A sharp, stuttering intake of breath brought all movement in the kitchen to an instant stop. The knife fell and clattered on the cutting board next to a pile of diced potatoes. A half second later, Alfred was standing at the sink, the water running, one hand applying pressure to the other. It took that same amount of time for the remaining occupants of the room to process, overcome their momentary shock, and come back to life.
Bruce’s hands immediately found Alfred’s under the running water, his gaze intent upon the older gentleman’s pinched face. Four voices started talking all at once, overlapping each other, each concerned in their own unique way.
“Al, are you-“
“What can we-“
“The hell happened-“
“Pennyworth-“
They went in circles, cool heads and sound decisions forgotten amid their worry. They pressed for answers, verbally encroaching.
Alfred inhaled deeply, centered himself against the onslaught, and forced his shoulders to drop. His heartbeat pulsed insistently in his carved-up thumb. The pressure echoed in his ears. He opened his eyes and glanced up at Bruce, a wordless request passing between them.
“Boys. Give us a minute, please.” The gentle request was neither loud nor insistent, offsetting the urgency that had whipped itself into a frenzy. It cut through the wall of comments and inquiries and brought their runaway reactions back to sensibility.
Dick put a hand on Damian’s shoulder. “We’ll go set the table.”
Damian shot his older brother a scathing glare before taking one last look at his father and Alfred.
“I’ll get the first aid kit,” Tim announced.
“I got brunch covered.” Jason reached for the bloody knife and set it aside to wash later. He grabbed a new knife out of the block, transferred the uncontaminated food to a new cutting board, and continued like nothing had happened.
Once the children had left the room or put themselves to task, Bruce returned his attention to Alfred. “Let’s have a look.”
“Bloody careless,” he muttered under his breath, more irritated at himself than in pain. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d cut himself while preparing a meal. Years had passed. Perhaps a decade.
“Accidents happen.”
The reminder earned Bruce a glare that nearly rivaled Damian’s. The thought that his youngest had likely learned it from both of them made him affectionately smile.
“Let’s see,” he tried again, flipping off the water.
Tim reappeared at his elbow, first aid kit in hand. He placed it down on the counter within reach, glancing down at the blood dripping in the sink. A pained sound formed at the base of his throat before he hesitantly retreated.
Alfred stopped squeezing the tip of his thumb and raised it for inspection. The moment the pressure was gone, the bleeding intensified. Along with it came a new level of miserable throbbing.
Bruce evaluated the depth, the cut running wide and parallel to the nail. “Would benefit from a couple stitches.”
“Ridiculous. The strips will be more than sufficient.”
Jason snorted in the background, his dicing motions smooth and steady.
“Jay-“
“Nothing. Didn’t say a word. Ignore me. I’m not here.”
Bruce looked Alfred in the eye, saw the headache forming from the adrenaline crash and the pain, the unspoken desire for the whole encounter to be over and done. “Are you sure?”
He went back to squeezing the two edges of the wound shut. “Master Bruce-“
“Usually it’s you stitching me up.”
It was just the right amount of irony said with the perfect amount of levity. “Quite,” he retorted, returning to his senses with a resigned sigh. He took another look for himself, sliding into a more clinical frame of mind. If this were Bruce’s flesh or one of the boys, his opinion would certainly match. Never accept a half measure when there is time to address the issue properly. “Forgive a foolish old man.”
His son’s expression softened. “Nothing to forgive.”
Tim slid a suture kid in on top of the first aid kit, anticipating the need before it was requested. Then like a shadow, the teenager was gone again.
With a degree of detached professionalism, Bruce set to work right then and there. He scrubbed and donned fresh gloves, unfolded a sterile pad on the kitchen countertop, and stripped open the packages sealed in plastic. Once he had what he needed all laid out, Alfred rested his hand palm up in the middle of the staged area. As he waited for the finger to numb, he groused about the uncleanliness of performing impromptu surgery on a surface usually reserved for food.
