CRACKED
*CHAPTER 10*

**A/N: To all of my readers who have asked me whether this story had been discontinued, I'm sorry it took me so long to update! I moved away to university this fall, so life has been super different/hectic. But this story is still very much alive, and even if this chapter is a bit weak, I promise more drama is on the way! Thanks for reading guys!

ALFRED'S POV

It had been six months today.

He had shown every kindness, had been understanding and gentle without fail.

Yet Bruce was no better. Ever since the housewarming party, he had remained almost exclusively in the East Wing of the manor, and had taken to locking himself in his study for hours on end, particularly whenever the maids were around.

Only Alfred had the key, and only recently had he realized the significance of this—that Bruce fully intended to lock the world out, both mentally and physically, letting only Alfred in.

But tomorrow, Alfred hoped, might be different. Perhaps Master Bruce would smile, laugh even. He sighed—how long had it been since he had seen Bruce's boyish grin?

When he arrived at the door of his young master's study, the door was locked-as he should have expected, he supposed. It was nearly one in the morning, and he had just come to insist that his master be getting off to bed. No more of these late-night brooding sessions. So, he drew the key from his pocket and turned, creaking the door open ever so slightly.

"Master Bruce?"

No answer. He cracked the door open the tiniest sliver. "Master Bruce, may I come in?"

He eased the door further, peeking in to see only darkness. He tried again. "Bruce?"

Nothing.

Opening the door revealed an empty room. "Bruce?"

Alfred was moving down the hallway, listening for any sign of where Bruce might have stowed himself away. "Bruce?"

He had searched the entire East Wing, and still nothing—he could feel his heartbeat quickening—surely Bruce wouldn't have done anything to hurt himself? Not again.

But what if…No. Surely Bruce would not have ventured outside of the east wing—he hadn't in ages. The west side of the manor was where the Wayne family had once resided, all of those many years ago.For Bruce, even in its reconstructed state, it was a hallowed ground, a sacred place not to be entered. But…nothing had been exactly normal as of late…

It was not until he passed what was once young Bruce's playroom that he saw a thin sliver of light creeping out from under the bottom of the doorframe. Finally.

"Master Bruce?" He didn't bother to knock this time, just tentatively pushed the door inward, as if fearful of what it may reveal.

But rather than receiving an answer, Alfred was met with a few hitched breaths. Bruce was sprawled flat in the middle of the dimly-lit room, cheek resting against the floor, on a black area rug that replicated the one that he and a young Rachel Dawes used to cover with toys once upon a time. He looked stiff and awkward, as if his location had not been intentional.

"Master Bruce?" He took a hesitant step forward. "Are you all right sir?"

But the hitching breaths only became more pronounced, and Alfred mentally kicked himself. Of course Bruce wasn't all right. If he was, why would he be laying on the floor in his old playroom?

He crouched down next to the boy, ignoring the creaking of his old bones, and placed a gentle hand on Bruce's back. He started to open his mouth, preparing to ask if Bruce had hurt himself, but something instinctual stopped him from doing so. Instead, he remained silent, listening to the wind beat against the window.

And he waited, as always, until the low voice addressed him.

"Alfred?"

"Yes, sir?"

He watched as Bruce's face raised an inch and turned toward him. "I can't…I can't get up. I must have tripped over the doorframe…so dizzy.…and my knee…"

Even in the dim lighting, Alfred could tell that his master's face was reddening by the second, hot with embarrassment and shame at what he would undoubtedly label as weakness.

Alfred nodded, brow furrowing in worry, and moved to stand over Bruce, one hand extended, and surprisingly, Bruce rolled over and took the hand, allowing Alfred to help him unsteadily to his feet.

BRUCE'S POV

The older man eased him carefully down into the antique rocking chair…where his mother had once sat, rocking him to sleep in her lap. It was strange, but the rickety chair had been one of the few unharmed items recovered after the manor had burnt down. In fact, much of the room had survived, so many of its contents were original. He surveyed the room, taking in sights he had not seen in years…out of anywhere in the house, this was one of the rooms he avoided most adamantly. Too many memories.

He shut his eyes tightly, trying not to succumb to the pounding in his skull or the unnatural way in which the room was swaying.

