Work Text:
Shattered
From the moment he collapsed on the elevator platform, everything in the bunker was a blurred mess. There was Alfred, of course there was and Bruce was just glad he could simply close his eyes and stop doing anything. Alfred would help him. It was painful and exhausting, but Bruce didn't even have it in him to complain. He just laid there and breathed, wishing for the whole ordeal to be over. And Alfred didn't even break the silence with his dry comments, just did whatever it was he did. It was unusual, but then again, it wasn’t everyday that Bruce returned shot and beaten to the point where sitting up was a serious struggle.
There was a moment of break for Bruce once Alfred was done with treating his wounds, but the bunker had no real bed for him to rest and soon, much sooner than Bruce might have wished, they had to move. The ride back home wasn't long, probably less than a quarter at this hour of night. Bruce spent that ride slumped at the backseat, clutching desperately at the bowl. It took all of his remaining willpower not to puke all over Alfred's car the moment it started to move. He didn't think he could afford additional strain right now.
Every time they heard police sirens ringing in the dead of the night, his eyes snapped open, instincts kicking in before his fuzzy brain could catch up. There was no threat for him there. At worst case scenario, the police would likely see a drunken billionaire being taken home by his butler. He didn't have to flee. He didn't-
"Wake up, master Wayne."
Bruce blinked heavily. They were in the garage, but not yet parked in the usual place. Alfred stopped the car directly by the lift and he was already out, leaning over him through the open door.
Getting out was easier said than done. At this point Bruce was ready to curl and pass out it the car. Even the table back in the bunker, hard and cold as it was, sounded better than moving. The moment he tried, violent cramps made him bend in half, forehead resting against the back of the driver's seat. It took a moment before he could breathe again. The wound in his abdomen had dulled somehow during the ride, but now his whole side was on fire again. And Bruce was fairly sure there was something wet and warm running down his calf.
"I'm leaking."
"It's alright, sir," Alfred promised, but Bruce could hear concern in his otherwise steady voice. "We're almost home."
With Alfred's arm supporting his back, Bruce managed to stand and leaned immediately against the car as his vision blackened. There was a feeling of drifting and a vague sense of someone talking to him, but Bruce couldn't focus on the words. He was slipping, falling into a bottomless hole with nothing to hold onto...
A sharp pain in his lower back took over the overwhelming weakness and Bruce snapped his eyes open with a groan, only to realise it was because Alfred was pinning him against the car to stop him from falling.
"Let. Go." He gasped.
"You back with me, sir?" Alfred loosened his grip, but didn't let go completely. He kept his hands firmly against the car, ready to catch Bruce by the armpits.
"Mmmhm."
Bruce couldn't help but hiss when he tried to put more weight on his left leg. He was fairly sure it had not hurt this much before, but his knee had not been this swollen either. Alfred must have seen his hesitation and wrapped an arm around him for support before nudging him to move. As he limped the few meters to the lift, Bruce couldn’t help but wonder how on Earth he had managed to make it to his motor earlier.
Alfred kept him pinned against the wall during their ride up. It was awkward, standing this close, but Bruce was too tired and too focused on staying awake to really care. He was aware enough to know that right now falling and jostling his wounds would most likely just knock him out. And it wasn't like anyone was going to see them like that at four thirty in the morning.
They almost made it. Bruce collapsed three steps after passing his doorstep, his leg simply giving in completely. Alfred managed to soften the fall, but still the impact made Bruce gag. The butler tried to keep him sitting, but he slid down the wall and curled on the marble floor, arms pressed to his belly. There was no way he would move now.
Bruce heard a sigh and then something soft and carrying the scent of Alfred's cologne was placed under his cheek. He forced his eyes to open as the butler helped him roll completely on his side to keep the pressure off his back.
"I guess you need a moment, master Bruce."
"Yeah."
Bruce simply closed his eyes again and focused on breathing, relieved that his stomach didn't rebel. At this point he wouldn't really mind if Alfred brought him a pillow and let him just stay right there. From the dull, nauseating pain radiating from his lower back he already knew this was something worse than the bruises he usually accumulated during his night escapades. The shot wound was another matter entirely, but it was manageable as long and he didn't move. So was his knee, probably.
He didn't even realise his old friend left him alone until he heard approaching footsteps. Alfred returned with a glass of water and two pills on a saucer.
"Here, drink slowly and try to keep it down, sir." Alfred propped him up a bit and the wounded couldn't help but groan. "This should help for the pain."
"Just let me... stay here," Bruce muttered as he took the pills. Some distant part of him was surprised how slurred his words sounded. "I'll be... Fine. Just..."
