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Chapter Text

718-846-6849: i'm scared

Is the text that starts it all.

A text from an unknown number that Alfred receives while he is watching a movie with Masters Bruce, Dick and Jason.  He doesn't get a lot of texts, so this one makes his eyebrow raise in surprise.

"What is it?" Bruce asks him quietly from the couch.  

Jason is curled up beside him, while Dick is in the next armchair over.

"I don't know," Alfred murmurs, pulling the phone into his hands.

Alfred Pennyworth:  Who is this?

718-846-6849: i'm not supposed to tell.  i'll get in trouble

Alfred straightens in concern.  

Alfred Pennyworth:  Why are you scared? He types, all too aware of Bruce's eyes on him.

Someone pauses the movie and suddenly he's aware that there are three sets of eyes on him.

718-846-6849:  it's the thunder.  it's really loud

Alfred glances at the big bay windows, to the sight of the rain coming down in sheets.  Lightning splits the skies as thunder shakes the windowpanes. 

Alfred Pennyworth:  It's a loud storm.  But there's no need for concern.  It should be over soon.

He pulls up the weather app and sees that the storm is only forecasted to be bad for the next hour, give or take.  It's a cold front that will be dropping the temperatures somewhere between 10 and 15 degrees.  

"Who is it?"  Bruce asks in the silence.

"I think," Alfred says, pressing his lips together in thought, "It's a child.  But I don't know how they got my number."

"Maybe an accident?"  Dick wonders.  

"Maybe," Alfred concedes, not at all certain.

--

The next text he gets is a few days later.  

It's a picture of hands.  Small hands.  Ones that have been torn up with possible road rash.  Very red and sore and bloody.

718-846-6849: do you think they're infected?

He purses his lips again.  His phone had buzzed in his pocket, and he had taken his rubber gloves off and retrieved it.  The dishes can wait in the light of this new mystery.

Alfred Pennyworth:  Is there any pus?

718-846-6849:  no

Alfred Pennyworth:  How did this happen?

718-846-6849:  . . .

718-846-6849:  . . .

718-846-6849:  i fell

He barely registers the appearance of Master Bruce walking into the kitchen.

Alfred Pennyworth:  How?

718-846-6849:  (sends a picture instead of answering)

Alfred sucks in an audible gasp.

"What is it?" Bruce asks, pressing forward into Alfred's space.

It's a picture of Batman and Robin racing across the rooftops.

"Alfred, let me see the phone," Bruce demands, reaching for it.

Alfred turns his back on him instead, striding across the room and pressing, 'Call.'

He's not sure if anyone will pick up, but after three very long rings, someone does.

"I'm sorry," a boy whispers into Alfred's ear.  "I didn't mean to."

"What did you not mean to do?" Alfred asks, ignoring how Bruce is looming at his shoulder, far too close to him, obviously listening in.

"I didn't mean to use your number.  I wasn't thinking.  I'll stop."

Alfred thinks furiously before asking.

"How old are you?"

"I'm 10," says the actual child on the other side.  

"Who am I?" Alfred asks next, feeling the way Bruce stiffens behind him.

An explosive rush of air into his ear.  

"I won't--I haven't told--," is what the child says in response.

"Who am I?" Alfred asks, repeating himself, feeling his stomach clench in some strange mixture of concern and fear.

"You're Agent A," the young voice answers, helplessly.  

Bruce goes ramrod straight at that, barely breathing.

"Are you safe?  Is there someone with you?"  Alfred asks, not letting himself worry for the moment.

"I'm--no, I'm the only one.  I haven't told anyone."

Alfred frowns and turns to look at Master Bruce, who looks stricken.  

"Who are you?"

He doesn't get an answer.  He wasn't sure if he'd been expecting one, really.  

"I gotta go.  I can--I don't have to write back," the young voice offers.  

Pleads.

"I would feel better if I knew your identity," Alfred answers.

"You wouldn't," the young man on the other side says.  "It wouldn't help.  And you don't really want to know me anyway."

And then he hangs up.  

Alfred is left with a silent phone and the feeling that he is missing something.

"What's the number?"  Bruce asks after a moment.  

Alfred rattles it off, already having memorized it.

"It's Gotham, at least," Bruce answers, before turning on his heel and heading for his study. 

Alfred has no doubt as to where he's going. 

--

The number is in Gotham.  But it's a burner phone that was purchased with cash at a local shop near the Bowery.  It was purchased with three other phones at the same time, each the same model, but in different colors.  The plan is purchased with a credit card that leads to a fake identity.  It is, all in all, a dead end.

Three days later, he gets another text.  

718-846-6849:  if i don't want someone to touch me, they should honor that, right?

Alfred stiffens at the text, but dutifully gets Bruce's attention before responding.

Alfred Pennyworth:  They should, yes.  Who is doing the touching?

718-846-6849:  there's a teacher.  at school.  who always touches my arm or my shoulder.  and i told him i don't like it and he doesn't listen

Alfred shows Bruce the message, causing him to glower before turning the phone back around and responding.

Alfred Pennyworth:  What teacher?

718-846-6849:  i shouldn't tell you

Alfred Pennyworth:  Why not?

718-846-6849:  i don't want Batman to come after me

Alfred purses his lips.  Bruce, who is reading over his shoulder, is predictably, of no help. 

Alfred Pennyworth:  Batman doesn't go after innocents.

718-846-6849: he's protective of you and i've already fucked that up

Alfred Pennyworth:  Language.  And you haven't threatened me, but it sounds like your teacher could be a threat to you.  Why don't you tell your parents?

He eyes Master Bruce and gets a nod. 

718-846-6849:  they won't care

Alfred scowls.  

Alfred Pennyworth:  What's your name?

718-846-6849:  i can't tell you

Alfred Pennyworth:  If you can't tell your parents, then tell another teacher.  Or your principal.  Or a police officer.  

Maybe he should tell him Batman's number and advocate that the boy call him.

718-846-6849:  then they'll want to talk to my parents

At least there is proof that the boy has parents.

Alfred Pennyworth:  Yes, that would be the general idea.

718-846-6849:  but they can't talk to them!  

Alfred Pennyworth:  Why not?

"Yes, I would also like to know that," Bruce mutters from beside him.

718-846-6849:  they'll get mad at me. it'll be my fault for causing a problem

Alfred frowns at that.  

Alfred Pennyworth:  They should not.

718-846-6849:  . . .

718-846-6849:  . . . but they WILL

--

So far, Alfred knows a few things about his mysterious little friend.  He knows that that thunderstorms frighten him, and that he likes to chase after Batman and Robin.  He might also know their identities. In addition, he can extrapolate a few extra details from what he's been given.  He knows that his young friend is pale, possibly white, though pale hands are not always indicative of actually BEING white.  He also knows that he's in school and he is likely prepubescent, given the timbre of his voice.  

And he has a male teacher, who may or may not be a threat.

--

It's nearly a week until he gets another message.  Master Bruce and Jason have been on the lookout for a little stalker or friend on their nightly patrols, but have been unsuccessful at finding anyone young enough to be Alfred's new friend.  

He's found himself worrying over the situation more and more as the young man in question continues not to write him and has just about decided to text him first when he finally gets a message.  

It is two in the morning on a very early Saturday, and he is in the cave on comms, waiting for Batman and Robin to finish up what they are doing and return home.

718-846-6849:  i'm scared

Alfred Pennyworth:  Why?

718-846-6849:  (sends a picture)

It's a picture of a warehouse.  There is a crowd of goons and Two-Face, surrounding two adult female hostages that are tied to chairs.  The picture has been taken from above the room, possibly in the rafters.

Alfred both desperately wants to know why his young friend is there and also wants to scream at him to get out.  Immediately.  Posthaste.

Alfred Pennyworth:  Where are you?  Can you get out?