So lost was he in his thoughts that he scarcely noticed when Alfred cautiously slipped a hassock under his bad knee for support, nor when Alfred's soft voice barely registered in his mind.

"Everybody falls, sir."

Bruce simply nodded in response, but broke into a violent coughing fit as he waited for Alfred to continue.

"Sir, if you don't mind me asking…what was it that brought you here? You don't often venture into this part of the manor."

Bruce bit the inside of his lip, averting his eyes to a small object that rested in the palm of his hand. His head spun and he clung to the edge of the chair. He had known Alfred would ask eventually.

Slowly he extended his arm, allowing Alfred to take the weathered arrowhead in his hands.

"You remember it, don't you?"

He saw a glimmer of recognition in Alfred's expression, closely followed by a hint of bittersweet nostalgia.

"Of course I remember it, Master Bruce. Miss Dawes and yourself were constantly arguing over which one of you found it." The corners of his mouth raised ever so slightly. "'Finders Keepers,' I believe it was."

Bruce eyes flickered, a shadow passing over his pale face. "Yeah." A moment of silence fell between them. "I…brought the watch to put with it. It's only fitting to keep her memory in this room."

ALFRED'S POV

Alfred nodded. "Indeed, sir. Quite fitting." With that, Bruce moved to set both the watch and the arrowhead in the small trinket box on the mantle. He gave each one last lingering look before limping back to the rocking chair, another coughing fit overtaking him as he sat.

"Are you feeling all right otherwise, sir?" Alfred's brows knitted together and he stepped toward Bruce, laying the back of his hand flat against the boy's forehead, drawing it back quickly when he felt the heat beneath it. "If I'm not mistaken, sir, you're running a fever." He could feel his brow creasing even further when Bruce did not argue, simply shrugged wearily.

"Just tired, Alfred," he sighed. "Nothing to fuss about." He began to cough again.

"And why don't I believe you?"

Supporting the bulk of the younger man's weight, Alfred eased Bruce through the manor's winding passageways, eventually managing to get him into bed. Despite the boy's diligent protests, Alfred tried to persuade him to lie still and wait until a doctor arrived.

"No!" Bruce's eyes snapped up and his head shook vigorously. "No doctors, Alfred! Please." The desperation in his voice cut into Alfred's heart and Bruce's breathes became shorter. Alfred cringed, detecting the clear edge of panic in the boy's gasps.

Oh, dear.

It had been a careless thing to say, a reflex even, for Alfred knew that Bruce was terrified of doctors. His father had been a highly skilled physician, but ever since…

Bruce couldn't stand the thought of anyone else tending to him. Hence, even over and above the Batman-secrecy issue, Alfred doubled as Bruce's personal doctor, and had often resorted to his deceased employer's dusty old medical texts, tucked away in a safe that had stood unscathed from the fire.

He moved closer, taking a hesitant seat on the edge of the bed. "Bruce," his throat was tight with emotion, "I'm sorry. No doctors, I promise, but you have to let me help you."

Bruce seemed to calm at this and rested back wordlessly against the pillows, allowing Alfred to take his temperature.

104 degrees.

Alfred's thoughts raced—this was the last thing the two of them needed right now. He knew that being so reclusive and brooding all day wasn't good for the boy's health. No wonder he was ill; Bruce had become a complete shut-in. But this wasn't okay. No. He needed someone to bring proper medicines, to look Bruce over properly…

Lucius.

The trouble would be getting Master Bruce to agree. He shifted his gaze over to the young man on the bed, whose eyes had already drifted shut. Perhaps getting his consent wouldn't be a concern after all.

The phone only rang twice before Lucius picked up.

"Hello, Mr. Fox speaking."

"Lucius? It's Alfred. Listen, I need your utmost discretion…"

"Of course, Alfred, I will admit I'm a little surprised to hear from you, what with Mister Wayne having not getting out much these days."

Alfred sighed. "No, I am afraid he refuses to. Listen, Master Wayne's health is currently not at its best. I know that this is an awfully lot to ask, but is there any way that you might be able to come see him? I'm worried my skills might be surpassed by this one."

On the other side of the line, he could already hear Lucius gathering his things. "I'm of my way Alfred. Tell Mister Wayne not to worry." The line went dead.

Setting down the receiver, Alfred breathed a sigh of relief. Lucius was on his way.