Alfred kept his kitchen meticulously clean and they both knew it. “I’ll wipe it down with bleach when we’re done.”
The promise seemed to mollify the butler.
He prodded gently at the base of Alfred’s thumb. “Another minute?”
It no longer felt like the tip of his finger was the size of a football and the top of his head about to blow. The pressure applied to the uninjured portion hardly registered. “This should be adequate.”
“Let’s wait.” There was no misjudging the statement as suggestion. If another moment meant the difference between ‘adequate’ and completely deadened, Bruce would fight for that lapse of time.
His patient accepted the decision without demur. Soon enough, the work began beneath his watchful eye, the bleeding tapering off. Unexpectedly, his vision tilted and a profuse sweat broke out on his skin. “Oh.”
Bruce glanced up in alarm. “Jason!”
It took only a second for his son to register Alfred’s suddenly sheet white complexion. He ditched his self-appointed task and grabbed the nearest chair. Using his foot to finish dragging it into place, he slipped both hands under Alfred’s shoulders and guided him down. Then he threw open the freezer door and found an ice pack. Ripping the hand towel off its hook, he wrapped it haphazardly and settled it on the back of his grandfather’s neck. He stationed himself to the right, stabilizing Alfred between his own body and the kitchen counter, using a hand to keep the ice pack in position. Both he and Bruce waited with bated breath.
Color crept back and the faint feeling lessened. Alfred swallowed the lump in his throat and took a measured breath, willing his vision to cooperate. He reached up with his uninjured hand and took control of the ice pack, shifting it to a new position. Jason squeezed his shoulder, relieved they weren’t picking him up off the floor, and went in search of orange juice.
Bruce was completely still, watching Alfred with an intense gaze. He’d paused all work on the thumb and was holding it steady, his own gloved hands spotted with his surrogate father’s blood.
“That was… unpleasant,” Alfred muttered. A straw appeared in his periphery. Obediently, he took a sip. Then another. Between the ice and the sugar, it wasn’t long before his condition improved significantly. He took in Bruce’s expression and registered the tightly controlled anxiety.
“It’s been a rather eventful morning. I think perhaps I’ll take the rest of the day off.”
Jason huffed in amusement.
Bruce’s shoulders relaxed. The rest of his body incrementally followed. Soon after, he tied the last stitch, cleared away the excess blood, and made short work of the bandaging. He watched as Alfred raised the wounded digit to his chest, resting it above the level of his heart. The local was beginning to wear off. “Jay, could you get him some Tylenol?”
“Sure thing.”
“And then check with your brothers. Talk amongst yourselves and decide what you want for lunch. Order something and have it delivered.”
Jason was taken aback. “I can-“
“I know you can. I know. Just- Please.” His voice sounded tired. Spent. He clearly didn’t want a fight. He dropped the needle in the middle of the used suture kit and stripped off his gloves, tossing them on top of the pile. Then he folded the decimated protective pad over the whole lot and ferried the bundle to the trash can.
Alfred remained silent.
Jason realized the request had very little to do with the food. Bypassing the first aid kit, he retrieved two tablets from the bottle kept over the stove and handed them off.
“Thank you, my boy.”
“I’ll be back in 15 minutes,” he informed them both, his defiant tone daring them to argue.
Bruce nodded wearily. Alfred offered no objection. Jason departed to do as he was told. Once he was gone, Bruce turned to wash his hands one final time, buying himself a moment to process.
“The counter can wait. Pull over another chair and sit down.”
He retrieved a fresh towel from the drawer, dried off, and deposited the replacement on the vacated hook. Across from Alfred he placed the second chair but instead of seating himself, he elevated the older man’s legs and crouched down beside him.
“I daresay I spooked you.” He was starting to sound more and more like himself, a brightness returning to his eyes.
Bruce leaned his forehead against Alfred’s upper arm and breathed out. “Let’s never do that again.”
“Agreed.”
__________________________________________
(a/n: This was a double prompt fill: Bruce Wayne Week – Dr. Wayne and Batober #3 – Spooked.)
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