718-846-6849:  not now i can't

Alfred Pennyworth: Where are you?

He's got his hands already on the transmit button when his young friend responds, relaying Batman the address and the situation.  

Alfred Pennyworth:  Why are you there?

He doesn't ask where the boy's parents are.  It's clear that this child is woefully unsupervised.  He has a sickening feeling that this could have been Dick's fate, should Master Bruce not have bothered training him.  

"Two minutes ETA, Agent A," Batman says in his ear.

Alfred Pennyworth:  Batman and Robin are coming.  Please hold on and don't get caught!

He watches through Batman's cowl footage for any sight of small boys in rafters.  He thinks he sees something from the other side of the room, and zooms in.  There!  A small blurry face of a boy dressed all in the black.  He's only there for a few frames before Batman's attention is diverted. 

"Batman, he's in the rafters on the east side," Agent A says into the microphone when the fight starts winding down and he's no longer in danger of distracting his master.

"Not anymore he's not," Robin says a moment later, answering in his stead.  

Alfred Pennyworth:  Are you safe? 

He texts without much hope of a response.  And he doesn't get one, not for several hours.  

718-846-6849: i'm safe

He finally gets a text back after Batman and Robin have returned.  After they've gotten out of their uniforms and Bruce has circled back to look at the blurry footage that Alfred had found of their little friend.  

--

Dick joins them for brunch the next day, open about his curiosity of their mysterious texter.

Bruce is barely awake, staring mournfully into a cup of coffee, leaving Jason to fill up most of the silence with his chatter.  Alfred brings them pancakes and then, without prodding, sits at the table as well.  It's enough to get Master Bruce's attention, and he stops his brooding long enough to butter a plate of pancakes.

"So he was out there last night?" Dick asks when they are part of the way through breakfast.  "Any idea what for?"  

Alfred shook his head in the negative, as he eats steadily through his own plate of pancakes.  

"And you've never seen him before?"  Dick presses on, ignoring Jason's scowl at the question.

"No," Bruce grunts, rubbing a hand over his face with obvious frustration.

"I wonder how long this has been happening," Dick muses, mostly to himself.

--

Later, when the dishes have been done and Dick and Jason are off somewhere together in Gotham, Alfred and Bruce return to the Batcave.  Alfred sits at the computer and brings up the file they have been compiling on their little friend.

"How many male teachers are there in Gotham?"  Alfred asks, knowing the answer is probably not going to be helpful.

It's not.

He's not even certain that their little friend is a boy, though he thinks it's likely.  

He leans back and pinches the bridge of his nose between his thumb and index finger and then looks back at the file.  

"Did you look back at the camera footage from around the warehouse?" Alfred asks Bruce, swiveling around to stare at him.

Bruce is leaning over a separate keyboard on the opposite end of the desk, pulling up images.  

"Yes, but I'm going back over it to make sure," Bruce responds.  

"Did you two go back over where he might have been hiding?" Alfred asks next with a frown.

"Yes.  We could see where the dust had been disturbed, but not much else.  There was a catwalk leading over to the spot.  It was a bit unsteady, but Jason had no trouble with it.  But it would not have held up my weight," Bruce adds.  

"Wonderful.  So our mystery child is somewhere between fifty and two hundred pounds," Alfred responds with a scowl.  

He doesn't mean to be so short with Bruce, but his anxiety is getting the better of him.  He decides that it's better if he leaves Bruce to study the footage alone, before standing up and pulling his phone out to see if the child has written back yet.  Nothing.

"Have you considered writing him?"  Bruce calls out when he is almost at the steps leading back to the study.

He freezes and then turns to look back at Bruce.  

"I have not.  I will rectify that immediately," Alfred adds.

Alfred Pennyworth: Have you eaten today?

He writes him when he gets back upstairs, in the quiet of Master Bruce's study.

718-846-6849:  uh, yeah.  why?

Alfred Pennyworth:  Because it occurs to me that no one is watching out for you.

718-846-6849:  i can take care of myself

Alfred Pennyworth:  You should not have to.  What did you eat?  

718-846-6849:  just some cereal?

Alfred Pennyworth:  What about protein?  Fruit?  

718-846-6849:  . . .

718-846-6849: later?

Alfred Pennyworth:  Who will cook for you?

This time, the phone rings.  It's his mystery child.

"What do you mean, 'Who will cook for me?'"  The boy's voice rings out in his ear.  "No one will."  

"Should I infer that you are an accomplished chef then?"  

He tries to keep his disdain out of his voice.  He doesn't want to scare off the child now.

From a pocket, he pulls out a recording device and deftly turns it on, his phone linking to it via bluetooth almost immediately, before putting it on speaker phone. He presses his alert to Master Bruce a second later and then continues on the conversation.  

"I don't have to be an accomplished anything to feed myself.  I'm not--," the boy cuts himself off with an aggrieved huff of air just as Bruce opens the cave entrance and slides silently into the study.

"What are you not?"

"I'm not like you.  I don't have to have fancy meals and people to feed me," the boy says, clearly frustrated.  

"Do you subsist on ramen noodle and pop-tarts then?"  Alfred bites back.

"There's nothing wrong with pop-tarts!" 

There are so many things Alfred could say to that, but he sticks with the most basic of problems.

"They are junk food and not conducive to healthy eating."

"Listen, why are you talking to me?" The boy's voice is plaintive.

Alfred and Bruce glance at one another.

'Be careful,' Bruce signs at him.

"You are a child.  A growing child.  You cannot grow to your full potential living off of junk.  How . . ." Alfred takes a deep breath and lets it out inaudibly.  "How will you keep up your energy for following Batman and Robin across the city if you aren't getting enough vitamins?"  

Silence for long enough that Alfred begins to fear that the child has hung up.

"Oh," is the soft reply he gets finally.  "Healthy stuff is expensive."

"Do you not have enough funds for food?"  

His mind is in overdrive trying to think of a way he could provide the boy with food without causing him undue distress.

"Kinda.  My parents--," the boy makes a strangled sound.  "They're gone a lot.  And they leave some money, but I have to budget.  I can't--," he makes another plaintive sound, and Bruce leans in close enough to bump shoulders with Alfred.

"I can't waste it on cooking disasters."

Alfred frowns.

"Would you," Alfred's frown gets deeper.  "Would you let me send you some gift certificates?  I assume you don't want me sending you food?"  He asks, hands itching for something to do.  "I would, if you would let me, send you food."

There is a shaky exhalation on the other side of the phone, like someone is trying not to cry.

Bruce's hands are balled in fists in his lap.

"I could--you could.  Uh, I have a P.O. Box.  You could mail me things?"  The little voice on the speaker is so very hesitant in its suggestion.

"That would be acceptable," Alfred responds, already making plans.  "Will you tell me what the number and zip code are?"  

The box number is rattled off, along with a zip code that contains part of Bristol, and he watches Bruce write it down before getting a strangely constipated look on his face.  Alfred doesn't dare let the child know that Bruce is listening in, but he's desperately curious to know what his ward is thinking.

"I will send you some items immediately.  See that you check your box soon," Alfred says instead.  

"O-Okay."

"If you won't tell me your name," Alfred adds, asking before the boy can hang up, "Will you at least give me something I can call you?"

There is a moment of strained silence that erupts between them, and Alfred can see Bruce lean in again as they wait.

"I guess," the boy says softly, "You could call me, 'Crow.'  If you want."

"I would like that," Alfred responds.  "Crow."  

Chapter Text

"What's wrong?"  Alfred asks after Crow has hung up.  

He feels a little silly thinking of the child as "Crow," but it certainly isn't any worse than calling his son, "Batman." 

"That P.O. Box number," Bruce frowns and rubs a hand across his face.  "That's the P.O. Box that GCPD's informant always sends information from."

