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Alfred watches silently as Bruce comes limping into the Cave, holding his left side, gaze low. The youngest sits at the computer, elbows resting on the desk, face buried in his gloved hands.
The radio buzzes in the background, reporting the latest news provided by GCPD.
“...found murdered in the Gotham courthouse jail, while the alleged crime lord, Black Mask, was released on one million dollar bail…”
Bruce sighs, barely audible.
“Perhaps some tea might be of some comfort, Master Bruce?” Alfred calls, voice warm, tentative.
The man doesn’t reply.
“Prior to his arrest, Black Mask was being strong-armed by the mysterious Red Hoo–”
The butler’s quick to turn the radio off with a shudder. He glances at Bruce, whose whole form shakes violently, back hunched. Alfred doesn’t ask about tea again, instead he simply makes his way towards the kitchen, ignoring how his legs tremble under him, ignoring how his heart pounds aggressively behind his ribs.
Because that was– because his boy is alive. He’s alive, and on the run from his own father. The old man’s lips quiver as he fills the kettle with water, preparing three cups– Dick is still upstairs, still recovering from his leg injury. Despite it being a simple hairline fracture, Alfred had insisted that Dick rested at the Manor for at least forty-eight hours before leaving for Blüdhaven, a blatant excuse to have him close. Dick hadn’t objected.
Now, Alfred has half a mind to ask him to supervise Bruce in the meantime, because he doesn’t trust him, he doesn’t trust his son to be on his own, right now, so vulnerable and lost and confused.
The whistling of the kettle snaps Alfred out of his thoughts, and he’s quick to pour the boiling water into the cups, phoning Dick via interphone– the youngest will be down at the Cave in five minutes, he promises.
When Alfred steps into the Cave again, a tray in his hands, Bruce hasn’t moved an inch, still hunched and shuddering incessantly. He sets the tray on the desk, and adds exactly two drops of lemon juice, half a teaspoon of buckwheat honey, and a mild sedative to his son’s black tea, before handing him the cup with a condescending, sad smile.
“Your tea, my boy.” he says simply.
Bruce nods, face tight, and takes the cup into his quaking hands, but he doesn’t speak.
As promised, Dick arrives a few minutes later, thanking Alfred for the tea– he made him pǔ'ěr, his favourite– as he sips silently, eyes never leaving Bruce as he goes and sits on the nearby gurney, crouch propped against the wall.
When Bruce is done with his tea– the biscuits that accompanied it untouched, much to Alfred’s sorrow– he seems calmer, the violent shaking reduced to fine tremors. Dazed, cobalt eyes blink, sheepish, then move to Robin’s memorial case.
He stares at it for one, two, ten minutes.
“Sir,” Alfred speaks, quiet, “in light of all the– recent events, would you like me to remove that?”
A shake of the head, “No. This doesn't change anything.”
“Bruce–”
“It doesn't change anything at all.”
Dick sighs, dragging a hand down across his face. Alfred’s grip on his own cup tightens to the point that the porcelain shakes, droplets of earl grey spilling and soiling his pristine gloves. Dick glances at the butler worriedly for an instant, before returning his gaze to his own tea, defeated.
“Sirs, I’m afraid I have rather urgent business to attend to.” Alfred then speaks, putting his teacup on the tray, “I trust you will both be in bed within thirty minutes, after a proper shower and a snack.”
“It’s raining.” Bruce points out.
“Well, Master Bruce, as the Germans say, Ich bin ja nicht aus Zucker.”
“Where are you going, Alfred?”
The butler doesn’t pay Bruce any mind as he puts a coat on, umbrella tight in his hand, first-aid kit in the other.
“I shall be back by tomorrow morning. Have a good night, boys.” he says, and makes his way back upstairs to the Manor.
Dick watches, silent, as Alfred disappears as he calmly walks up the stairs. When he’s out of sight, he returns his gaze to Bruce. The man’s staring at the empty cup in his hand intensively, eyes half-lidded, bust lips pressed into a thin line.
“Alright, B,” Dick hums, kind, grabbing his crutch before making his way towards his father, “let’s get you cleaned up, okay?”
Bruce doesn’t fight him.
As Alfred cautiously makes his way up to the sixth floor of the dilapidated building, in the suburbs of Crime Alley, he can’t help but notice the cockroaches scurrying along the creaking floors, nor the mould and leaking water staining the cracked walls. The old man shudders at the faint, pained screams, moans and vile words coming from some of the apartments.
He navigates through the maze of dark hallways, floorboards creaking ominously beneath his feet, the stench of decay and neglect hanging heavily in the air– the dizzying pang makes his nose twitch.
But Alfred doesn’t stop, because the tracker that Bruce had slyly inserted subcutaneously into Jason’s neck during their grapple indicates that the boy has been holed up in the apartment at the end of the hallway on the sixth floor, on the left, for the past three hours, ever since after his fight with Bruce.
The butler doesn’t knock– there’s no need to, not when the door’s ajar, squeaking loudly as he pushes it open gingerly.
“Master Jason,” Alfred calls, tone even, “it’s me, it’s Alfred. May I come in, my boy?”
He peeks inside– heart immediately speeding up as he sees Jason writhing on the floor, pale and clammy under the dim moonlight filtering through the crooked blinds, his grip on his head tight and frantic.
“Master Jason,” Alfred calls again, teary-eyed, rapidly allowing himself into the apartment, “my boy.”
