Thanks again for all the reviews! I hope this chapter is up to par because it was somewhat difficult to write for some reason. To answer a question a few of you had, I'm intending to just take this story to the point where Bruce escapes. In my head, the rest of the story is the same as the movie from that point on. And again, I will be rescuing Alfred from the Pit as well, so don't worry. I hope you enjoy, and thanks for reading!

When the day finally came that Bruce was able to stand on his own two feet again, no one really expected it. In fact, the whole process had become quite discouraging for the doctor, distressing for Alfred, and endlessly painful Bruce. For the first few weeks there had been very little progress.

For Alfred, seeing Master Wayne in such discomfort day after day was agonizing. When Patel had hoisted the injured man into the air, his screams of agony echoing across the cavernous prison, Alfred's optimism had begun to evaporate. When the screams had barely subsided to whimpers, the doctor had taken aim and delivered a sharp blow to Bruce's back, causing the younger man to lose control once more. Not a man in the prison was unaware that something extremely unpleasant was happening to the inmate in the fourth cell on the left.

From that moment, Alfred did not allow himself to focus on his concerns for Master Wayne's future. He was too preoccupied with what was happening in the present. Dangling from a rope by his arms twenty- four hours a day for days on end would have been nearly unbearable for a man in perfect health, but for the seriously injured Bruce it was nothing short of torture.

Alfred understood the basic function of the rope as explained to him by Dr. Patel. It took all the pressure off Master Wayne's spine, realigned his damaged vertebrae, and would ideally reduce the swelling enough that the nerves and muscle tissue would heal.

All of that sounded great in theory, but the reality of it was something else entirely. Bruce couldn't sleep. He would doze off occasionally for a few moments here and there out of utter exhaustion, but he never got any real rest. The pressure that was taken off his spine was put on his upper arms, which bore all his weight and ached constantly from the strain. And he was reminded continually of the reason he was in that position in the first place as he tried in vain to stand on legs that not only wouldn't hold him up, but wouldn't even move at his command.

The first night had been the worst, although Alfred wasn't sure if Master Wayne had actually gotten any better in the days that followed, or if he had just gotten better at controlling his reaction to the pain. The doctor, who was rapidly becoming one of Alfred's least favorite people, had promptly left Bruce's cell after examining the result of the medical procedure that most of the civilized world would call assault. He had merely grunted in response to the butler's question about whether the procedure had been successful, and then he was gone until the next day.

Alfred knew Bruce well enough to know when he needed distracting conversation, and when he needed to use all his concentration to deal with the pain he was in. This situation was definitely the latter. The older man stayed close, but was quiet as he watched Master Wayne struggle to find some equilibrium in the midst of his misery.

Bruce's soft groans finally subsided and Alfred brought him a cup of water which he drank slowly, willing himself to keep it down.

"You know what I wish I had right now?" the younger man asked when he had finished.

"What?" Alfred could think of about a hundred things he wished he had right now, a hospital being first on the list.

"A bottle of Jameson Irish whiskey."

Alfred smiled. Whiskey had not been one of the things on his list. But now that Bruce had brought it up, he supposed he could add it. "A whole bottle, Master Wayne?"

A ghost of a smile played across the injured man's lips. "Well, I'd share it. Although I know whiskey isn't your drink."

"No, but given the circumstances, I would be happy to have a glass of whiskey with you."

"Given the circumstances, I think I'd need more than a glass."

They both imagined for a moment what whiskey would taste like going down. "Actually, if I had to pick a beverage right now, I would choose a piping hot cup of Earl Gray," Alfred commented.

Bruce gave a laugh that came out more like a whimper. "I would have guessed. You don't need to share that with me. I'll just keep the whiskey." He shifted slightly in his make-shift harness and a jolt of pain shot up his spine taking his breath away.

Alfred looked at him with concern, and suddenly a wave of anger flooded over him. "Master Wayne, when you get out of here and meet Bane again I want you to inflict as much damage on him as you possibly can."

To his surprise, the injured man actually chuckled at the butler's sudden outburst. "Alfred, I promise, when we get out of here, I will make it my mission to do just that."

There was no sleep for either man that night, as the butler transformed seamlessly from silent sympathizer to caregiver to conversational companion as Bruce's needs changed. Though he was unable to be of much practical assistance, the younger man wondered later how he would have survived without his old friend's company.

Days passed, and every morning Bruce would attempt to put weight on his legs, and every morning they would fold under him like a pile of jell-o. Nothing seemed to change. Periodically, Dr. Patel would examine his patient's spine and test his reflexes. Then he would lower the rope that held the injured man aloft, to see if Bruce could stand. Invariably, his legs collapsed under his weight and he would fall onto his hands and knees. The doctor would shake his head, hoist him back up, and leave with an intelligent comment such as, "Not ready yet."

Then one day, they were given a glimpse into the chaos unfolding in Gotham via a television set hanging outside the cell. Alfred had barely noticed the set, which up to then had shown nothing but static, and assumed it was a defunct security monitor. Then the static had been suddenly interrupted by a broadcasted rant by the madman known as Bane. The following day the monitor blinked to life again, this time revealing an up-close look at a riot occurring in front of the Gotham City prison.

Alfred and Bruce hadn't really talked about what was happening in their hometown. The concerns of the present were much too pressing. But Alfred had wondered if the news from home would discourage Master Wayne further. On the contrary, knowing what was happening to the city Bruce loved had the opposite effect- Batman's alter-ego seemed to regain his focus and remember that he was fighting for something much bigger than himself.

Perhaps this driving purpose was partly responsible for the strength and control that began to return to Bruce's legs. Who knows what effect the mind can have on the body? But whatever the reason, one morning, when it was least expected, Bruce suddenly woke from a light doze to feel a strange sensation in his feet. They were tingling.

He had felt almost nothing in his lower half since he had been dropped into this pit, and he noticed the difference immediately. He willed his foot to flex, and for the first time in many weeks, it responded to his brain's command. Slowly and carefully he raised his arms slightly so that his feet lowered to the ground. He was first aware of a tremendous sense of release as his upper arms were relieved of the burden they had been bearing for weeks. A second later he realized that his legs were supporting him. They felt like rubber, but rubber is more substantial than jell-o and they were indeed holding him up.

His shouts of excitement woke Alfred who was taking a well-deserved nap.

"Master Wayne, what's wrong? Are you in pain?"

"Alfred, look- I'm standing. I'm standing!" The younger man was giddy with excitement and laughed out loud. He felt like dancing, but decided not to push his luck.

"Master Wayne," Alfred was choking back tears of joy and relief. "You're standing!"

Their moment of happiness was suddenly interrupted by a burst of static from the TV. Both men immediately turned their attention to it.

The scene that met their eyes replaced their elation with anger as they watched innocent Gotham citizens being sentenced to death by none other than the psychologist-turned-psycho, Dr. Crane. Alfred sighed, his heart heavy with matters beyond his control.

But Bruce Wayne was once again standing on his own two feet. And for the first time since he had awakened in this miserable place, he truly believed that somehow Batman would rise again, and take back his city.

"Watch your back Bane," he said, in Batman's low growl. "I'm coming for you."