Alfred's eyebrows feel stuck in a permanently elevated position.  

"Their informant is a ten-year-old?"  He asks incredulously.

"One with a very good camera," Bruce agrees, face grim.  

--

"How did he get your number, Alfred?" Jason asks that evening at supper.  "Dick and I were talking about it, and it doesn't make sense.  We're the only ones who have your number.  And he called you Agent A, you said.  How did he know?"  

Jason and Dick look at one another and then turn and stare at him.  He's sitting with them again, his mind too preoccupied to worry about decorum.  

He purses his lips and stares at Bruce, who is sitting frozen in shock.  

"Oh no, Jay, you broke B," Dick laughs softly, though his eyes are filled with concern.

"I need to go downstairs," Bruce says after a moment, standing up suddenly and nearly running out of the room.

Jason and Dick make to stand up, but they freeze at the sight of his face.

"You two will stay here, and I will follow Master Bruce," he announces, standing up and striding out at a more sedate pace.

How could have been so foolish?  He doesn't usually need children to point out something so obvious.

He finds Bruce at the computer, slogging through the data trails, his face pale and waxy in half-light of the large screen.  

"We were hacked," Bruce grunts, voice low in the Batman register.  

Alfred jerks in response, leaning in and putting a hand on Bruce's shoulder to read the text that is blown up on the screen in front of them.  

"Here," Bruce points out a line from a week ago.  "Looks like it came from the GCPD.  Or, at least originated there," Bruce adds, looking sick to his stomach.  "I'm adding new lines of defense to keep it from happening again."

"Could it have been Crow's doing?"  Alfred murmurs.  

"I don't know," is Bruce's frustrated response.  "I just don't know."

--

He writes Crow again the next day, while Bruce, Dick and Jason are all still sleeping.  If Crow had been out with them again, they hadn't seen him.  He doesn't know if the child will respond or not, but he can't help but try.

Alfred Pennyworth:  I just wanted to let you know that I mailed a few things.  Protein bars and a few protein mixes that should hold up well in the mail.  I also sent some dried fruit and some MREs that we have formulated for quick energy in the field.  They aren't as high in sodium as some MREs are.

Bruce has already told him that there is a camera on the P.O. Box that their little informant sends from, but apparently it's been there for a while and they haven't gotten much from it yet.

And there's another question that is burning deep in his mind now as well.  

If Crow knows he's Agent A, is that all he knows?  Or does he know who he is as well?   He doesn't know if he wants to have that conversation over the phone.  In fact, he's almost certain he doesn't, but he can't let the thought rest.  He's been known to be almost as obsessive as Bruce, from time to time.  It's not something he's ever hidden from himself, and he isn't about to start now, but it does mean that it's harder to rest than it should be.  

He takes a shower and then as he's getting dressed, sees a notification on his phone.

Crow:  thank you.  you didn't have to 

Alfred Pennyworth:  I think you'll find that it was the absolute least I could do. 

Crow:  you wouldn't help me if you knew me.  you wouldn't like me

Alfred Pennyworth:  And why is that?

He is worried what the boy will tell him.  Is he truly a budding villain?  Or just a little boy too smart for his own good?  Could he be getting used by someone older and smarter than him?  He doesn't know.  

Crow:  because i know things that you won't like

Alfred Pennyworth:  We know that someone hacked us

Crow:  . . .

Crow:  . . .

Alfred Pennyworth:  It would put our minds at ease if we knew it was you.  And that you were working alone.

His phone starts ringing again almost as soon as he hits send.

"Crow, is that you?"  He asks, pulling out his recorder and hooking up the bluetooth.  

He doesn't bother trying to wake Bruce up at this hour.  

Crow is breathing very quickly on the other end.  

"Please don't be mad," Crow whispers. 

"What am I not being mad about?"  Alfred asks, trying for soothing tones.

"I didn't mean to hack the Batcomputer!  I was following the email back, the one that Batman uses to send stuff to the Commissioner!"

"And then?"  Alfred prods gently.

"And then I was in Batman's files!  Please don't let him mind-wipe me!" 

"Crow, take a deep breath."

He waits for Crow to breathe audibly a few times before speaking again.

"I believe you," Alfred says softly, breathing deeply himself.  "But I need to know a few things, if you're willing to share with me."

He needs to know more than a few things, but he'll settle for these for the moment.

"O-Okay," Crow stutters, sounding far too young.  

Ten. He's ten, Alfred has to remind himself.  

"Are you working by yourself?"  Alfred asks, first and foremost.

"Yes?  Why would you--," Crow cuts himself off.

"I need to know in order to determine how big a problem this is," Alfred answers, striving for gentleness.

"It's just me.  Batman won't have to mind-wipe anyone else," Crow's voice sounds wet, like he's seconds away from tears.  

"No one is mind-wiping anyone," Alfred grits out.  

"How do you know?!"  

"Because I won't let him!" Alfred growls out sharply, before blushing darkly and reeling himself back in.  "I won't let him," he repeats, more calmly.

Silence tempered only by stuttering wet breaths.  

"Because you're his dad," Crow whispers finally.  

"About that," Alfred says, shifting gears now that the point has been brought up.  "How much do you know about us?  I really do need to know this.  Please, Mr Crow."  

He is stuck somewhere between horrified and terrified that he is having to have this conversation at all.  

"I-I-I knew before I hacked the Batcomputer," Crow whispers.  

"What did you know, child?"  

He has a very bad feeling about this.

"Please don't be mad at me.  I didn't mean to figure it out!"  

Crow's tearful plea only drives home how young the boy really is.  

"What is there to be mad about?"  Alfred asks, tone congenial despite the way fear has turned his fingertips icy.  

"I've known since the first Robin," Crow whispers.  "Since Dick first came to live with the--the Waynes."

Alfred will break his molars if he keeps grinding his teeth like this.  Bruce will have to send him back to the dentist again.  He is a terrible patient.  No one will be spared his discomfort.

"What does Dick Grayson have to do with it?"

Crow gives a wet little laugh into his ear.  

"Because he was the first Robin," Crow whispers.  "And that's why you don't want to help me.  Because I know.  And that's why Mr Wayne is going to mind-wipe me." 

He's not surprised when Crow hangs up on him.  

He finishes getting dressed and then goes to wake up Master Bruce.  It only seems fair that his young master be forced to deal with this as well.

--

"Master Bruce?"  

Bruce is sitting on the edge of the bed, arms around his mid-section, looking like Alfred's words have just gutted him and left him out on the harbor to dry.  

"I assume he knows everything else, though he didn't say it.  I have the recording."

Bruce nods jerkily, his mind obviously thousands of miles away.   

He doesn't manage to get Bruce to speak again until after he hears the recording, until after Alfred has handed him a robe and a strong cup of coffee, and forced him down to the kitchen so he can keep a better eye on him.  

"He's just a little kid.  He sounds just like a little kid," are Bruce's first bewildered words after hearing the recording and learning that Crow knows who they are.  

"Just one more reason we have for needing to find him," Alfred responds, reaching over and pulling Bruce into a hug.  

Bruce, still sitting down, is able to tuck his head under Alfred's chin, and they stay that way for half of an eternity, only pulling away when they hear footsteps heading their direction.  

--

Alfred watches through Batman's cowl footage as he meets with Commissioner Gordon the next night.  

"I need to see the file on GCPD's informant," he hears Batman growl. 

"You find out something new about them?" Gordon's voice is calm in his question.  

". . . Maybe," Batman grunts. 

"Yeah, alright.  I'll send over the file later to your email.  We've digitized the whole thing.  Should be easier to sift through."

"Thank you."

