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Everything has slowed, now. Nothing is quite so frantic; the Red Hood has been taken down, and there’s nothing that will stop this case from being officially closed. There is the usual clench in his gut, as he stares into the face of the kid he’s just taken down. Because it had been a kid, just a kid, who’d probably thought he didn’t have any other choices.
But the kid had made his choice. And now it was over.
Jim’s hand clenches a little more tightly around the red piece of cloth that had given the group their name, slowly rising to his feet. He doesn’t even acknowledge Harvey when the old cop declares that he’s going for a Danish, feeling as though that while the case is closed—all around, something everyone would consider a success—this whole entire mess known as the Red Gang Case had been a monumental failure.
It’s only highlighted when his phone starts ringing, loudly, breaking through the ringing in his ears that never quite goes away until after he’s showered, once he’s curled around Lee. He doesn’t even look at the number as he pulls the phone from his pants pocket.
Annoyance piqued, still rushing on the adrenaline and the guilt, Jim doesn’t even bother with his customary greeting as he flips the phone open and presses the little device of metal and plastic to his ear.
“Yeah?” He demands, frowning.
“He’s hurt. Alfred’s hurt.” The voice is young, on the verge of tears, and it only takes a split second for the annoyance that had been climbing Jim’s spine to be replaced with cold, aching fear, and something else that he does not have the time—or, really, the want—to examine right this second crawls into his guts to replace the feeling of failure.
A dozen questions flit through his head, all how’s and why’s, but there is only one question that, right at this moment, is truly important. His jaw ticks, and he can see a few of the uniforms giving him looks as he begins moving, though he doesn’t quite yet have a purpose.
“Which hospital?”
***
The drive to Gotham General is both too long and far too short to get his head back to where it needs to be. He’d been lucky to find that his partner had, of all things, walked, leaving him the car to make use of to get to the hospital where Alfred Pennyworth was fighting for his life.
There is a bizarre… Jim can’t call it numbness, because the tightness in his chest, the sheer disbelief that is rushing through him tells him that it isn’t that. He can’t put a name to it, other than to acknowledge that it was something, important and making it hard not to think about the butler in question.
Because, really, how can he not? He identifies with the man on the level of the man being a soldier. Acknowledges the danger that he can see that lurks just beneath the surface every time he looks at the man. There is something lurking in those damn changeable eyes, eyes that range from a bright, mischievous blue-grey to a dark, dangerous, stormy blue-grey. Eyes that draw him in and—
Christ, when had he started paying so much attention to the man’s eyes?
Something bubbles up in his chest, something almost hysterical. Something far worse than anything he’s experienced yet in this long, awful day. It’s somewhere between a laugh and a sob, and it gets stuck behind the lump that makes his eyes sting.
Fuck it all, he hadn’t even felt like this when Barbara had left, why the hell was he acting like this now? Especially when it’s not like he has any sort of damn attachment to the damn butler.
At least, that’s what he tells himself. Continues to tell himself as he pulls into a parking spot, not caring how he parks. Continues to tell himself until his ears start ringing with the feeling of it, like the ringing of gunshots and medical monitors, even as he steps into the quiet, cold ICU room at Gotham General.
He finds himself freezing for just a moment, seeing the man hooked up to tubes and monitors, feeling something so much heavier than the failure he’d felt earlier settling into his guts, over his shoulders. Especially when he takes in Bruce’s slumped form at the end of the bed, ramrod straight—still so proud, so properly postured, even in his fear and grief—but with his head bowed. It’s clear that the boy had heard his shoes on the tile in the hallway, a slight shift in posture just that much straighter, for all that Bruce doesn’t immediately acknowledge him.
Jim can hardly breathe as he steps into the private, dark room, coming up behind Bruce. The boy’s voice is even smaller than it had been on the phone, shaking, thick with tears. The voice of a boy, rather than the too-young man that Bruce sometimes sounds.
“I can’t lose him. He’s all I have left.”
Lips pressed into a thin, hard frown, Jim presses his hand gently to Bruce’s shoulder, giving it a warm squeeze. Silently, he offers what little comfort he can provide.
I’m here, he hopes that the boy reads, understands. I’m here and not going anywhere; you’re not alone.
Slowly, oh-so-slowly, the boy crumbles under the offer of comfort, turning into it. It feels like a century, time moving like crystallized honey, but eventually Jim finds himself with an armful of the boy, holding him gently, tightly.
Even as he holds Bruce through his sobs, he still doesn’t understand what’s going on in his own head. Nor can he name why it still feels like the end of everything, so much more so than when Barbra left. All he can do for the time being is to hold onto Bruce, giving what comfort he can to the boy who desperately doesn’t want to be alone.
He find s himself rubbing at Bruce’s back, comforting circles as the boy melts against him, pressing into him for comfort. That Bruce is actually allowing him to stay this close, to continue to accept the offer of comfort, is a testament to how bad this is.
Once the tears have been exhausted, the boy’s shaking slowly stopping, Jim gently pulls the boy away from his chest, framing his young face in both hands.
“Why don’t you go wash your face, alright?” He gently urges, and when it looks like Bruce might protest, he gently shakes his head. “Don’t worry, kid, I’m not going anywhere, okay? I’ll make sure nothing happens while you’re gone.”
There’s a moment when Jim is sure the Bruce is going to protest, but then seems to think better of it. Instead, the drained tween gives a silent, tired nod before hesitantly retreating. He gives one last look to the man in the hospital bed before shuffling off down the hall. Jim listens to the kid’s footfalls retreating down the hallway, before finally, finally turning to fully take in the man in the hospital bed.
