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When he drifts toward consciousness, the first thing Alfred notices is the smell of tea in the air. That’s strange, because he can’t remember making tea. Bruce making it is out of the question, and he’d given Dory some time off since he returned from the hospital, so she certainly couldn’t have made it. Part of him wants to just curl back up and burrow further into the warm sheets that he lay on, the scent of chamomile already making him drowsy again, but he’s too curious to not investigate.
This is what compels him to open his eyes, blinking up at the cup of tea on his bedside table. It’s still steaming. He can’t help but gape at it, shaking off some of the exhaustion in his weary bones to sit up and peer over the rim of the cup. He hasn’t imagined it. It’s certainly still hot, and it’s certainly chamomile. Unable to stop the frown that forms on his lips, he lifts it to his mouth, taking a small sip.
His dark room, though illuminated by small strands of moonlight piercing through cracks in his curtains, protects him from any onlookers who might see the face of disgust he pulls as the tea rolls over his tongue and down his throat. It’s hastily made, as if a child had tried figuring out how to make it, as if someone was figuring it out as they went along. He lifts his gaze to the door, noticing that it is slightly open, and exhales slowly.
Pulling the covers to the side, he tries not to think about how weak he already feels as he swings his legs over the edge of the bed. He knows that all he is now is an old man, and he can’t really protect anyone anymore, but that doesn’t mean he will ever stop looking out for the people he cares about.
Leaving the cup on the table, he gets up slowly, ignoring the heavy feeling that takes over his body, ignoring how cold he feels all of a sudden. It isn’t pleasant, but a shiver runs down his spine as he thinks about how much he prefers this cold to the terrible, hot burning in his lungs, making it impossible to breathe, only able to think about how he had failed, how much he had failed. He vaguely remembers whispering an apology before falling unconscious. He wonders if Dory heard it. He wonders which of the Waynes it was for. Perhaps all of them.
He shakes his head to rid himself of the thoughts, reaching out to grab the cane leaning against the wall. Its cold handle is quite familiar underneath his palm, for he needed it even before the accident. It isn’t something he’s proud of, but at least he is still mobile. Before he leaves, he lights a candle, feeling the warmth on his face. He clenches his jaw, ignoring the way his heart pounds, and holds it out to the side.
When he steps into the hall, he finds it dark, as expected, but it doesn’t deter him. Bruce always likes to say he’s become nocturnal. Alfred doesn’t ever know if that’s a joke or not. He’s beginning to think it isn’t.
It takes him a while to make it down the stairs, and even longer to get down to the cave. He hears the whir of machinery and flipping papers before he even turns the corner, and he can’t help but sigh again, quietly and to himself. He steps forward, his cane echoing against the ground.
Bruce doesn’t notice him. His hair falls in his eyes as he types away at his computer, almost obsessively. For a moment, Alfred thinks he must have forgotten to take the black makeup off of his face until he realizes it isn’t paint, it’s just the shadows beneath his eyes. Papers and files scatter the floor and dirty mugs litter the desk. Alfred presses his lips together, moving the candle forward to get a better look.
“You’ve made a right mess in here without me.”
The young man jumps, which at least moves some hair from his eyes, showcasing the emotions that he might normally try masking.
“Alfred,” he says, quietly surprised. “You should be resting.”
“I know,” he replies, but says nothing more on the matter. He thinks back about their conversation in the hospital. Bruce may not fear death, but Alfred isn’t ready for him to go. He can’t lose anyone else. He exhales and steps forward, trying a small smile. “Did you make tea for me?”
Bruce blinks slowly. “...Yeah. Figured it might be good to wake up to.”
Letting himself smile just a little more, Alfred tilts his head. “One of these days I’ll teach you how to make a proper British tea. Until then, I suppose you ought to leave that to me.”
“That bad, huh?” Bruce asks with a small chuckle. For a moment, there’s almost a smile on his face. Alfred has truly missed seeing him smile.
“It’s hard to get it up to my standards,” he agrees with another smile, moving to place the candle down gently on the desk. He steps forward until he’s closer to the chair Bruce is sitting in, slowly crouching down to get a better look at his face. Tired, bloodshot eyes stare back at him. His face looks pale and thin in the candlelight. “Bruce,” he murmurs, “when was the last time you slept?”
His eyes betray a flicker of guilt just for a moment before they leave Alfred’s, staring instead at the floor. “Last night,” he says, but he’s lying. Alfred sighs.
“Now, Bruce Wayne, you ought to know you can’t lie to me. It’s the reason this isn’t a whole secret.” He gestures vaguely at the cave itself, looking back up at the other’s face. Bruce swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. “Tell me.”