--

Alfred gets the aforementioned file in before Batman makes it back to the cave.  He's got all of the images of the boy behind the PO Box pulled up and is looking at them en masse when Batman rolls up in the Batmobile.   Batman pushes back his cowl and leans over his shoulder at the dozens of shots they have of their informant.  It's definitely all the same boy, but under a number of different disguises; some of them have a boy with a hat, some with blonde hair, some with brown, a few with black.  All of them are a pale-faced, maybe teen, maybe child, that the police department has obviously decided cannot be the person behind the account, but now looking at the face and looking at the blurry image from a couple of nights ago, Alfred is almost certain that they've got their mysterious Crow right in front of them.  

"Who is this child, Master Bruce?  Is he an informant?  Is he a spy?  Is he a child with too many dangerous hobbies?  Who is he?"  

Bruce scowls and doesn't answer.  Instead, he scrolls through the mass of pictures until he finds one without a hat and the clearest shot of his face and puts it into the Batcomputer's facial recognition program.  He sets it to running before heading over to the showers.  

--

In the meantime, he texts Crow again.  

Alfred Pennyworth:  How did you learn who Batman was?

He doesn't get a response of any kind for several hours, until the next day after he's picked up Jason from school, when he abruptly gets a buzz from his phone.  He could ask Jason to read it aloud, but he doesn't really want him to, so he chooses to wait until they are home before looking, and sure enough, it's from Crow.

Crow:  Dick Grayson is one of four people in the world to be able to pull off a quadruple somersault

And just like that, the pieces fall in line.  

Alfred's grin is small and grim, but it feels right on his face, and he can't quite stand to stop smiling, even when he goes to find Bruce in his study and show him the text.  

Bruce's eyebrows raise up in shock and then, glancing at Alfred's small smile, merely shakes his head and puts his fingers to his temples to rub them for a moment. 

"He's a smart kid," Bruce says. 

"He is," Alfred agrees, feeling strangely proud, in a distant sort of way.

Chapter Text

Crow texts again two days later.

Crow:  I have a problem.

Privately, Alfred thinks Crow has many problems, but he doesn’t know which one the boy is currently referring to.

Alfred Pennyworth:  What seems to be the matter?

Crow:  (sends picture of weekly forecast) - temperatures are set to plummet into the teens come sunday.  i can't get my parents to turn on the heat

The picture he has provided is of an absolutely ancient thermometer that tickles something in the very back of Alfred's mind.  Wordlessly, he shows Bruce his phone, noting the other man's frown.  

Alfred Pennyworth:  You could come here instead.

Crow:  no i couldn't

Alfred Pennyworth:  Why could you not?

Crow:  my parents

Alfred frowns, not certain if Crow means to make that the entire answer or a precursor to the rest of a statement.

Alfred Pennyworth:  . . .

He initially types, 'If your parents mean to let you freeze, then you shouldn't care what they think,' but erases it.  He doesn't think that the child is ready to hear that quite yet.

Alfred Pennyworth:  Do they not care about the damage their property might take, should it go without heat?

Is what he writes instead.  He's taking a gamble with the concept of property.  

Crow:  like what?

Alfred Pennyworth:  Burst pipes, for one.  If there are any uninsulated pipes present, they could freeze and the resultant water damage could be very costly indeed.

He doesn't get a response.

--

Later that day, while he's down in the cave again looking over the pictures that the GCPD has taken from within the PO Box, he gets a responding text.

Crow:  you're brilliant!  BRILLIANT

He leans back in his chair and scowls.  It bothers him a great deal that Crow's parents would care so much about their property, but not their son.  

Alfred Pennyworth:  I take it the argument worked?

Crow:  the tech came out an hour ago and got it turned on.  dad doesn't want me keeping the heat above 60, but that's fine!  THANK YOU

Alfred Pennyworth:  You are most welcome.  

He takes a screenshot of the conversation and sends it to Bruce.  

--

The facial recognition program hasn't matched them to anyone by the time Batman and Robin go back out that night.  Alfred isn't certain it would work on an elementary schooler, but he doesn't want to say it out loud.  Bruce is stressed enough as it is.  

He prints out a copy of the picture of the thermometer and hangs it next to the batcomputer, along with the picture of the boy's torn up hands and his photo of Batman and Robin. 

"Who are you, my boy?" Alfred whispers to the pictures, his fists jammed in his armpits for lack of any suitable targets.  

--

"B," Robin says sometime later, as they are taking a breather on a rooftop.  

Alfred, who's listening in from his position working comms, takes a minute to turn on both of their cowl footages as he says it.

"5 o'clock," Robin mutters.  "No, don't be obvious about looking.  Agent A, can you look and see if I saw what I think I did?"

He brings up the footage, rolling it back a few minutes and then hits play.  There.  He pauses it and pulls the microphone back up toward his mouth.  

"Between the heating units and the gargoyle, yes, I see him too."

There is a small figure watching them.  Around his neck is a bulky camera.  

Alfred zooms in.  

"We have a Crow sighting," Alfred confirms.

"Robin, I want you to stay here and engage.  I'm going to go around the east side of the building, to the fire escape.  If he runs, see if you can't get him to head my direction," Batman says, shooting a line in the opposite direction and swinging out that way.

Alfred watches as Batman flies away, before sneakily working his way back around.  

He switches over to Robin's cam, watching him swing toward Crow.  

"Hey, Kid," Robin calls out when he's only about ten feet away, feet just having touched down.  

Crow looks up at him, eyes wide like he's about to have a panic attack.  

"Easy kid, just wanna talk.  You know this place ain't 'xactly that safe, right?"  Robin says soothingly, walking toward Crow's spot slowly.  

Crow waits for him to cover half the distance before spinning upright and hauling himself away the other direction.

"Shit!" Robin hisses, running after him.  

"He's on the move, Batman," Alfred says into Batman's private comm.

"Acknowledged."

He watches Robin chase Crow over uneven terrain, wincing every time the young boy's balance wavers, quietly thankful that Robin is so much more surefooted.  He hopes that Crow doesn't fall, but he takes comfort in the fact that Robin is there, and will likely be close enough to catch him, should he need it.

Crow is running full out now, jumping over the last partitions that separate him from the fire escape, when suddenly Batman steps from the shadows, blocking his way.  He skids over loose gravel and nearly trips over his own feet as he tries to stop.  He glances over the edge and then back up at Batman, terror visible in his face. 

"Crow!"  Batman barks.   "Easy, son.  We don't want you to get hurt," Batman says in a placating tone.

He can see through Robin's cowl footage that Batman is reaching out for Crow, and for a moment, it looks like the boy might be willing to take his hand.  

"I'm sorry.  I didn't mean to cause any trouble," Crow pleads, backing away from Batman, toward the edge of the roof.

"Be careful," Robin says, trying to get closer, also reaching for him.

"I can't," Crow whispers, abruptly leaping for the edge.

"No!" Alfred shouts, smashing a fist down on the desk in front of him.  

Batman throws himself after, and Alfred is able to watch Crow use his camera strap as a temporary tether, swinging himself around to the next level almost effortlessly before sliding down the rest of the fire escape and running off into the night.  Batman gives chase, only to see Crow shimmy through the broken boards of an alleyway, through a space too small for even Robin to have followed into.

"Damn it," Batman growls, punching the boards, before going back to where Robin is waiting.  

"Crow left his camera," Robin offers, handing it over to Batman.  

The strap is still in one piece, surprisingly.  

--

Alfred is waiting for them in the cave when they get back.  He's already texted Crow, but hasn't had a response.  

Bruce hands him the camera after he's lifted the prints on it, and he turns it on, curious if they will find anything.  The first picture that comes up is an image of Batman and Robin together, leaning in toward one another, talking.  He checks the timestamp.  He's not surprised that it was taken right as Robin spotted him.  The picture is good, but the ones before it are better.  After a moment, he pulls the SD card and plugs it into the Batcomputer.  

