Lapses

Chapter 1: Home Coming

The insistent flashing of the red light slowly brought the elderly gentleman in the wingback chair to consciousness. He had been waiting for the return of his charge when the late hour and tension of the last few days had finally taken their toll and he had slipped into sleep. He glanced at the clock on the end table, 5:30 am. The Master was cutting his nighttime excursions dangerously close to dawn, but it was entirely possible that he had returned hours earlier and was still 'Working on the Foundations'. Alfred smiled wryly; sometimes he wondered if he would sleep down there if the elderly butler did not make his way down to the cave each night with a beverage and a firm order to bed. The answer was almost undoubtedly yes. He could be quite driven at times, Alfred though with a touch of sadness, especially if he was working on a case, as he had been for the last few days. The old man had to congratulate himself on his own cleverness, setting up a system by which he could be informed of his master's homecomings, even Bruce with his quickly forming reputation as the world's greatest detective was unaware of his additions and seemed pleasantly surprised to find the butler awaiting his return. Alfred smiled as he fetched a cup of tea, no doubt master Bruce would have some comment about slipping up in old age, to which he would respond in kind.

Three discordant notes rang out from the old piano, actually it was new, the entire mansion was new, though you would never thing so to look at it. True to his word Master Bruce had rebuilt it brick for brick after the horrible fire started by the League of Shadows more than a year earlier. Almost true to his word anyway. Acting Alfred's own suggestion they had 'improved the foundation' in the southeast wing. It now had become sort of a joke between them; whenever Master Wayne was occupied in the lower regions of the house they said he was 'Working on the Foundations'.

One of the many glass-covered bookshelves that lined the wall swung out, revealing a part of the mansion few people were aware of, only three people in the world, actually. As Alfred descended the metal elevator he automatically glanced toward the newly installed super computer, sarcastically termed by Master Bruce, the Bat computer. But Master Bruce was not at the Bat Computer, Batman was on the floor.

The lighting in the Bat Cave was poor. The Batman preferred the shadows, but even the dim light could not hide the sickly glisten on the black uniform. Alfred hastened down the hall. The Tumbler was parked haphazardly, slammed sideways into the wall; he had obviously entered out of control. The cockpit was left open; the Batman had dragged himself across the floor, obviously trying to reach the intercom, on the wall by the stair. All these things flashed through Alfred's mind as he raced to Batman's side. As he gently removed Batman's cowl he noticed fractures spanning the right side and moving up one pointed ear. This explained why batman had not called for Alfred as he had been forced to do once before because his communications relay was stationed in that ear. The dark helm slipped away from the battered face of Bruce Wayne, playboy prince of Gotham, who had been heard on many occasions to say that a man that dresses up as a bat clearly has issues. Never would the citizens of Gotham City believe that Bruce Wayne spent his nights, not in the company of beautiful women, but traversing the rooftops as the Batman. Nor would they believe that Bruce Wayne now lay in a cavern beneath Wayne Manor, cold, clammy, bruised, and bleeding.

Alfred cursed his own incompetence as he knelt beside his former ward; he had known that Bruce was still on a case, not only on patrol. The Batman had become convinced that several robberies, assaults, and possibly a murder were all connected and perpetrated by one individual. Certainly Master Bruce had been driven lately, more so than usual anyway, but nothing to cause undue alarm, especially as the investigation had hit an impasse, and no new leads had been forthcoming. Sure there were the usual problems, muggings, rapes, the occasional bank heists, but nothing that would pose any kind of threat to the Batman- wait, when did he begin to think like that? Master Bruce was far from infallible. There was always the chance that any fight, any thug could hurt the Batman, not that he would ever admit that. That was why Alfred was there, a long time ago a good man had entrusted Alfred with all he held dear in this world, tonight, he had failed.