Bruce is quiet for a long moment. His eyes fall closed, as if ashamed. “...I don’t know.”
That sounds more like the truth, but it doesn’t ease Alfred’s worry. The butler glances toward the computer, full of codes and images that seem to blur together. He looks back at Bruce, gently gripping his arms.“The Riddler is put away. You ought to be taking this time to rest.”
Clenching his jaw, Bruce exhales through his nose. “I know.”
“Then, why -”
“I can’t.”
Alfred blinks. “What?”
“I can’t,” he repeats, seeming to be genuinely frustrated. “I can’t sleep, even when I try, even when I’m exhausted. Even if I manage it, it isn’t really sleep.” He exhales shakily, his next words barely audible. “I can’t stop hearing him.”
Taking a moment to let it sink in, Alfred moves his gaze over Bruce’s face, exhausted and betraying more emotion than he’d seen in years. He wonders what, exactly, the Riddler told him. He decides not to ask, at least not now. He remembers a time when he swore he would protect this boy from the cruelties of the world, and then Bruce began throwing himself headfirst into them. This is the aftereffect.
Slowly, he reaches up, cupping Bruce’s cheek. To his surprise, he doesn’t pull away, and instead leans into it just slightly. His face is cold. “He can’t hurt anyone anymore,” Alfred whispers. “He can’t hurt you anymore.”
Bruce seems like he wants to say more in response, but stops himself. He closes his eyes, and for a moment, they both just sit there, with Alfred gently holding his face, noticing the way his shoulders slowly begin to release tension. He knows if they sit here much longer, he might be here the rest of the night.
“Bruce,” he prompts softly, and long lashes flutter open, eyes seemingly dazed. “I’m going to take you to bed now. Alright?”
Weight slowly moves from his hand as Bruce lifts his head, so Alfred lets go. He stands up, his bones cracking and joints screaming, but he finds himself still grateful that he’d gotten out of bed. Bruce rubs his eyes roughly, getting to his feet.
He sways. Alfred steadies him.
They walk slowly and quietly. With Alfred still being slightly weak and Bruce only being half-conscious, it’s a walk that takes much longer than either of them would have liked. When they finally reach Bruce’s room (tidy and neat, as if no one lived there), Alfred places the candle on the nearby desk and has Bruce sit on the edge of the bed, taking his shoes off like he used to do when he was a child. Once he places them neatly by the bedside table, he takes Bruce’s shoulders gently, moving him to lay down. Alfred moves the blankets up to his chest.
“Can I get you anything?” he asks softly, looking at the other’s face in the pale candlelight. For a moment, he doesn’t receive a response, and he thinks Bruce must have fallen asleep already. He sighs softly and moves to grab the candle, readying to leave, but before he can take it, a hand grips his wrist - weak, but desperate.
“Alfred.” The name is thick, as if he’s struggling to hold onto consciousness just to say it. His mouth moves, trying to formulate the next words. “Will you…sing for me?”
Out of everything he might have been expecting to hear, this isn’t it. He used to sing all the time, but not so much after Thomas and Martha died. He couldn’t bear it, except for the few times Bruce had woken up in the middle of the night, scared out of his mind from a nightmare. The only thing that would soothe him then were lullabies.
And now, a decade and a half later, he’s asking for them again. He hasn’t sung since, he thinks, but he’s Bruce’s butler, and he will never refuse him.
So he sits on the bed beside him, trying to ignore the lump in his throat, and sings quietly.
“Moon river, wider than a mile…”
It comes naturally, and suddenly he’s no longer frail and old but young and sad, newly in custody of a child, comforting him in the small hours of morning. He leans forward as he sings, brushing hair from Bruce’s eyes and moving the covers to make sure he is comfortable. In the warm candlelight, Bruce’s features are softer and more innocent, his lips parted, his head slightly turned toward Alfred, at peace for the first time in years, or so it seems. Alfred can’t remember. But he wants to remember this.
When he finishes the song, he holds his breath, waiting. But Bruce’s chest still rises and falls slowly, his lashes splayed out along the dark shadows beneath his eyes, his pale face released of all tension. So Alfred lets himself breathe, and he glances toward the curtains hanging over the windows, knowing that it will protect the room from any harsh sunlight when it comes.
As his own eyelids begin to grow heavy after who-knows-how-long, he carefully stands up from the bed and sits in the lavish chair beside it. He can make excuses about his injury and his weak knees, but at the top of it all, he wants to keep Bruce at ease. He wants to keep him safe.
So with any last remaining strength, he leans up, blows out the candle, and closes his eyes.
“Good night, my boy.”