Bruce stands behind him as he does, still suited up sans his cowl, watching as picture after picture is uploaded.  

"These are excellent," Alfred murmurs, eyes flying over the scenes depicted within them.  

85% of them are of Batman and/or Robin, while the rest are of Gotham herself, dark and majestic as she is.  

After ten minutes or so, Jason returns from the showers, his hair damp and curling over the edge of his collar, coming and standing beside him as well.  

"The kid's got a good eye," is all Jason says.  

"He does," Batman admits, sounding exhausted. 

Alfred turns and looks him over before directing him to the showers too. 

"I'll wait up.  I'll let you know if he messages me," he adds.  

He's still going through the pictures when his phone buzzes fifteen minutes later.  Jason has headed up to bed, but Bruce is still getting dressed.  

Crow:  i'm ok

Alfred Pennyworth:  I'm very relieved to hear it.  You shouldn't have jumped.  You scared us.

Crow:  . . .

Crow:  . . .

Crow:  i'm sorry.  i panicked

Yes, that much was certainly obvious.  

Alfred Pennyworth:  Batman would never hurt a child.

Crow:  i'm not a kid

Alfred Pennyworth:  I very much disagree.

He holds up his phone as Bruce starts walking toward him, and he sees the man pick up the pace at the sight.

"I want to talk to him," Bruce says when he's back next to him.

Alfred Pennyworth:  Batman wants to talk to you.  Is it alright if I call?

Crow:  . . .

Crow:  . . .

Crow:  . . .

Crow:  . . .

Crow:  . . .

Crow:  does he have to?

Alfred Pennyworth: Would it make it better if it were coming from Bruce?

Crow:  . . .

Crow:  . . .

Crow:  actually yeah.  that might be okay.  but i have the right to hang up

Alfred Pennyworth:  I'm going to put you on speaker phone in that case.  Okay?

Crow:  okay

Alfred makes the call, putting it on speaker phone as he had said.

"Crow?"  Bruce asks softly.  

"Yeah," is Crow's shaky voice.  

"Are you okay?  Did you get home safely?"  Bruce asks, looking pained as he leans in to where Alfred's phone is resting on the desk.

Alfred looks at him carefully.  Bruce looks wrecked, as if he's the one in trouble, not the child on the other end.

Crow lets out an audible gasp at the question.  

Bruce squats down beside Alfred, putting his mouth almost level with the desk.

"Yeah," Crow finally answers when it's clear that Bruce is still waiting for a response.

"I don't want you to get hurt, and you could have tonight," Bruce says, still speaking gently.  

There's a harsh sound on Crow's end, and Alfred has the sudden realization that he's crying.  

"I wish--," Bruce starts, putting a fist to his forehead and taking a deep breath.  "I wish you'd tell us who you were.  I'm not mad that you know who we are.  But I think it'd be safer if we knew who you were too."

"I'll--" Crow's voice is wet.  "I'll think about it."

Alfred's eyebrows raise at the admission, and he reaches for Bruce's hand.

"That's all I can ask, sweetheart," Bruce says.  "You should go to sleep.  It's late."

Another pause.  

"Okay.  Yeah.  Okay."

Crow hangs up.

Bruce takes a deep breath and lets go of Alfred's hand. He rubs his face and stands up.  

"What brought that on, sir?" Alfred asks, still looking at his ward.

"He's just a little kid," Bruce murmurs, walking to where the extra desk chair is and pulling it around next to Alfred.  

He collapses in it and takes the mouse from where it's been sitting in front of Alfred, pulling it to himself.  

Alfred picks up his phone instead and texts.  

Alfred Pennyworth:  We'll mail you back your camera, but you could also come over and get it.   You're invited.  Permanently.  Anytime.

He puts the phone down and slides it to Bruce, who still looks fragile.  

"Yeah, that's good.  Thank you, Alfred," Bruce says, leaning over and kissing his temple.  "Thank you."

Chapter Text

Crow's fingerprints aren't in the system, but at least they have them on file now.  

Alfred can't help but keep looking over the bounty of Batman and Robin pictures Crow has inadvertently gifted them. He has sent the camera and its SD card back in the mail to Crow, but he'd copied the photos first.  As payment for emotional distress, if Crow were to ever ask, but Alfred doubts it will come up. 

Now, as he looks through them again, he can't help be struck by something.  He makes a subfile and adds several specific photos to it before leaning back in Batman's pilfered desk chair and grunting.

"What is it?" Bruce asks, stepping away from the training mats where he'd been sparring with Jason.

"Look at these pictures," Alfred says, pointing to the several he has grouped together.

Each of them shows Batman and Robin close together, vaguely familial in their poses; Batman with his hand on Robin's shoulder, Batman using his cape to shield Robin from the rain, Robin hugging Batman around the neck after nearly being kidnapped.  

"I think that our young man is very lonely," Alfred says, thinking aloud.  

Bruce looks over each of the photos slowly before nodding in agreement.  Alfred knows that Bruce is probably adding the new information to his mental file on Crow.

"Any luck on the facial recognition software?"  Alfred interjects when Bruce doesn't say anything else.

"No," Bruce shakes his head and goes back to the mats.

Later, right as Alfred is thinking about going up and starting dinner, his eye catches on the picture of the thermometer and something shifts in his brain.  

Without pause, he stands up and starts heading to the elevator, his pace just under a sprint.

"Alfred?" Bruce asks, following him when he doesn't answer.  

Alfred directs the elevator to the top floor and then to the hidden stairs at the back of the corridor that lead to the attic.  Bruce follows like a large quiet shadow behind him.

He heads for the back corner of the attic, to the shelves of retired tech that Wayne Manor had once employed, but no longer does.  He knows almost exactly where to look, squatting down in front of a low shelf and pulling out a plastic tub.  Bruce kneels beside him, helping pull out the heavy container when it doesn't move initially.

"What is--?" Bruce starts to say, his eyes widening as the contents are revealed to him.

Wall thermometers of different sizes fill the tub.  Alfred sifts through the contents, reaching deep into the pile.  Ah, there.  At the very bottom there is a paper sack of very old thermometers.  He pulls it to the light and then dumps it on the floor in front of them.  They all match the one in Crow's picture.

"What--," Bruce says, pulling one up to hold in his hand.  "How did you get these?"

"They were installed in nearly every Bristol household at the turn of the century, thanks to a very prolific salesforce that canvassed the area," Alfred says, leaning back and thinking.  "Wayne Manor replaced them all in the 60's with those," he nods to the top part of the pile still in the tub.  "And then again in the mid-90s with what we have now."

"Bristol," Bruce breathes, looking at the one in his hand with new understanding.

"Bristol," Alfred agrees, eyeing him with intent.  "The PO Box zip code is within Bristol space as well."

Bruce sighs and then stands up, offering his hand to Alfred, who stands up with a quiet groan.  

--

They spot Crow again three nights later, and then the next night after that, but do not let him know that he has been seen.  Alfred is adamant that they do not run him off again.  He would rather take comfort in knowing where the boy is, if only for short windows of time.

In the meantime, he has taken the search for Crow to Bristol, only to discover that there are a ridiculous number of ten-year-old boys within the area.  Luckily, he's able to exclude any who live in areas of new construction.  It's tedious work, but at least it's peaceful.  He's once again turning through the group of pictures they have of Crow when Jason wanders down, looking for Bruce.  The boy stops in front of the Batcomputer, a thoughtful expression appearing on his face the longer he stands there. 

"I think Crow might go to Gotham Prep."

Whatever Alfred had been expecting to hear, this had not been it.

"As a ten-year-old?"  He asks.  "Gotham Prep typically starts at age 11."

"Yeah, but summer birthdays make things weird anyway, and you know how these rich families are, Alf.  I can think of at least two classmates that have been pushed up a grade, just off the top of my head."