Bruce's skin was cold. Loss of blood had rendered his skin a pallid grey and his thready breathing almost imperceptible through the armored confines of his suit. Alfred scrambled for a pulse, found one; steady, but barely, before attempting to remove the black body armor. It was much harder than it should have been. The catches were carefully hidden, and the suit would have been almost impossible to remove if the remover had no prior experience with the suit's design, Alfred, of course was intimately familiar with the workings of the suit, but the layer of blood the Batman had acquired made the catches slippery and the edges hard to grip. Alfred tried to wake Master Bruce as he did this, but the only response he got was when he attempted to remove the upper chest of the suit. This activity elicited a groan from Bruce as he grimaced and his hand twitched toward his right side. As Alfred looked at the armor he had just removed, he noticed a small hole almost hidden by two of the panels in the Kevlar weave material. It was almost impossible to get anything past the suit, even the joints were reinforced, but some one hade obviously been very lucky that night and it hadn't been Master Bruce.

Only once all the Kevlar armor had been removed, leaving Bruce in his thin, insulated, black undersuit did Alfred attempt to move the larger man as carefully as possible to the Med lab. Despite his caution he was unable to prevent a trail of blood to follow their halting progress, a gash had been torn out of the left side of Master Bruce's bat suit, and some of his flesh had decided to go along for the ride. Alfred did not wish to ponder how hard Master Bruce would need to hit something, even something sharp, before it inflicted this kind of damage on the suit.

Even without the additional pounds added by the Kevlar armor, Alfred stumbled with his burden. He struggled to lift the still form onto the Med lab table, eliciting a semi-conscious groan from Bruce.

"Master Bruce? Master Bruce!" Alfred questioned in concern as Bruce's body suddenly convulsed in racking coughs that left blood flecking his lips.

"Alfred…" Did he hear it or was he just hearing what he so dearly wanted to.

"I'm here Bruce, I'm here." But Bruce was gone once again, body relaxed, but breathing strained. Alfred carefully cut the top of Bruce's under suit off his shoulders, wincing subconsciously at the dark discolorations marring the strong chest.

Of course the Master had been hurt before, Dr. Crane's fear toxin came vividly to mind, not even in Gotham was there anyone crazy enough to claim that being Batman was without risk, but never had the physical injuries been this severe. Alfred found himself hooking Bruce up to machines and monitors he had prayed he would never have to use. Deep bruising suggested broken ribs, the gash on the left side was not deep, but it was still bleeding, bleeding after how long? Alfred quickly fetched pressure bandages to stop the bleeding and disinfectant to clean Master Bruce's other injuries. But the most disturbing rested beneath the small hole ripped through the right side of the Bat suit. Alfred was no expert, but he recognized a bullet wound when he saw one, angry red surrounded the small hole and blood leaked steadily.

It was painfully obvious to Alfred that he was far out of his depth. He would be of little use to Bruce now; he was not a trained physician, ice, bandages, even broken bones if so pressed, one did not serve a doctor for so many years without picking up a few things, but not this, not this.

But what else could he do? What other choice did he have? Whom could he call? No hospital, there would be too many unanswerable questions, impossible questions about the prince of Gotham and what exactly he did at night. The secret would get out, and Master Bruce would never forgive him for that. If he made it out of the hospital alive, unlikely given the number of underworld leaders the Batman had managed to seriously upset in the last year or so. Hospitals were out.

Whom then could he call? Who could he trust? Who would Master Bruce trust? Of course! Whom had he trusted before? Lucius Fox, appointed director of Wayne Enterprises, knew Bruce's secret, or at least suspected. Not that he would ever try to confirm his suspicions, he was much too wise for that, but that did not stop him from seeing to it that all the newest, cutting edge technology conveniently found its way to Master Bruce for his perusal. He had even gone as far as to present Bruce with something suspiciously similar to the Batman's balanced, bat-shaped projectiles, improved upon, of course. These were more akin to boomerangs, returning after being thrown, and easier to aim. Alfred almost smiled as he recalled the look in Bruce's eyes when he saw them; a look Alfred had seen a precious few times the last twenty years.

His hand shook slightly as he dialed Mr. Fox's number, part of him, a small part, still questioning this decision. After this there could be no side stepping, no pretended ignorance. The last time Alfred had been forced to call upon Lucius he had managed to carry Bruce up to his own room, but in the Master's current condition, Alfred would not remove him from the Med lab to stop all the crime in Gotham. And the Med lab was in the Bat Cave.

The phone rang, once, twice, then a steady mellow voice, with just a hint of a drawl answered:

"Hello, Fox residence."

"Lucius? This is Alfred."

"Alfred? Well this is a surprise. What can I do for you?"

