapping noises come to him like they’re from the darkness faraway.
Alfred subconsciously inhales reality when there are hushed conversations doing their best to not wake him up. He smells the stench of dampness on his throat, hears more attentive physical contact to the bed being layered by sounds of heavy boots against the tiles as people move around, and senses hands that do not dare to touch him. At least not yet. Whoever with him, they know there’s some resting a man like him has to fulfill, a patient like him couldn’t help but to oblige, but… something about this situation, this moment - it’s a similar circumstance that Alfred was in before. One where he rooted his entirety to be the blockade of whatever storm is coming; close enough to bring havoc to the family.
There's a greedy storm trying to take young master away.
Bruce, his hazy mind alerts him. Bruce is nearby, and he's - Bruce needs him.
So Alfred opens his eyes. Ready for another round of him against the world with the boy behind his back.
Slowly as he does, the inside of the room grows quiet while the hustling on the outside keeps on going. There are sounds of gurneys coming and wheeling away, squeaking shoe soles rushing, and the world is all blurry. Alfred blinks to try clearing his sight, but instead of Bruce; small and frail Bruce with tears-streaked face he’s seeing, it’s just Bruce with eyelids rimmed-red being accompanied by a man observing with exhaustion and sympathy as transparent as the glasses he wears.
“Are you sure this is a good idea, Mister Wayne?” asks the man, and Alfred blinks again. There’s something about the proximity between the man and Bruce; something about Bruce trusting this familiar man enough to allow him to be that close to him, while he is… while he is…
Bruce does the swiftness of shifting his feet Alfred knows too well, embracing whatever has been weighing him down while Alfred is unaware of the world; oblivious. Air purifier was a merciful thing to Alfred's swollen chest, ruptured ribs, and tightening heart, until Bruce huffs and reaches for Alfred when he calls faintly, “Bruce...?”
“Hi, Alfred.”
The unsteadiness in Bruce’s voice clears the fog from his dazed state a little bit. Alfred swallows the strange lump he can taste from the back of his throat, muscles on his own face harden, then his heart picks up a pace. “Oh, what happened to you...?” he murmurs, a weak voice overlaced by worry, eyeing the water dripping off of Bruce’s chin. He looks like he just resurfaced from swimming while brawling for hours in a dirty pool. “What happened to you while I’m gone? Are you...” For a split second, Alfred slips unconscious because the sedating medicines he took hours ago still have a good grip on him, and furrows his brows against an internal fight to make sure, “Are you alright? Are you - hurt...?”
Bruce gently takes his hand, tugging Alfred back from submerging under the surface to stay with him.
“Long story short - the city almost drowned,” Bruce begins with a timid tone without a shrug. Bruce never shrugs. He motions to the direction of the man standing next to him; a man who must be a decade older than Bruce, who’s also all soaking wet, like it explains everything. And. In the distance, there are sirens wailing and buzzing of crowds scurrying in an urgent emergency. “Detective Jim Gordon is here to assist and take you home while I take care of everything else. Gotham is a mess, Alfred.” Bruce explains with a gesture of a tilting head to the side. Jim Gordon nods at him.
“Sorry to wake you up, Mister Pennyworth,” the detective says politely while taking a deep, soundless breath, “but we need you awake to get you out of here. Don't know why Mister Wayne here came to me personally to aid you instead of evacuating along with you himself, but - we don't have much of a choice here. Hospitals are full all over the place, and… well." Gordon gestures broadly, a vague list of unspoken rescues that have been provided by the head of Wayne family when he was asleep is what he can assume by it. Gordon seems like a decent enough person to not have the heart rejecting Bruce Wayne's request after all the willing generosity. "Would you prefer to be transferred with a gurney or a wheelchair, Mister Pennyworth…?"
"Alfred, please," Alfred tells Gordon before turning to Bruce again, clutching the hand on his palm tighter until his arm shakes without waiting for the detective to digest that he means to just call him a first-name base from now on, because Bruce trusts him. Bruce trusts this detective, and Alfred narrows his eyes to his young master staring blankly in front of him. “You haven’t answered me,” Alfred says insistently, inviting Bruce back into the room, back to him. “Are you hurt, Master Wayne?”