Alfred considers it.  Crow is certainly intelligent enough to have managed it, should his parents have paid enough attention to him to warrant his movement forward in school.  He puts the thought into his 'Plausible' pile and then moves on.

"You know what you should send him next, Alf?"  Jason turns to him, smile flickering on his face like he's just had a great idea, but isn't certain anyone else will think the same.  

"What's that, lad?" 

Down here, in the cave, it's easier to dispense with formalities, at least on occasion.

"Soup.  Just mix the dry elements into a bag or a jar and tell him to add hot water.  The local pantries used ta hand things like that out to us in the winter.  Easy and it travels well."

The corner of Alfred's mouth curls up into a smile.  

"Thank you for the idea.  I will send him some ASAP."

"Yeah okay," Jason says shyly, looking anywhere but him.  "Gotta go find B."

And he runs off.

--

He contacts Crow daily now, checking to make sure he's eating, that he knows he can visit whenever he wants, that he knows he has someone to help him should he need it.

Crow, for all of his attempts to assert that he is not a child, is very much in need of someone to talk to about mundane things.  

"Why shouldn't you wear black and navy together?" Is one of the first questions he asks.  

It's a fairly safe question. But then the questions keep coming.

"Can you show me how to tie a really good knot?"

"What does it mean to have over steeped your tea?  Is there a difference between heating your water on the stove vs doing it in the microwave?" 

"Can you look at my math homework?"

"Can you look at this picture I took last night?  Can I show it to you?"

And then he starts to ask other questions that worry Alfred and Bruce both.

"What's it like to be tucked in?  Do parents really read their kids bedtime stories?"

Bruce face turns pained when Crow asks about the bedtime stories.  He and Alfred are listening to Crow's rambling questions over the phone, recording the audio as usual, the boy's voice being projected out on the phone's speakers.  

"Yes, it's a real thing," Alfred answers for them both, glancing at Bruce in askance.

"Oh well, I've only seen it on tv.  I just wondered," Crow answers, trying to sound casual.

The next night is no better.  

"What should I do if I gouge myself on barbed wire?" 

"Why are you getting gouged on barbed wire?"  Is Bruce's response, bewildered and concerned at the same time.

"What do you mean by 'gouged?'" Is Alfred's answer, mind going in several worrying directions.  

A ping, and then a picture appears of Crow's arm, red scratches wrapped around in a circle.  

"I mean, I know to clean it, but should I get a tetanus shot?  How would I do that?"  

Alfred and Bruce stare at one another in response.  

"You could come here--," Bruce starts to say. 

"You could go to Dr. Thompkin's clinic," is how Alfred responds, giving a pointed look toward Bruce.

Or worse, two nights later. 

"Does your skin ever itch and hurt?" 

Alfred freezes.

"What do you mean?"  Bruce answers for them both.  

It's clear from his face that he has an inkling of what's going on, but he doesn't say anything of the sort out loud.

"Like, sometimes when I've been alone for a while . . . I guess it's like my skin gets lonely.  And I try to wrap myself in blankets, but it doesn't help," Crow says with a sigh.

"That's, that's likely a sign that you're touch-starved," Bruce says, voice straining against the fury of needing to keep a calm facade.  

"That's really a thing?"  Crow sounds surprised.  

"Yes."

Later that night, after they've hung up, Bruce finds Alfred in the cave, looking over Crow's pictures again, mouth turned down angrily, eyes alight.  

"We're going to find him," Bruce promises, stepping up beside his mentor, bumping their shoulders together.  

"Yes, we are," Alfred agrees.

Chapter Text

The thing is, Alfred trusts Jason.  He trusts Jason as a person, but also as Robin.  He knows the boy is a trained witness.  If the boy thinks he's seen Crow at his school, then the chances are, he has.

And that changes the search parameters entirely.  Suddenly, instead of thousands of possible ten-year-olds, there's just under twenty.  In fact, when he looks for boys who have been moved up a grade at Gotham Prep, and live in Bristol, with the possibility of absent parents . . . well, the number that comes up is a paltry thirteen.  

Of those thirteen, Alfred finds pictures for seven of them and is able to rule out almost instantly the possibility that any of them are Crow.  After that, it's a question of giving the rest of the names to Bruce and having him quietly check in with them as Batman.  He gets through three of them before the alert that Poison Ivy is wreaking havoc on Robinson Park comes over the radio, but he promises Alfred that he will continue with the hunt the next night.

--

The next evening rolls around, and he is anxious to get downstairs, to see if Batman can locate their missing bird.  They're in the study.  He's waiting for Bruce to finish some work before heading downstairs together.  Jason is away with the Teen Titans, Dick in Bludhaven making culinary choices that he knows he will absolutely not approve of.  At least some things are the same.

Usually, Crow texts in the evenings before Batman and Robin go out on patrol.  

'Crow is calling' is what he gets instead on his phone. 

"Crow?"  He answers, glancing at Bruce.

He turns on the recording device without a second thought, too used to this dance.

Crow's breathing is the first thing he notices.  It's too fast.  His breath is clogged and choppy and he's on his feet before he even recognizes it.  He sees Bruce going around the edge of the desk out of the corner of his eye.  

"Crow?"  He asks again, mentally willing the boy to answer him.

"Can, can you come get me?"  Crow asks, voice sounding thick, unusually nasal.  

"Do you need Batman right now?"  He asks, wavering between up or down. 

Without another thought, he's switching his phone to speaker, letting Bruce hear the way he's breathing.  Crow is trying not to cry and it's audible across the phone's crappy speakers.

"I need Alfred," Crow sobs, sounding too young and fraught to be having this conversation.

"Where are we going?"  

He's moving for the garage, Bruce on his heels.  

"In front--In front of Drake manor, please," Crow instructs, voice barely audible.  

Crow is breathing too hard.  

Bruce looks at him, eyes wide and shocked.  Drake is one of the boys on the latter half of Alfred's list.  

Timothy Drake.  Child of archeologists, heir apparent to Drake Industries.  Ten and a half.  He'd been moved up two grades and was just a year under Jason's own.  

Alfred's fingers itch to find his schedule, find the name of the teacher who doesn't want to take 'no' for an answer.  

But, priorities. 

They go for the car instead.  A Honda.  Something less noticeable.  He lets Bruce drive.  Changes the car's settings to link to his phone instead of Bruce's.  They can both hear Crow's panting over the car's speakers.  His breathing sounds wet.  Alfred is barely buckled in before Bruce is gunning it, heading down the street to the house nearest them.  Neighbors, in the loosest sense of the word.

"What's wrong?" Alfred asks, striving for calm.  

"I think--I think my dad broke my nose." 

A shocked gasp from Bruce is his response. 

"I wasn't aware your parents were in town," is what he says.  

His voice is faint.  Cold.  Too calm for the maelstrom of emotions bubbling underneath his skin.

"They-They got back in this morning," Crow says, voice wet with tears.  

They can hear shuffling in the background.

"Do you need us to come in and get you?"  Bruce asks directly, just shy of growling.

"No!  No, I'm gonna go out the window.  Dad locked me in."

"What floor are you on?"  Alfred asks.

"Just the second floor.  I've done this before."

He's thankful for the recorder and wishes for the umpteenth time that they didn't need it.

"Please be careful," Bruce intones, large hands tightening on the steering wheel hard enough to make it creak.

"I don't want him to hurt you," Crow frets.

"He could certainly try," is Alfred's wry response.

"I'll meet you outside," Crow says instead. 

The sound becomes muffled, and Alfred assumes that Crow is climbing down.  A thump and then a curse that is as angry as it is tearful, and then they hear Crow's voice again. 

"I'll open the front gate, okay?"  

