lemonadegarden:

Constants.

What up it’s ya girl lemonadegarden and I’m here with some Bruce and Alfred angst enjoy ❤

Bruce woke up feeling sick.

That was normal. He had been expecting it, really.

He rose slowly, wincing and making his way to the bathroom. He looked at himself in the mirror. A bleary-eyed, pale man looked back. He sighed, scrubbed at his face, and went back to bed.

He woke up again, sometime around late afternoon, judging by the light in the room. He was feeling distinctly worse.

Alfred was sitting by the bed, reading a book.

Bruce groaned something incoherent.

“Quite, master Bruce.” Alfred said, calmly flipping to the next page.

Bruce groaned again, and turned over. “I think I’m sick.” He said. His chest felt tight.

“Really,” Alfred said dryly, but the hand placed on his forehead was cool and comforting. Bruce closed his eyes against it. Something about it made Bruce think of when he was little, and he’d get sick and stay home from school. Alfred would take care of him and make him drink soup.

“You have a fever,” Alfred said, his voice soft.

“I know,” Bruce said, turning his face into the pillow. He was sweating. “It was the fear toxin, from yesterday night. Side effects.”

The effects of the fear toxin were usually nullified by the antidote that he administered to himself, but there were often lingering effects. Like high fever.

“Ah,” Alfred said. “I’ll fetch some medicine.” He said, and started to rise from the chair.

Something caught in Bruce’s throat at that. Something strange. A ragged shard of panic. “Alfred,” he croaked. “Don’t– just– just stay. Okay?”

He was shivering. Shivering and sweating. For some reason he couldn’t get memory of him being a sick child out of his head. A child. His parents. Dying in a gutter in front of him. His chest was feeling tighter still.

“Bruce,” Alfred said quietly, and he never called him that, never called him just Bruce. “Are you sure the effects of the fear toxin are gone?”

Bruce shook his head against the pillow. “I’m sick.” He said. “Can’t get up.”

“Can you move?” Alfred said.

Bruce tried. He shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

Alfred was quiet. “I’m not leaving you, master Bruce,” he said finally. “But I must go down to the cave and fetch a syringe and a few milligrammes of the antidote. There is no one else in the manor at present. I must go, or you won’t get better. Do you understand?”

Bruce shook his head. He realised he was curled up in the very middle of the bed. He was a scared boy again, and Alfred had just brought him back to the manor from the police precinct, and was trying to explain the concept of death to him.

“But Alfred,” he was saying, his face wet with old tears, and he was curled up in bed, and Alfred was smoothing his hair back from his head. “Are they in heaven?”

“Yes,” Alfred said, and then he hugged him. Alfred never hugged.

“Master Wayne,” Alfred was saying. Bruce forced open his eyes.

“Take a deep breath,” Alfred said, and Bruce did. “there you go. Good.”

Bruce kept taking deep breaths. Alfred rose and quickly left the room. Bruce’s breaths became harder.

He closed his eyes again.

He was fourteen, and he’d been suspended from school for picking a fight. He had a busted lip and and a black eye, and Alfred was silent the entire drive back home.

Bruce crossed his arms, looking out of the window defiantly. Whatever Al was gonna say, he didn’t want to hear it.

“Your parents’ death was not your fault,” Alfred said, all of a sudden, when they were nearing the driveway.

Bruce looked at him, too surprised to be angry any longer. “What?”

“You did not fail your parents by not taking action in that alley. Trying to rectify wrongs that you never made won’t work out in your favour, master Bruce.”

“I didn’t–”

“The bully you fought with. Was he picking on you, or someone you felt the urge to protect?”  Alfred said. Bruce frowned, and looked out the window again.

“I thought so.” Alfred murmured. “You are not the sworn protector of the entire world, master Bruce.”

“Al–”

“And next time, be smarter about it.” Alfred said. “May I recommend actually learning how to fight.”

“Al!” Bruce yelped, and Alfred’s mouth twitched up ever so slightly.

A prick of a needle slipping into his vein. Bruce sighed.

“Give it a minute.” Alfred was saying, his voice somewhere far away. No, that couldn’t be right. He was right here. Right here.

“Alfred,” Bruce said, blinking open his eyes and waiting for his vision to focus.

“Mm.” Alfred said. He was hooking up Bruce with some kind of IV.

“I’m sorry I got suspended.” He said.

The hands hooking up the IV paused. “That was twenty six years ago, master Wayne.”

“I know,” Bruce rasped, his throat still dry. “But I never said sorry.”

Alfred sat down beside Bruce on the bed.

“Apology accepted.” He said, sounding amused.

Bruce sniffled. He was a little child, barely six, sick with the flu, and Alfred was spooning soup into his mouth.

Alfred,” Bruce said, hesitantly.

“Yes?”

“Can I– may I have some soup.”

“Of course,” Alfred said. There was something warm in his voice. He rose up, standing.

“Wait– wait.” Bruce said. “Don’t go yet. Just stay a little while.”

Alfred hummed, amused and sat down again. “Just for a little while.” He said.

Bruce closed his eyes.

He was six years old again, and he was sick. Alfred was fussing over him.

He was eight years old again, and Alfred was trying to explain what death was.

He was fourteen years old, and Alfred was putting antiseptic cream on his split lip.

Bruce was forty years old, and he was sick again, and Alfred was sitting next to him. Always.

“Just for a little while.” Bruce murmured.