The security lights turned on outside, drawing Alfred's attention. He looked out the window and saw Bruce crossing through the yard from the direction of the Drake property. He was carrying Tim in his arms, the boy's face hidden against his shoulder and both arms wrapped around his neck. Tim was barefoot, wearing nothing but a t-shirt and what looked like a pair of boxers. Bruce's face was somehow both grim and triumphant.

Alfred hurried to open the side door and greet them. "Master Bruce! What on earth...?"

Bruce gave him a strained smile as he stepped inside. "Is the guest room Tim used to live in aired out? He's going to be staying with us from now on."

"From now on?" Alfred closed the door behind him and hurried to get in front and lead the way up the stairs to the bedrooms. He couldn't help looking back over his shoulder, trying to study Tim. The boy did not have any obvious marks of injury that he could see.

"He can't stay with his father." Bruce's voice, too, held a mingling of grimness and triumph. "It's not safe for him there anymore."

The dread that had been building in Alfred's stomach ever since he'd received Tim's strange texts deepened and sharpened. He said nothing else until they reached the guest room in question, where he opened the door and turned on the lights, then turned down the covers and went to open a window. The room had not been aired out recently, no, but it was clean and well-kept, as every room in the manor was. Alfred took pride in his attention to detail.

He turned back to see that Bruce had set Tim down on his feet and placed the duffle bag he'd been carrying on a chair. Bruce was unpacking the duffle and putting things away, moving with determined efficiency. Tim seemed unsteady on his feet, looking around in a bit of a daze. Alfred crossed to him and put his hands on his shoulders. "My boy, are you all right? What happened?"

Tim stared up at him with wide eyes. He opened his mouth, then closed it again. Tears welled up in his eyes, which sharpened the alarm Alfred was feeling even further. Tim looked to Bruce, his expression helpless and pleading.

Bruce had paused unpacking and was looking back at him with naked sympathy. "Do you want me to tell him for you?"

Tim nodded, and Alfred looked to Bruce, though he did not let go of the boy's shoulders.

Bruce took a breath and squared his shoulders. "Tim's father beat him with a belt. Severely. I will not have it. I am resuming the guardianship I held while Jack was comatose, but this time I'll be making it permanent. If Jack will not voluntarily terminate his parental rights, I'll sue for custody. I hope he'll see sense and make it as easy on Tim as possible and not drag it out in court, though."

Alfred's vision whited out. The next thing he was aware of, he was striding purposefully down the hallway, and Bruce was yelling behind him. "Alfred! Al! Where are you going?"

"To get my shotgun!" Alfred yelled back, nearly speechless with fury.

Running footsteps, and a hand grabbed his shoulder and pulled him back. Bruce, white in the face. "Al, Alfred, please don't. I understand your anger, believe me, I do. But going over there with a shotgun and threatening Jack Drake will only make things worse. That's why I didn't beat him to a pulp myself. We can't give any pretense for him to call the police and claim victim status, saying that we assaulted him or kidnapped his son or anything like that."

Alfred paused and took a breath. He could see the sense in Bruce's words, though he didn't have to like it. Not one bit. "Master Bruce, this is unconscionable. That poor child..."

"I know, I know." Bruce grimaced, showing his teeth, the rage behind his eyes. "And I know how much you love Tim. You two have spent a lot of time together while I've been...elsewhere. But you're not going to do any good for Tim by getting arrested and taken to jail. Just...let me handle Jack. Please, Alfred. I need you here. So does Tim."

Alfred took a breath, then another one. His fists had been clenched, and now he slowly made them relax. He nodded shortly. "Very well. I will...refrain from shooting Jack Drake. For now."

Bruce grinned crookedly and squeezed his shoulder. "Thank you. That's all I ask." He tilted his head back toward Tim's room. "Shall we go?"

Back in Tim's room, the boy was not in the room, but the bathroom door was shut and Alfred could hear the sink running. A few seconds later, Tim emerged from the bathroom. He gave them both a hesitant smile, then walked slowly and stiffly over to the bed and lay down on his stomach, burying his head in the pillow.

Now Alfred could see the dark bruises and welts on the backs of his legs under the edge of his boxers, above his knees. He could only imagine that the wounds continued up under his clothes. He had to close his eyes and clench his fists again, visions of taking his trusty shotgun to Jack Drake dancing through his head.

Bruce had gone back to unpacking the duffle bag, occasionally asking Tim where he would like this or that item to be placed. Tim answered in monosyllables, his voice drained of energy. Textbooks and laptop went to the desk, hygiene items went to the top of the dresser, clothes went inside it. Bruce had even grabbed a few more personal items, like a stack of CDs that Alfred knew were among Tim's favorites and a worn hoodie that he hung over the back of a chair in easy reach of the bed.