What normally should have been a twenty minute drive, is instead down to eight.  They're pulling up in no time, parking behind a copse of trees.  Bruce keeps the headlights on as they both climb out, Alfred's phone still in his hands as they run forward.  

They round the corner, following the road to where it turns to gravel, heading to darkness backlit with only a few dim lights from Drake manor when Alfred spots the little figure stumbling toward them.

"Alfred?"  Crow warbles.

Crow is running toward them and Alfred stops, bracing himself before a tiny body slams straight into his chest.

He can smell blood, can see it when Bruce shines a flashlight at them, as he's hauling Crow into his arms, feeling little wet socked feet wrap around his back. 

"Where are your shoes, child?" He's admonishing, hanging on for dear life, relief pouring at every contact point to the small boy in his arms.

"Down-Downstairs," Crow says between sobs, thin arms wrapped around Alfred's neck.

"Come on," Bruce interjects with a growl, leading them back to the car with a hand on Alfred's back, between his shoulder blades.   

The flashlight turns off when they get back in the car's headlights.  Crow's face is bloody, his nose definitely broken, eyes blackened, lip split.  Alfred doesn't know how the child was able to see, let alone breathe.

Distantly, he can hear Bruce's voice, sees that he has his phone on, with the Commissioner's picture open on the screen.

"Hi, Commissioner, this is Bruce Wayne.  I'd like to report the assault of a minor.  No, we don't need an ambulance.  Alfred and I are going to take him straight to Gotham General.  His name is Timothy Drake," Bruce's voice is firmly in Bruce range, his tone furious but calm.

"Tim," Crow says between sobs.  "It's Tim."  

"Tim," Alfred says, trying it out.  

He climbs into the passenger seat, Tim in his lap, and does the seatbelt over them both.  Tim is shivering in his lap, and Alfred pulls his wet socks off without a thought, reaches for the blanket in the backseat, only to run into Bruce, already handing them the blanket.  Bruce helps him wrap Tim up in it, maneuvering it under the seatbelt, and then they are driving, a somewhat more sedate speed than they had before. 

Bruce is back on the phone, now with his social worker, the woman who helped them with Jason, advising her of where they're going and why.  Followed by a conversation with his lawyer, an ongoing conversation, if Alfred were to take a wager.

All while Crow--Tim shivers on his lap, fingers clamped on his jacket, getting blood and snot all over Alfred's shirt.  

"You came, you came, you came," Tim mutters endlessly into his neck, shaking and glassy eyed and real and alive.

He holds him close, holds the back of his head, fingers petting over greasy black hair, Tim's tiny warm head shaking on his shoulder.  

The drive is forever and not long enough, and then they are clambering out of the car, nurses greeting them and trying to take away his precious burden, and he--he's not emotionally compromised, can't afford to be--but he's not, he's not letting go.  He won't.  He can't.

Bruce strides beside them, presence and reputation wrapping around them, pushing them forward into the hospital, warm hand back in the middle of Alfred's back, past the waiting room in a whirlwind of peering faces, a cacophony of voices.  Until finally, they're in a room, Bruce in the hallway, still on the phone, the door closing behind them as a nurse and a doctor come inside with them, and Alfred's finding his way to the exam table, the tiny boy in his arms shaking and shaking until he thinks--fears--that the child might just vibrate off his lap.

They wrap them both in warm blankets, cocooning them together until Bruce comes back in, sans phone, blue eyes dark and searching, checking with Alfred before turning to the doctor, to the nurse, and explaining what little he knows.  

Alfred pulls himself out of the static filling his ears and makes himself focus, by sheer force of will.

"-im and Alfred are friends, you see," Bruce is explaining, easy enough, and Alfred cannot wait to hear what he's come up with.  "Met in a photography class.   Tim's a little genius, just look at these shots," Bruce says, pulling open his phone and showing some of the shots of Gotham skyline that they had unofficially copied from Crow's camera.  "Alfred has a good eye, but Tim is just phenomenal."

He sees Tim turning toward Bruce with an open mouth, slightly surprised in a sea of unending shock, and he's glad that the doctor and the nurse don't know Tim like they do, because otherwise it'd be very obvious that the story is complete fabrication.

"We've been a little concerned about how much free time Tim seems to have, but we haven't had anything to really report until tonight.  When he called Alfred for help.  And as you can tell, he definitely needed it."

Their witnesses are nodding along with Bruce, no judgement on their faces.  The nurse in particular is especially concerned, his face soft as he looks at Tim.  

Together, with Alfred and Bruce's help, they manage to get Tim turned so that he can be examined.   He won't let go of Alfred, but at least they can see his face, and they slowly start to get an understanding of how injured he truly is.  His broken nose is the worst of it, at first.  They get his shirt off, find his little bony ribs jutting out from his chest, and with it find a whole other slew of issues; contusions on his back in the shape of boot prints, for one; handprint on his throat, each individual finger standing out in stark relief against the paleness of his throat, for another.  His eyes are swollen and black in his face, more handprints on his arms and shoulder.  Abrasions to the bottom of his feet after he had climbed out his window and stolen his way across the cold wet backyard.  They manage to get him to let go long enough for x-rays, for a CT scan, and then he's back in Alfred's arms, where he should always be, if the way his heart feels has any say in it.  

Alfred leans on Bruce after a while, too mentally and emotionally exhausted to sit by himself, and Bruce holds them both up, strong arm around his shoulders, keeping them all upright.  

And then finally, after they've met with the social worker, after the commissioner himself has dropped by, after Bruce's lawyers have called back for the second time, they're finally allowed to leave.  Alfred carries Tim back out to the car.   Bruce is driving again.  They sit in the back this time, Tim slightly loopy from painkillers, his little head pillowed on Alfred's lap.  

"Are you gonna call Robin?" Tim slurs out when they're safe within the car.  

Alfred and Bruce share a glance through the rearview mirror.  

"Already did," Bruce tells him.   "Dick too."

Alfred leans his head back against the headrest with a faint smile.

He's too tired to sleep, but he lets himself relax, eyes shutting to slits against the brightness of opposing headlights.

Relief is hitting him hard, and he feels more than a little sick to his stomach at the leftover adrenaline still filtering through his system.  He feels like he's been on edge for weeks now and the sudden absence of it has left him reeling. 

Their trip home is a silent one.  And he is grateful for it.

Chapter Text

Back at Wayne Manor, Alfred carries a sleeping Tim back to the bedroom he had prepared, nearly a month prior.  He has been keeping fresh sheets on the bed, so there is no need to change them, but he does have Bruce pull back the duvet.  He is thankful that the hospital put Tim in pajamas already.  He has an unfortunate amount of experience with wrangling hurt little boys into pajamas, but he doesn't enjoy it.

"I need to shower," he says apologetically to Bruce.

There is a rapid, quicksilver smile that briefly splashes across Bruce's face at his announcement.

"I'll stay with him," Bruce volunteers, arms already reaching for Tim.

He passes him over without a word, mouth twisted in a smirk at the man's excitement.

"Will Master Jason be back in the morning?"  He asks, reaching down to turn on the bedside lamp. 

"Probably earlier, I suspect," Bruce says, toeing off his shoes and climbing in the bed with Tim.

"You don't have to hold him, you know," Alfred points out, a half-smile playing at the corner of his mouth.

"I know," Bruce agrees, pulling the covers up around Tim's shoulders with one hand.  

"As you wish, Master Bruce," he says, exiting the room and striding swiftly down the hall.  

He takes a quick, but thorough shower.  He has splotches of Tim's blood still on his neck that he takes care to scrub off, watching them swirl down the drain with a kind of vicious pleasure.  He shaves once he is out, and changes into pajamas.  Exhaustion weighs on all of his limbs, and between it and the relief of finally recovering Crow, he knows he will succumb quickly once he has found his way back to bed. 

