Work Text:
By the third morning, Alfred had had enough.
The sight of Bruce, stiff and exhausted, eyes sunken, and mottled bruises blossoming all over his body had become depressingly familiar in the last few months, but this was getting ridiculous.
He waited with tightly pressed lips as the Batman armor clattered to the floor, leaving just the flexible padded bodysuit exposed. He knew that his helping touch would not be welcomed yet; only the minimal treatment of the nastier injuries was permitted.
Finally, Bruce's young, haggard face emerged from behind the kevlar, sweat and grime mixed with running camo paint.
Alfred met his eyes and gave him an inquiring look.
May I?
Bruce nodded wearily and eased himself onto a nearby chair as the manservant approached, carefully peeling down the top of the bodysuit; hands beginning a clinical, appraising graze over his charge's torso.
"Anything interesting?" He asked with careful nonchalance, for the moment abiding by their unspoken agreement to forgo any chastising. Much as he wanted to give the Wayne heir hell for taking on this brutal crusade.
"Stopped a bank robbery," Bruce replied wanly. "Looting on the west side."
His jaw tightened when Alfred's fingers reached a particularly dark bruise on his chest. Alfred made an effort to keep his expression neutral and not to clench his own jaw in frustration.
"This one's fractured again. I'll have to ice it," he said dispassionately, standing and reaching for his cane. He crossed to the well-stocked infirmary corner of the cave, his one point of insistence at the inception of this entire enterprise.
He could feel Bruce's eyes on him, knew he knew exactly what Alfred thought of his nocturnal activities.
He might have been more understanding if the whole thing wasn't so bloody self-destructive. Bruce seemed to take only a fleeting interest in his own well-being anymore. This...project...experiment -whatever it was- was rapidly becoming all-consuming.
Forget board meetings; It was all Alfred could do to make sure Bruce ate, but sleep was now another matter entirely.
As a child, Bruce had developed insomnia after his parents' deaths. The nightmares had been horrific and eventually Alfred had stopped forcing him to bed and instead let him hole up in the library long into the night.
But now, with the punishing exertions he was putting himself through, it was dangerous.
He knew for a fact Bruce hadn't slept in at least forty-eight hours. In his circus days, he'd put plenty of detainees through deprivation interrogations, knew exactly how it could break down the body.
To say nothing of the mind.
Alfred finished collecting the gauze, ice, and tape. He hesitated, then deftly palmed a small capped syringe into his breast pocket. He turned back to see Bruce now standing at his console, pouring over last night's eye-cam data. His scarred back was silhouetted the hazy red images flashing across the bank of monitors.
"Arms up," Alfred instructed, unrolling a length of gauze and tearing it off. Bruce complied absently, not taking his eyes off of the footage. This close, Alfred could see how bloodshot they were. He snapped an ice pack with rather more force than necessary and secured it to Bruce's chest with the wrapping.
"Thank you," Bruce mumbled, lowering his arms and adjusting the ice.
"Better thank you would be to get some sleep."
He fully expected the flash of irritation in Bruce's eyes, but now that he was treated, Alfred could have more of a say.
"I'm fine, Alfred."
"It's been two days, sir. You need to recover and rest if you're gonna keep goin' out there"
Bruce looked as if he wanted to fight the issue, but Alfred could see him flagging. It seemed to be sheer-fucking force-of-will keeping him upright at that moment.
He ran a hand through his too-long bangs. "I appreciate your concern, Alfred," he said wearily. "But I..." he half-gestures almost helplessly at the screens around him. "There's so much. Too much...I can't just stop, I need to be here."
Alfred looked at the boy he'd know since birth. A person he could never have envisioned caring for so deeply.
He heaved a sigh and nodded once. "Just trying to look out for you, Master Bruce." He doesn't use the youthful address often anymore. "My job, after all."
Bruce's face softens. "I know."
Did he, though?
Alfred fishes the syringe and holds it up. "Just a B-12, then? And I'll leave you to it."
This was a standard enough part of his medical duties, but Alfred could only chalk it up to delirium that Bruce didn't question it and obediently held out an arm. He administered it smoothly and waited.
It didn't take long. As a drugs started to take effect, one hand slipped from the console. Bruce turned to him, looking betrayed but pupils already dilated.
"Wha...." he started to slur.
Alfred slipped an arm under his shoulder, guiding him to the small army cot they used for more intense injuries.
"It's alright, Bruce, I have you."
He put slightly more weight on his bad hip as Bruce started to lose his equilibrium. Alfred eased him down in a sitting position, and then crouched down to unlace his boots.
"Can't believe...you...did that..." Bruce strung together, head tipping down to his chest.
"Sack me all you like in a few hours, sir," Alfred said solemnly as he slid off the steel-toes, "but you honestly gave me no choice. Come on now, here we go."
Mindful of the newly cracked ribs, Alfred gently maneuvered him down until he was fully laid out. For a moment, Bruce blinked heavily up at him, trying to fight the sedation. Then, finally, he started to relax, sinking deeper into the thin canvas.
Just before they slid closed, Alfred caught Bruce's eyes one final time and the manservant knew his charge well enough to read the relief that was there.
Bruce's breathing slowed and deepened. Relaxed in sleep he looked so much younger; more like the boy he never had a chance to be. Gently, he reached down to brush a few strands of hair out of his face. Then he dragged over a small stool and set to work cleaning away the sweat and charcoal.
If Bruce Wayne wanted to kill himself, he'd have to go though Alfred Pennyworth first.