"For now," Alfred nodded and Bruce sighed in relief as he was lowered back. "We're in no hurry here. You’re safe. Catch your breath, sir. I'll park the car and be right back. Don't try to get up alone."
Bruce snorted weakly. "As if I could."
"I said 'try', didn't I?"
With Alfred gone, there was no sound to focus on except the pounding of his own heart and Bruce was drifting again. He couldn’t really tell how long he laid there on the floor, feeling nauseous at the mere concept of moving, not really focused but neither completely out of it. It seemed impossible to relax there.
"Master Wayne?" Bruce heard Alfred directly above him and forced his eyes to open, only to see the butler crouching by his side.
"Mmm?"
"I've prepared a bed for you here, downstairs, sir," Alfred said softly. "Now, do you think we can try and get you a bit more comfortable?"
"I'm fine here," Bruce muttered as he fought to keep his eyes open. Whatever the butler had given him finally started to kick in and staying conscious was becoming a losing battle. "Just let me sleep."
"No such thing is happening, I'm afraid. I won't have you sleeping on the floor, sir. Sit up, please."
Bruce let his older friend place his arm under his back, but he couldn't stop a pained gasp as Alfred helped him to the sitting position. He leaned forwards and barely managed to catch himself with his right hand before he slipped back. The meds might have started working, but even moving as carefully as he did, he still aggravated the shot wound and his whole lower back acted as if unable to hold his weight.
His breathing hitched and Bruce found himself shaking, no matter how hard he tried to keep his body still. It seemed there wasn't the tiniest thing he could control right now. He had never felt this weak, except perhaps the time when he had been exposed to the fear toxin. But the drug was different, it was something that tried to play nasty tricks with his mind, dragging his worst fears back to the surface. It had rendered him senseless for almost two days and left only a vague feeling of dread afterwards.
Right now, Bruce was conscious but just as helpless, the pounding in his ears almost deafening, his muscles twitching and relaxing against his will. Suddenly, he was falling all over again.
Except this time, he didn’t.
"Easy, master Bruce. Easy.” A pair of strong hands caught him by the shoulders and Bruce hissed in pain. “It's alright, sir. You’re alright."
Alfred kept one steady hand on his shoulder, while the other Bruce could feel gently rubbing a spot between his shoulder blades - one of the few places on his back that wasn't so awfully sore. He focused on the repetitive notion, on the familiarity and intimacy of this gesture. That was the comfort Alfred used to offer him when Bruce had been unable to deal with the grief his nightmares brought back. The one steady presence in his shattered world. Back then, he had tried to keep his crying quiet, but most of the times Alfred found out and came anyway. Sometimes, when it had been too much, Bruce was the one seeking the butler.
He didn't need to now. Alfred was right there, as always.
Once his breathing evened out and his heart stopped trying to jump out of his ribcage, Bruce found out that he was, in fact, capable of pulling himself back to his feet. He even made it to the bed in the guest bedroom.
***
As much as Bruce wished he could say he recalled the next 24 hours, it would be a vast exaggeration. The pain medication Alfred kept him on must have been some strong stuff, one that turned Bruce's brain into a fuzzy and swollen jelly, barely able to formulate a coherent sentence. Bruce hated that feeling, but he desperately needed some rest and he would not get any sleep without dulling the pain. He remembered waking up more times than he wished, he remembered drinking tea and some broth, and being sick right after, then more broth and meds that finally lulled him into deeper sleep – and not much more.
The next time he woke up, it was well after ten in the morning. His mind felt fuzzy both from sleeping way too long and from the pain meds, but at least the lack of nausea was a pleasant change. Bruce turned slowly to his side and pushed himself to a sitting position, and when that movement didn’t make his stomach rebel, he risked some tea from a thermic cup at the nightstand. It was lukewarm, but with the amount of honey inside, he didn’t really mind and finished it all.
Putting the cup back, he reached too far and almost dropped it as the wound in his abdomen flared up viciously. Biting down a groan, Bruce curled back to what was a less offensive position and looked down at the dressings. There were a few dark spots staining the bandages, but they were dry.
Once the pain settled back to manageable level, Bruce ran his hand down his face in hopes to rub some of the lingering weariness and winced in disgust at the stickiness he felt. Despite slight tremors shaking his body after he pushed the blankets aside, he was all sweaty, his coverlets unpleasantly damp. If anything, he yearned for a long, warm shower. There was only so much Alfred had been able to clean with a towel back in the bunker.
Speaking of Alfred, he was nowhere in sight, but considering he had been up and assisting the wounded every time he needed to get up, he had probably gone to finally get some sleep himself. It didn’t seem fair to call him again when Bruce could manage on his own.
