Chapter Text
Master Bruce's heats are never easy.
Not on Bruce, and not on Alfred.
And especially not when the latter finds the former stumbling down the stairs to the Batcave, whimpering softly as he pauses every few steps to double over and clutch at his abdomen.
Surely he can’t be thinking of going out tonight, in this state? Just as his heat is hitting him?
But then again, Alfred has seen his son employer struggling into the Batsuit with a sprained wrist, a stitched-up gash in his thigh that had barely begun to heal, and a fever of 103.
Ah, well.
"Master Bruce," he coaxes now. “Why aren’t you upstairs?”
Bruce stiffens, puts out a hand to touch the wall for balance. Alfred’s lips tighten at the telltale bruising on the man’s neck, peeping out of his turtleneck; doubtless from the scent blocking patches Bruce has been refusing to take off.
He takes the omega’s arm and pulls it gently around his own shoulders, supporting him. Bruce coughs, winces, and almost mewls as he buries his nose desperately in Alfred’s neck.
“Gotham will have to rely on the commissioner for tonight,” Alfred soothes. “Just for tonight. Master Bruce, you can’t possibly-”
“I need him,” Bruce whispers.
Alfred attempts to start back up the steps with his burden. “Whom do you need, sir? Whoever it is, I’m sure we can-”
It’s either a puff of breath or a name that rushes past Bruce’s lips.
“Once more, if you please?”
He almost wishes he hasn’t asked.
“Not Nygma,” Alfred says in disbelief, and Bruce feels his chest clench.
“Please,” he begs. Alfred doesn’t understand but- he needs, he needs- please get him, need-need-want-want-please-please-please-
He knows he’s not supposed to be out now, he knows. He’s not trying to-
It hurts it hurts so much, pumpkin and fire, he wants- so cold, so hot, he can’t stand up anymore and he fears Alfred will crumple under him-
Bruce gasps down a deep breath, and sags.
His neck aches abominably. Flashing stabs of pain.
"-momile tea.” …oh. Alfred is speaking. Bruce lifts his head a few inches, fighting down a moan. “I would-"
No, no no nononono-
"-I need him," Bruce whimpers. "I need him, Alfred, please please please I need him."
He feels, almost detachedly, his body beginning to shake alarmingly. It hurts to shake. It jostles everything and makes him dizzy and nauseous and it hurts.
“Master Bruce,” Alfred says, as gently as he can. “The man is a notorious rogue. Seeing you like this- without your cowl, w-”
“He- he knows,” Bruce wheezes. “Please. Please just get him.”
They remain in a standstill for a few seconds, nearly collapsing under the weight of the ungainly embrace, Bruce trembling violently and Alfred thinking furiously.
He remembers the night a few months ago. The terror at seeing Bruce gone and the Batcave empty, the alarm at receiving that text message from the Riddler, the restlessness until his son employer is safe and sound back home in his nest where he belongs.
There are no marks on him, bites or otherwise.
It’s puzzling, but Alfred supposes everything about the Riddler seems to be just that. He’s grateful, either way.
He isn’t terribly pleased, but he knows what he has to do.
“Go and lie down, Master Bruce,” he says softly. Firmly. “I’m going to call him. And I will bring him here no matter what it takes.”
Bruce keens, and Alfred’s heart twists once more before he herds Bruce back up the stairs.