Alfred felt a bit ashamed. He ought to be the one unpacking Tim's things and tidying up for him. But Bruce seemed to appreciate the activity, finding pleasure in being able to do something tangible for Tim's comfort. The poor boy still seemed to be somewhat in shock, accepting what was happening to him without many words on his own behalf.

After watching for a few minutes, Alfred crossed to the bed and bent down next to Tim's head. He reached out and petted his hair gently, and Tim turned his head to look at him. His eyes were no longer welling with tears, but his expression was beyond weary, jaded and a little vacant.

"Would you like some hot chocolate, Master Tim?" Alfred asked. "Perhaps a snack?"

Tim hesitated, then nodded. "Hot chocolate would be good," he said softly. "I don't want any food, though."

"All right." Alfred stroked his hand over his head one more time, then rose to his feet. He looked to Bruce. "I'll also give Master Dick a call, shall I?"

Bruce looked relieved that he wouldn't have to be the one to do that. "Yes, please do." He paused. "Actually, you'd better tell him to just come to the manor. This is news that should be given in person. I don't want him going after Jack Drake, either. Not until I've had a chance to talk to him."

Alfred nodded. "Very sensible, Master Bruce."

He went downstairs and set a saucepan of whole milk on the stove to heat with a cinnamon stick and a splash of vanilla essence. This situation called for true drinking chocolate, not that dry powdered mix that the young masters indulged in when they were in a hurry. He picked up the house phone and dialed Dick's personal phone while the milk warmed.

The call went to voicemail, which was not a surprise. It was still within the hours when criminals and vigilantes were on the street, especially young vigilantes with much to prove. Bruce had wrapped up his patrol slightly on the early side because Alfred had called him back.

"Master Dick, this is Alfred. Please come to the manor at your earliest convenience. Today would be preferable. It involves Master Tim."

He paused, acknowledging how that would sound to Dick. He didn't want to terrify him, but he did want to press the urgency of the situation onto him. Tim needed Dick's support right now. He needed all of their support, but Dick was especially good at meeting Tim where he was, lending a listening ear and drawing him out.

"Master Tim has been hurt, but it's not life-threatening. Please do not race here and put yourself in danger. Major changes are afoot, and your presence would be appreciated, not least by Master Tim. I hope all is well with you, and I look forward to seeing you soon."

There, hopefully that would summon Dick as quickly as possible without causing him undue distress. Alfred hung up the phone and went to chop up the dark chocolate for Tim's drink.

When it was done, he took the drinking chocolate up to Tim and stayed with him while he drank it. The poor boy had a great deal of difficulty moving, but Bruce and Alfred were both there to help prop him up with as many soft pillows and cushions as they could gather. Tim lay against the pillows and slowly sipped from the mug, his eyes drooping, while Bruce sat next to him on the bed and held his shoulder in one large hand.

Alfred sat on a chair next to the bed, leaning forward with his hands clasped over his knees. He would do anything to take away Tim's pain, and it bothered him greatly that he could not do so. But at least the hot drink and the company seemed to be helping.

When Tim finished, he handed the mug back to Alfred and rolled painfully onto his side facing Bruce. He ended up with his head resting on Bruce's thigh, shoulder propped against his hip. Bruce rested his hand on the back of his head and gently stroked through his hair. "Remember that bank robber you were so worried about? Would you like to know what happened with him?"

Tim hummed and nodded sleepily, going boneless as Bruce told the story. Bruce smiled as he talked, enjoying sharing what turned out to be a genuinely funny tale. Tim's shoulders shook with little giggles at the right places, and he pressed himself harder into Bruce. His breath was even and calm. Bruce finished the story and started another one, some harmless anecdote from early in his career as a crimefighter.

Before long, Tim was asleep. Alfred rose to his feet and carefully rearranged the covers that had gotten rumpled around him. He pulled them up to Tim's shoulders and tucked them around his torso, taking care to avoid letting too much weight rest on his bruised and welted skin.

"Will you be staying here, Master Bruce?"

Bruce nodded. "In case he needs help with something," he said softly.

"Very well. Please do call me the instant either of you require anything."

"I will, Alfred. Sleep well."

But Alfred knew he would not sleep. Not tonight. Even though dreams of vengeance would have been sweet.

He left the room and went back downstairs. He fetched the shotgun from the mantle in the old den that hadn't been used for years. He sat in an armchair by a window facing the Drake property and settled in, feeling his old bones come to rest, his heart beating fiercely in his chest. He rested the shotgun across his knees, his hand on the stock. And he sat there, watching, until the sun rose and the new day began.

No one would lay a finger on the sweet young boy who had to come mean as much to him as Dick and Jason ever had. Never again. Not while Alfred lived.