A glint of youth like a dying star on his eye, Bruce gapes slightly without a word before Alfred looks down to their hands, then looks up to the shoulders hunching down; lamenting. A stance of a wounded that no facade can hide from him, and Alfred wishes he's strong enough to pull this boy; this no-longer a frail boy anymore; this hurting and the in-pain young man who's had too much, but - “I’m alright, Alfred,” Bruce says after a moment. Nodding, reassuring, and adds, “I promise, I'm fine. The city is—"
"The city is in good hands," Alfred interrupts, like it's a loaded statement. And Bruce's gaze tracks back on him, mouth still opening to deny but that is the end of the argument. It is the end of the argument because Alfred should not get too worked up again like the last time they talked, the last time Bruce got a revelation, and Bruce - Alfred closes his eyes because Bruce refuses to get that he's done enough already. "You know it is in good hands now, with or without you," the 'my boy' has to be bitten back by the tongue from escaping his beating heart; contained back as a chemical contaminating his already worrying heart. "Having this Detective Gordon here means it's true. You need to rest too, Master Wayne, because look at you…"
Alfred is grounded firmly by the sight of his young master looking so pale and blue and worn to the bones to get the point across. Bruce, as predicted, shakes his head slightly, slightly. "I will, Alfred, but not now," he says, and, ironically, it sways him forward a bit in a striking daze, making Alfred stretch his other arm out to hold him, pounding heart leaps to his throat. Steadying him until he's ready to be standing on his feet again, this boy, is what Alfred is fighting for even now… even after all these years...
Bruce covers his mistake with a surprised face, eyebrows flying to his hairline: It is intentional, it says, before he smiles. A smile that is a startling kind, too; lightly, then turns widely.
And Alfred is stunned.
"Okay, Alfred, see? I think I'm just hungry…" Good God, Bruce is practically grinning right now, Alfred can't believe this. Is his young master going to joke, too…? "Would you go home and prepare dinner for me? Please? It's been days, Alfred, I miss your homemade meals…"
"You can't be serious right now." Alfred huffs and puffs, making a face so indignant so that he can swat away Bruce's efforts to help him up, all without heat. He tries to sit up, and does his hardest to stand from the bed, and huffs irritably again when Bruce's shoulders shake from holding back tired laughter; murmuring easy, now, Alfred - you can hold onto me, you know combating Alfred’s, “Never listen to me— always diving head-first into dangerous situations— and now has the nerve to just request me to cook homemade meals for dinner like nothing happened—” Alfred alone is refraining from taking a hold of Bruce just as tight as the clenching in his heart, endeared and lost and out of breath from feeling so emotional and so terrifically affected.
“Please take him safely away from here, detective,” Bruce tells Gordon as he entrusts Alfred carefully to him, still smiling and fond. Just at the same time, a nurse comes into the room bringing a wheelchair, and, even though Gordon has got Alfred, saying, “Okay, it’s alright, I got you, I got you,” Bruce is still there to help for every step.
Until Alfred is seated and secured.
Until Alfred is wheeled out surely away and they become one with the stream. Exiting the hospital into the flood of muddy water, ruined buildings, and dulled frantic activites all over the open space.
Bruce’s smile only falters once they’re distant enough, waves him temporary goodbye, and his back becomes the last thing Alfred and Gordon see in the ocean of people.
“Okay, wow…” Alfred is still staring into the swarm when Gordon says that. “First time seeing him smile like that,” Gordon says with a commiserating deep sigh. Everything becomes blurry again, to Alfred, he has to force his hand to wipe the tears threatening to pour down before he turns away, feeling the tremble on his lip so vividly.
“That’s Master Wayne,” is all Alfred can say, voice cracking a little bit, and can’t help but to clamp a hand on his mouth to strain a sob. It’s been years, actually. Years for that boy to smile again like that. God, Bruce must be so content and exhausted.
“Wish there’s a way to make that permanent.” Gordon’s voice is muffled by the sounds of helicopters overhead, but the tap of his hand on Alfred’s shoulder, the gladness in the gesture he gives to strengthen Alfred;
Those are enough to stutter Alfred’s chest into the first wave of relieving weeps, silent cry.