"Lucius … It's- it's Master Wayne, he…" Alfred trailed off, suddenly unsure of how to continue.

"What's wrong with Bruce Alfred?" Mr. Fox asked steadily enough, yet unable to hide the trepidation creeping into his mind.

"Well sir, you know Master Bruce, sir, always getting into some sort of trouble. Well it seems he's had another one of his mishaps." Suddenly Alfred dropped his falsely light tone, "and he would rather this be kept out of the news papers." Before once again continuing, "you know how those awful tabloids are already calling him the billionaire klutz," finished Alfred with a forced laugh. A strained silence followed as Lucius Fox struggled to digest the full implication of Alfred's layered talk. Bruce was obviously in trouble, a lot of trouble if Alfred had to come to him. The last time, just over a year ago now, that Alfred had been forced to contact him, Bruce had almost died, or worse. Sometimes Fox wondered if Bruce realized how serious his condition had been, or if he cared. Because if Bruce Wayne died then HE would--. Lucius stopped that thought, that would not happen, could not happen, Gotham still needed HIM. Certainly things were better now, then before, but in Gotham, that was not saying much. And make no mistake, what had taken HIM a year to accomplish would all disappear in a month.

"How bad Alfred?"

"Quite bad, sir."

"I'll be right there Alfred."

Lucius quickly gathered whatever he thought he might be useful into a small bag. He had no real idea what would be waiting for him at Wayne Manor, he had not even thought to ask Alfred for more detail. He did, however get the distinct impression that the situation was different that last time. Yet he couldn't think of many things that could get passed the equipment of the spelunking, base-jumping billionaire. He hoped against hope he would be able to help. He cursed his busy night and decision to turn in early, perhaps he would have heard something on the news. They did sometimes follow up on HIS exploits, the ones they could get to in time, and usually HE was long gone by the time the media arrived.

They had significantly more luck with Bruce Wayne, rumors about who he was seeing now, and what he did at night. Of course their suspicions were nothing like Fox's; they ran more along the lines of the rather crude jokes told by Mr. Wayne's 'friends'. Not that he had many friends after last year's disastrous birthday party where Bruce had grievously insulted everyone in attendance before supposedly burning down his house in a fit of drunkenness, shortly after they left. Lucius was not there for this spectacle, but found it hard to believe considering that he had had a very coherent conversation minutes before he supposedly burned down his home. And that particular conversation had been about the last 'mishap' Bruce had been involved in, that one dealing with a weaponized hallucinogen that he had been infected with. If not for Alfred's call, and Fox's brilliant analytical skills, Bruce Wayne would have died along with the rest of the city. But the antidote that Lucius had come up with to cure Bruce Wayne had 'somehow' gotten into the Batman's hands, and from his to the police, where mass production and distribution saved the city after Dr. Crane and a mysterious group of terrorists tried to cover the entire city in that 'fear toxin'.

Mr. Fox quickly made his way down to his car, and forced himself to drive within the speed limit all the way to Wayne Manor. The last thing he needed was to be pulled over for speeding by a Gotham Police officer. What would he say: that he was in a hurry to make a house call on a bat? That was more likely to land him in Arkham than at the Manor.

The iron gates swung open and the drive spread majestically before him, winding up to the impressive mansion. He grabbed his bag and jumped out of his car, almost knocking into Alfred who was hastening down the steps.

"This way, Mr. Fox." With that Alfred continued down the steps to one of the many Wayne cars, waiting in the drive. Lucius numbly followed.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Fox," said Alfred as he slipped into the drivers' seat, "but I'm afraid I must ask you to wear this." He said as he handed Lucius a blind fold "It is for your own protection as much as anyone's, Mr. Fox," replied Alfred off his blank look. Fox nodded and secured the cloth firmly over his eyes.

Alfred's knuckles were white as they griped the steering wheel. He had decided to try and keep the location of the cave a secret. Of course, he was loath to leave the master alone for the amount of time it would need to bring visitors by the more round about road to the cave. It would only have taken minutes to bring Lucius down by either the piano entrance, or the pantry exit, but something had stopped him. And now he found himself making turns and swerves down several country roads before finally turning onto the trail that led to the Cave.

