[Unlike Oswald, Alfred does not have the luxury nor the reprieve of rest. He barely sleeps these days, his evenings full of nightmares where Nyssa kills Bruce over and over in front of his eyes. Sometimes Bruce cries for his help and other times he is silent, his dark eyes looking at Alfred with an accusatory gleam.

So instead of sleep, he reads, just like he did when he was young and plagued with nightmares after the war and had Oswald cared and not been wrapped up in his own grief he would notice the dark circles under Alfred's eyes growing deeper and the way he's lost about seven pounds already.

He is half way through Count of Monte Cristo when he hears the commotion coming from Oswald's chambers and is up in a flash, rushing out of his quarters and down the hall, dressed in nothing more than his flannel pajama bottoms.]

Master Cobblepot? [He calls out as he enters the room, already noting that the bathroom light is on and heads inside. He is greeted to the stench of bile, vomit, blood and pain and for a moment he swears he is back home. Back in Whitechapel when he was at his lowest and would come home drunk, bloody from a fight, and feeling like death had a permanent grip on his shoulder.]

Oswald!

[The mess doesn't matter, he's seen and been in worse and he drops to his knees to scoop the smaller man up into his arms.]

It's okay, I've got you.

[He murmurs and lifts Oswald up, holding him against his chest as he turns and carries him out of the bathroom. He moves quickly, efficiently, and in a matter of seconds he is back in his own room. It's soft and cozy in here, the bedside lamp casts the entire room in a warm glow and carefully he sits down on his bed, still holding Oswald in his arms.]

I'm so sorry, I should have put down a mat so you wouldn't slip.

[He scolds himself and shifts slightly to grab a handkerchief to gently dab at the blood on Oswald's forehead.]

Are you okay?