Despite having seen the devastation when he first came in, it’s still a shock to see the tube sticking out of Alfred’s mouth, held in place by plastic and medical tape, helping the man to breathe. There are several monitors beeping and giving information that he didn’t understand at all, and several IV bags hanging on a steel stand on wheels, with lines going into the unconscious man’s arm. There are several wristbands, one declaring an allergy to—of all things—grapefruit, and one that lists Alfred as an at-risk patient.
But what really kills him is how pale the man is. He’s nearly as white as the sheets beneath him, and that is somewhat of a travesty. Because in the time that he’s known Alfred, the man has never been quite this still. Perhaps this silent, but never this still since there was always something to be done around Wayne Manor.
God, what he wouldn’t give to have Lee here, right now. The beautiful woman with her warm, easy smile, her gentle way of comfort. Lee would know what to say to Bruce, would be able to assure them both that Alfred would be okay, would wake up. She would know what the numbers on the monitors meant, would be able to stop the ringing in his ears, would help to ease the burden of the pain of Alfred being in that hospital bed.
He needed Lee. He needed… He needed…
Bruce returns at that moment, face still pale, eyes still red, hair a little damp, and looking for all the world like he’s ready to collapse. Jim doesn’t have to be able to read minds, though, to know even the slightest suggestion of Bruce leaving the hospital would be meant with stubborn set of jaw, and glaring blue eyes that have seen too much for someone so young.
So Jim doesn’t say a word, pulls together two uncomfortable hospital chairs towards the side of the bed that doesn’t have the equipment with it, and removes his coat. Sits in one, and motions to the other, prepared to wait. After a moment, Bruce sits beside him, ramrod straight and stiff again, proper.
He can’t help but bite back a sigh, letting his arm fall across the back of the chair to curl around the kid, ignoring the way the plastic digs into his wrist and forearm. Steadies himself, instead, on the sound of the beeping machine, steady and constant, because at least he knows what that means.
It was going to be a long night.
***
At some point, he had removed his tie, unbuttoned the top few buttons of his shirt. Trying, as much as he could given the circumstances, to get comfortable. To be less of a detective, and as much of a friend as he could be to the kid sitting next to him. At another point, Bruce had leaned his head against Jim’s shoulder and had fallen asleep, exhausted and unable to fight it any longer.
Jim can’t say when he fell asleep, leaning back in his seat and with Bruce leaning against him, so much younger than he typically acts. He dreams of nothing but stormy grey skies. Skies filled with intolerable clouds, pressure and pain.
And then there is a soft hand on his shoulder, familiar and warm and so damn comforting.
“Jim…” The voice that belongs to that hand is soft, and right near his ear, waking with a soft snort.
He blinks blearily, gritting his teeth when he finds his arm still on the back of the chair, still around Bruce’s shoulders, the boy still sleeping. Most uncomfortable—besides the crick in his neck, and the stiffness in the rest of his body—was the fact that his arm was asleep. Plus, Bruce had drooled on his shoulder. Poor kid…
He blinks again, bleary eyed and not awake, trying to find the source of the voice. And then the feeling of the hand registers, a thumb gently rubbing, and Lee’s soft, concerned face swimming into focus. His eyes flicker past her to the bed, to the figure still unconscious, still getting help to breathe and live. Still in the hospital room, still waiting for Alfred. Stomach still churning, chest still tight, ears still ringing.
But it was Lee. She was here.
“Lee,” he breathes, voice rough with sleep and emotions he doesn’t, can’t, won’t name. “Wh—“ His tongue trips over itself, and he blinks, clears his throat as softly as he can, cringing when Bruce shifts with a soft sound of protest against his shoulder. He pauses a moment, they both do, holding breath as they wait. But Bruce slumbers on, the moment passes, and they both relax.
Her soft brown eyes hidden, but shining with warmth even in the dark, she gently shushes him.
“Bette Kane is an old friend of mine; she told me that you came in here and hadn’t come out,” she whispers, shifting as she gently shifts a blanket over Bruce, tucking it around him.
“What happened?”
Her question is gentle, not meant to be imposing, concerned. But, oh, Christ was that a damn good question. All he knew was what little the nurse had told him when he’d asked what room Alfred was in. A stabbing with a knife that had done too much damage on its way back out. Taking so much from him, nearly taking Alfred from hi—
From Bruce. Had nearly taken Alfred from Bruce.
He opens his mouth several times to answer the question, but his vocal cords don’t seem to want to work. Can’t make a sound. But Lee understands, brushing her hand against his cheek, eyes wide and warm and sad, and all he can do is lean into her, closing his eyes tight. Feeling stinging in his eyes, overwhelmed, like everything is crashing down still, again.
“Shhh, Jim, it’s okay,” she whispers, gently pressing her hand to his cheek, soft fingers catching gently over the shadow of stubble on his cheek. “It’ll be okay, he’ll be fine.”
That she had read so thoroughly into his pain and fear, had read into his heart so easily, only caused the lump in his throat to grow. The stinging in his eyes becomes more pronounced as he leans into her touch, letting his eyes fall tiredly shut, lips pressed into a thin, harsh line. He nearly breaks into pieces when he feels her lips press against his forehead, concentrating on the feeling of her hand against his cheek.
Her lips linger against his skin for a long, long moment, breathing life into his spirit. Fortifying him, and he takes what he can of her offered comfort, just as Bruce had taken from him. He feels a knot in his stomach, in his heart, ease just the slightest. He still doesn’t understand, but he appreciates her presence.
“I’ll see you at home,” she whispers to him, stroking his cheek. “We’ll talk there.”
And the, like a dream, she is gone, the soft, sweet smell of her perfume lingering in the antiseptic air. It gives him the courage to continue his vigil, bolsters his ability to help Bruce.
It was just a matter of watching and waiting.