At least he hoped so.
There was a towel and a fresh set of clothes waiting on the nearest armchair. A pair of loose sweatpants and a dark blue shirt made for a quite scandalously looking set, but Bruce was grateful for Alfred’s insight. With the severe beating his back received and the bites on his arms, he could barely lift his elbows to the heart level. Pulling anything over his head would have been too agonising right now.
He made it to the bathroom with just one stop on his way, keeping close to the walls in case he needed support. Undressing proved to be a harder part, but both his pyjamas and the bandages were disgusting and begged for a change. Bruce gave up trying to do that while standing after he barely caught himself from falling, so he resigned himself to sitting on the closed toilet. He worked slowly on the bandages, careful not to pull any sutures as he removed the last layer from each wound.
Once he was done and the dizzy spell passed, Bruce pushed himself up and actually looked at his reflection. He couldn’t help uneasiness creeping in as he saw the extension of his injuries. Bruises in varying shades he was used to, but a gunshot wound was a whole new experience and the sight of the slight oozing left him with a nauseating feeling, the tea sitting heavily in his stomach. Bruce tried to turn his head around to see the state of his back instead, but the movement sent painful spasms down his neck. He couldn’t tell if it was from sleeping the wrong way or from the car crash, he just didn’t risk trying again.
What he did manage to see was alarming enough. No wonder Alfred checked up on him so often. Perhaps waiting with taking shower for the butler to get up would be a wiser idea, but after going through all the trouble of removing the bandages, Bruce wasn’t about to dress back feeling this dirty.
The bar stool Alfred had brought the previous night was still in the bathroom. Bruce eyed the offensive piece of fruniture as he brushed his teeth and shaved, leaning heavily against the sink, then decided to swallow his pride and pushed the stool under the shower. If he had to be honest, he didn’t really feel steady after just a few minutes of being up, and should his leg give out completely, there was no way he would be able to get up from the wet floor on his own.
As much as Bruce hated it, his plans for taking a proper shower were quickly reduced to simply sitting under the running water. His wounds stung too much just from that for him to risk aggravating them with any soap at hand, but at least the hot stream eased the pain in his neck. Part of him wished to stay like this for the next hour, but soon he was shaking with exhaustion.
Bruce dragged himself out of the shower and mostly managed to get dry, ruining the towel in the process, before a dizzy spell made him collapse on the closed toilet lid. It took quite a while before he risked moving to put on his pants and that was about as much as he managed to do before the edges of his vision started blurring again. He sat there, clean but cold and shaking, and couldn’t help but see the irony of Batman left literally breathless by something as simple as putting on his underwear. And to think the mob of Gotham hired a madman to deal with him…
Soft knocking saved him from pondering if he should, in fact, just call Alfred and hope he would be heard through the closed door.
”Master Wayne? Is everything alright?”
“I guess, yeah.”
“Do you require help, sir?”
There was no point in pretending that he could handle redressing his wounds alone. Nor in fooling his older friend. “Come in, Alfred,” Bruce admitted his defeat. “I’m decent.”
The door opened at once, revealing Alfred still in a dressing gown, a sight Bruce only ever saw when he accidentally woke him up upon his return from patrolling Gotham. The butler looked tired and worried, but his movements were calm and precise as always.
“Decent is not the word I’d use, master Wayne,” Alfred admonished softly, already unpacking sterile gauze pads. “How do you feel?”
“Bloody awful,” Bruce muttered sincerely and reached to hold the pads in place as the butler secured them with plasters. “But cleaner at least.”
“Good.” Alfred frowned briefly as his hand rested on Bruce’s forehead. “Let’s get you decent and back to bed. Did you eat anything, sir?”
“Nah.” In hindsight, that might have been a good idea, perhaps he wouldn’t feel so lightheaded now. “I might. I’m not going back do bed, though, I’ve slept enough.”
Alfred didn’t comment, just sent Bruce a look clearly stating what he thought of that idea. He worked on redressing the bites with practice neither of them really wished to acknowledge. With Bruce being able to cooperate way more than he had the previous time, they were soon done with most of the wounds and Alfred picked a gel to deal with the bruises. He probably used half of the package in the process, so before he was done, Bruce smelled of menthol and felt sticky again, but he was far from complaining at the numbing effect it brought.
He might not have wanted to go back to bed, but once they left the bathroom and Bruce barely made it to the nearest sofa, he couldn’t really argue when Alfred passed him a pillow to prop his knee and then brought him a blanket. His back hurt and his abdomen was on fire, so Bruce gave up and curled on his side as the butler left to get dressed himself and prepare a late breakfast for both of them.