As he had sat, waiting for the perimeter alarm to warn him Fox had reached the outer gate, he had mechanically gathered the rent remains of the bat suit, and had sat down beside Master Bruce, attempted to clean the worst of the blood off of the uniform. The entire time he had been scrubbing the bat suit he had been debating the best course of action. Eventually he had decided to try and retain as much of the secret as possible, at least not admit to anything out right. The young master would surely approve, why did he find that thought more disturbing than reassuring?

He was working on a strange greenish stain when the proximity alarm sounded. He quickly opened the iron gates and replaced the suit in its cabinet before making its way to the entrance hall.

Finally he pulled through the mouth of the cave, under the curtain of water.

"We have arrived, Mr. Fox."

When he removed his blind fold and opened his eyes, Lucius Fox was greeted by the sight of a matte black tumbler. A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as he remembered the test drive Bruce Wayne had given the amazing car. His control over the tank-like hunk of metal was astounding, as attested to a few days latter as he watched a live coverage of the Batman driving the vehicle, literally over the rooftops of Gotham.

But something was wrong. The tumbler was at an awkward angle, as if it had come in completely out of control. The driving skills of both Bruce Wayne and the Batman were impeccable; never should the tumbler have ended up slammed into the rock face.

Alfred jumped out of the car and immediately took off toward the back of the cave. Fox followed him more slowly, taking in the enormity of the Cave, the number of the bats, and the trail of blood that was still on the floor. The smudged trail where Batman had pulled himself across the floor, the pool where he had collapsed, the drops like breadcrumbs showing the path he was carried down. All together it was a substantial amount; once again he cringed to think of what could have done this to the Batman.

He followed the path Alfred had disappeared down, the trail of blood, and he was quite surprised when he turned a corner and found himself in the Med lab- a sterile equipment-studded room carved out of the gray stone, and there on the table in the middle of the room was- Bruce Wayne. Badly bruised, with shallow breath, and bandages, hooked up to several machines. There was no sign of the Batman, or that the man before him was any more than he seemed. His chest was bare, except for the discolorations and bandages, covered in blankets from the waist down. He looked for all the world like someone who had been in a street fight, or had gotten caught by an angry boy friend, his more off beat side suggested, and for a moment, regardless of the location, Fox almost doubted this pained young man could be the Batman.

Then he met Alfred's worried eye's and was reminded that it did not matter who or what he was, he was cared about and loved, and one man's life for the last twenty years. He examined Bruce's smaller wounds, nicely cleaned by Alfred. Lucius stitched up some of the deeper ones before looking under the pressure bandages. The first he was able to fix with some imaginative suturing. When he removed the second however, all he could do was inhale sharply and shake his head. How had this happened?

"Alfred, didn't he wear his suit?"

"Of course, sir," answered Alfred with a hint of indignance, as if he would allow the master to leave without at least that much protection.

"Then how-"

"One of the reinforced joints, I believe, luck I guess you could call it," he replied morosely, obviously beating himself up for not checking the armor better. But Fox didn't have time to worry about that, there was a more pressing matter, but he did file the tone away for future reference.

"Alfred, we're going to have to take him to a hospital."

"Sir!" Alarm showing clearly in his tone.

"There's no other way Alfred…." Unless… "Alfred... I'd heard Dr. Tompkins was back in town."

"Oh?..." Leslie Tompkins was once a good friend of the Wayne family, introduced by Alfred who had once upon a time thought that just maybe… But that was a long time ago, things had changed, and he had not seen her for over a year in any case, not since before the young Master's return.

She had rather enjoyed Bruce's company when he was younger. She had even been his official pediatrician. Of course, Dr. Wayne took care of most mishaps, ones much less serious than that facing them now. She had hated what Bruce did to himself after his parents' death. As a result, her visits became less and less frequent. During the years of Master Bruce's absence, Leslie had tried to come over as often as she could to keep him company, but her work as a surgeon had taken her out of town more and more often. She had finally simply moved to Metropolis shortly before Bruce's reemergence. Alfred had tried to keep in touch, but with all the changes taking place at Wayne Manor, it was hard to find the time. They had drifted apart. But surely she would come if Bruce needed her. If Alfred needed her.

Alfred swallowed nervously. "I will ring her."