Once back at Tim's room, he stops in the doorway and stares.  Tim is across Bruce's lap, face pressed against his shoulder, dead asleep.  Bruce, who looks pleased as punch, is staring down at Tim with a smitten expression Alfred has only ever seen him direct toward Dick and Jason.  The blanket is covering them both.  

He turns off the overhead light, and then carefully walks into the room and heads for the opposite side of the bed.  Bruce looks up at him slowly as he takes off his slippers.

"Have you already started the paperwork?"  Alfred asks, sliding under the duvet and across the bed until their shoulders are touching.

Tim doesn't stir.

"Yes," Bruce grunts, shifting as though to hand Tim over.  

"He looks comfortable enough where he is," Alfred observes.

Bruce freezes and then slowly relaxes.

"Thank you," the younger man says, briefly glancing at him.  

He leans over and kisses Bruce on his temple, and then kisses Tim in nearly the same place.

"I am terribly relieved," Alfred admits quietly, keeping his eyes on Tim.

"We would have found him eventually," Bruce counters.

"But would it have been in time?' He wonders aloud, morbid fear sinking into his stomach.   

Bruce scowls but doesn't answer.

Neither man says anything for a time.

"I am going to try and get some sleep," he says, sliding down until his head meets the pillow.   "Will you do the same?" 

He looks up at Bruce in askance.

"Maybe," Bruce says, looking doubtful.

"Tomorrow will be long."

Bruce grunts in agreement.

--

He awakens once in the night, the lamp long extinguished, when Jason crawls into the bed, freshly showered and trying very hard to be quiet.  Bruce pulls back the covers on his side and Jason wriggles into place beside him, slotting against his body like he'd always been there.  Alfred briefly debates whether he should slide over more, but sleep reclaims him quickly and he finds that he doesn't really care.  

In the morning, when dawn's faint light begins to appear in the window, he awakes. He's not rested exactly, but his body is willing to take on another day, and that's all he can really ask of it.  He has a genuine need to feed his boys, and though he hasn't heard from him, he suspects that Dick will also be joining them eventually, and he wants to be ready for him as well.  

He heads back later to rouse his bed full of miscreants, only to stop in the doorway again, and reach for his phone.  He takes a picture of Bruce, Tim and Jason, already knowing in his heart of hearts that it will be only the first of many.  He had stopped by the cave before coming here and taken down his wall of pictures related to Crow, filing them away with the other closed cases.

Now though, seeing Bruce asleep, his often worried countenance free of stress, no matter how brief, eases something within him he hadn't known was tensed.  Tim had slid down farther beside him, small head tucked against his side, small arms wrapped around Bruce's forearm.  Jason, face slack in sleep, is pressed against Bruce's other side, under his arm.

He hates to wake them, but it's already past eleven, and the children need sustenance.  He will never forget the sight of Tim's thin shirtless torso, gaunt and pale, his ribs clearly visible under bruised skin.  

He wakes Jason first, hand on his cheek, tousling his hair, and then a firmly spoken, "Jason."

Jason jerks awake, reflexes still highly tuned to danger, even after all the time spent at Wayne manor. 

"Hiya, Alfie," Jason whispers up at him, unhappiness over being woken quickly morphing to relief as he remembered Tim's newly acquired presence.

"Good morning, lad," Alfred whispers back, pleased.  "Go ahead and head for the dining room."

Jason scurries out of bed, taking a last look back before trotting off.

"Master Bruce," Alfred tries next.  "Master Bruce."

It's the third reiteration of his name that does the trick.  If Bruce didn't have Tim still pressed so closely to his side, Alfred would have tried poking him, knowing that it'd be faster, but with the addition of Tim, he didn't want the chance of Bruce flailing awake.

"Alfred?" Bruce grunts, eyes squinted as he visibly tries to reorient himself.

"I just sent Jason to breakfast.  Will you bring Cr--Tim with you, or do you want me to carry him?"

Bruce looks down at the little boy still snoring away softly at his side.  

"No--No, I've got him," Bruce grunts.

"I know you do," Alfred answers, smiling.

--

Tim doesn't eat as much has he had hoped.  His face is clearly still bothering him, his nose still congested, though thankfully set and healing this time, his eyes black and swollen.  But he manages half of a waffle and a full glass of juice, so things could definitely be worse.  

Alfred doubts that Bruce will remember anything he had eaten, attention set firmly between Tim and Jason, still too tired to carry much of the conversation.  Alfred sits in at the table that morning, and Bruce, who is clearly making the attempt not to make a fuss, avoids looking at him for most of the meal.  

Jason spends the entire meal glancing back and forth between each of them, smile wide.

Dick doesn't managed to join them until half past 3, dark smudges under his eyes like he hadn't slept either.  All in all, they are a ridiculous conglomeration of sleep addled monkeys, and Alfred seriously considers reinstating naptime for all and sundry.

It is after dinnertime when they finally talk.  

They are in the den. Dick and Jason are bickering good naturedly over a movie.  Tim is tucked up against him, his latest round of painkillers recently swallowed.  They are in ensconced in a fluffy blanket that Bruce had pulled from the back of the sofa, and quite trapped, when Alfred voices his first question.

"Master Tim," he starts, getting the attention of the room at once.

He keeps his hand on Tim's head, stroking his hair as he asks.

Bright blue eyes stare up at him blearily, and he nearly changes his mind.

"Alfred?"  Tim warbles, soft and questioning.

"Tell me again about how you knew who Batman was?"  He asks, already knowing the answer from before, but wanting the rest of the room to hear it.

The room, already quiet, tenses and goes completely still.  Tim, not looking at anyone but him, stares back resolutely. 

"It was Dick," Tim explains again, not noticing how Dick's jaw drops open.  "There's only four people in the United States that can do a quadruple somersault, and one of them is Dick.  And then Robin did the same thing, and it was obvious."

Jason snorts, hand clapped over his mouth, shoulders shaking as he tries to contain his mirth.  

Dick gives Jason a betrayed look, only to turn around and do the same thing to Bruce when he starts laughing.  Real laughter, the kind that Bruce so rarely does.

After a moment, they manage to gain control of themselves and Alfred asks another question, the one he most wanted an answer to.

"What precipitated your father's anger yesterday?  If you would be willing to share," he adds quickly.

Tim curls into himself at his question, and Alfred can't help but pull him into his lap proper.  

"You don't have to answer," he reiterates.

Tim shakes his head sadly, looking down at his lap and avoiding Alfred's eyes.

"It was the soup," Tim says softly.  

"The soup?" Dick asks, visibly confused.

"The dry soup.  In the mason jar," Tim confirms.  

Behind him, Jason has gone very still.

"Jay-lad," Bruce says, waving him over to sit.  

Jason goes and curls up beside Bruce, his eyes never leaving Tim.

"You wrote a note on how to fix it.  You signed it with, 'Love, A,'" Tim says, cheeks pinking, his hands clasping together in his lap.  

Alfred can feel him shaking.

"Dad told me to tell him who you were and I wouldn't.  You can't--," Tim shakes more and bites his lip.  "You can't say no to my dad.  He gets really angry."

Bruce mutters something that sounds like 'narcissistic asshole' beside them, but Alfred pays him no mind.

"I'm sorry, little one," Alfred murmurs.

Tim shakes his head in disagreement.  

"You were the best thing that has ever happened to me.  I'm not sorry," Tim says, tears abruptly making an appearance down his wan cheeks.  

He looks up at Alfred then, face misshapen and bruised and damp.  

"I'm not sorry," Tim insists, chin jutting out stubbornly even as his lips tremble with the appearance of more tears.  

"Neither am I," Alfred agrees, pulling him in gently against his chest and holding on for dear life.  "My dear dear boy.  Neither am I."