Jason’s eyes snap open, panicked, one pupil blown, the other shrunk. Alfred instantly drops to his knees beside the boy, whose mouth hangs slightly open, whimpers and moans of pain filling the air.
“Oh, my boy, my poor boy…” he murmurs, running a hand through Jason’s locks– it comes back slick with crimson.
Alfred’s hands shake as he reaches out again, after an instant, unable to hide the fear in his voice. He sees blood trickling from Jason’s evidently broken nose and ears, a sight that makes the old man’s stomach churn with dread.
“Hang on, my boy, everything is going to be alright.” Alfred promises, his voice filled with desperation and blind fury. “How could he–”
“N-no, no–” Jason coughs, frantic, blood staining his teeth, “g-go aw-ay, don’t t’ch me.”
The youngest shakingly tries to reach for the gun strapped to his thigh, and Alfred’s not sure if it’s to scare him off, or to actually shoot him– but Jason relents before his bent fingers manage to grab the weapon.
“D-don’t, pl’se, I c-can’t–”
Alfred shakes his head, trying to snap out of his stupor and do what he came for– he starts to assesses Jason’s condition, immediately moving to disinfect the deep cuts on Jason’s concussed head before he gets down to the stitching, trying his best not to accidentally injure the boy further when he thrashes, murmuring incoherent threats and pleas.
“I am so sorry, my dear boy. Please, hang on.”
There’s shards of porcelain in his skin– but Alfred tries not to think about how they got there, fully-focused on removing them thoroughly before stitching the tight skin up. It takes a while, between the flailing and the screaming, but Alfred eventually wraps Jason’s head up with a thick, padded bandage, to help stabilise the wounds and prevent further injury.
“Pl’se, pl’se, no, no!”
“Shh, my boy, it’s alright.”
Once he’s done, and once he’s secured Jason’s hands with makeshift handcuffs– made with the spare bandages, not tight to hurt, but tight enough to prevent Jason from clawing at his head again– Alfred sets up an IV with fluids and heavy-duty painkillers.
Jason doesn’t even seem to feel the needle sliding into his vein, too absorbed in what he’s seeing, head lolling from one side to the other, bleeding lips murmuring words that Alfred can’t quite comprehend.
He monitors the IV closely, ensuring that the fluids are flowing properly and adjusting the painkillers as needed to keep Jason comfortable– or, as comfortable as possible.
Finally, after a few minutes spent rubbing Jason’s uninjured arm comfortingly and uttering words of comfort over Jason’s own screams, once he’s sure that the painkillers have kicked in, Alfred turns his attention to Jason’s mangled fingers.
He gently inspects them, careful not to jostle Jason’s sprained wrist– the skin’s an angry shade of red, bleeding, bones sticking out, and Alfred briefly wonders if there is any lasting nerve damage that needs immediate medical attention.
Jason cries out in pain and pleads with Alfred to stop as soon as the man empties a needle of local anaesthesia, a bit of it between each of the boy’s fingers, on his right hand– the screams only get louder when, after a couple of minutes, Alfred starts resetting the phalanges. With a steady hand, he carefully straightens each finger, trying to be as gentle as possible despite Jason’s teary protests and frantic thrashing.
“S-stop, pl’se, pl’se I’ll b-be good, pl’se, pl’se!”
“I’m sorry, my boy,” Alfred speaks, hushed, “I’m sorry, Master Jason, please bear with me.”
But Jason doesn’t hear any of it, eyes rolled back in his skull, broken pleas finally dying down. Alfred’s heart leaps in his throat, two expert fingers flying up to press under his jawline, then to his uninjured wrist.
And just like he went down, Jason’s up again, eyes blinking, dazed.
“A-Alf?” he calls, voice hoarse, “Wha’s goin’ on?”
A grim smile. “Hello, Master Jason.”
The boy blinks again, then his eyes slide shut as he exhales, shaky. “F’cked up.”
The old man squeezes Jason’s uninjured hand comfortingly, the other smoothing his hair back, careful to avoid the bandages. “It’s going to be alright, Master Jason.”
“M’–” a shake of the head, weak– it leaves Jason dizzy and nauseated, “wrong.”
Alfred raises an eyebrow, grip tightening slightly, “What ever do you mean by that, my boy?”
“Br’ss thinks m’... fuck’d up, in– in th’ head.” he murmurs, head lolling, “B’cause I kill’d s-so many. But I n-need t’–” a sharp inhale, “d’it again.”
“Oh, my boy–”
“Br’ss doesn’t… get it. Thinks ‘m cr-crazy.” he whispers, and he sounds so young, so terrified, “But m’not. I kn-know wh’t m’doin’. M’helpin’ Gotham. He th-thinks I–” a shudder, violent, “came b-back wrong. Didn’t.”
And Alfred– he notices Jason’s eyes burning with anger and despair, a faint glint of green filtering through the teal. But he can’t say that he doesn’t agree with the kid, he can’t say that his reasoning is entirely irrational– because it’s not. It’s not, and Alfred wishes he had the guts to grab his shotgun and hunt down the Joker himself, even if it’s the last thing he does.
Jason whimpers, and Alfred moves to plant a soft kiss atop his head, watching as Jason falls asleep again, his breathing slowly calming, less frantic, yet still hiccupping.
“It’s going to be alright, my boy. I promise.”