So yeah, I started this at the suggestion of a wonderful, much smarter person. It doesn't have a direction yet so suggestions would be good, but I'm sure it'll get one. Eventually.

"What shall I tell him when he wakes up?" Alfred asked as he watched the Batman cradling Tim's head until the last possible moment before nestling it into a pillow. "He'll want to know where you are and what became of your son."

"I know," Bruce said, looking back over his shoulder at the boy who was lurking in the shadows. "Tell him, tell him I'll be back as soon as I can and we'll talk. Tell him I'm sorry I can't be here."

"Of course," Alfred agreed. "You'd best get going then. He'll be all right."

And then with a snap of his cape, Bruce was gone, leaving Alfred alone with the boy. He watched Tim for a few minutes, waiting for any sign of distress or discomfort. Then he took off his robes, threw them away and washed the blood off his hands.

It was a familiar sight by now, his hands in the sink, the red swirling around them. It was never his blood that he was cleaning away. It was always blood from someone he loved and that felt much worse. With Bruce gone, it was up to Alfred to take the boy upstairs but he thought it best he wait a few minutes, give the boy a few moments before subjecting him to more trauma.

There was lots of tidying to do, and it took much longer than it should have, since every few minutes he put down whatever he was doing to check on Tim. He had lost a great deal of blood, he'd understated it to Bruce. If he thought a genuine evaluation of Tim's condition would have kept Bruce at home he would have given it, but since he was sure the Batman was needed one way or the other, he'd kept most of the grim details back.

Still, once he'd run out of things to clean and put away he decided it was time to move Tim upstairs. Very, very carefully he removed the IV and the blood transfusion he'd been on. Alfred was nowhere near as strong as Bruce but Tim was still so young, it wasn't even that difficult to lift him up and carry him up two flights of stairs to his bedroom.

Once the boy was settled in his bed and tucked under his sheets Alfred had to go back down to the Cave for the supplies he would need over night – another IV, antibiotics, painkillers, another blood bag.

He returned to Tim's bedside and checked the boy again. It wasn't long enough to see if he was taking the fluids but his temperature hadn't risen and he was resting still. Alfred checked his pulse carefully too, but then his hand strayed up to the boy's face. He looked so young, and tired, even through the swelling and bruising. "Oh Master Tim," he said quietly.

The boy murmured something. "Don't wake up," Alfred whispered at him. "Don't wake up until the morning. Save yourself the suffering and stay asleep tonight my boy."

Alfred only left him long enough to make a pot of tea and move a comfortable arm chair to the bedside.

Late morning sun falling on his face woke him up slowly. He opened his eyes and looked down at Tim. To his surprise the boy was looking at him sleepily. "Alfie," he mumbled quietly. "Are you okay?"

"Yes," he said, with a faint laugh. "I'm fine. How are you feeling?"

"Not so good," Tim admitted. "What happened? Where's Bruce?"

"What hurts the most?" Alfred said. "Shall I run through the concussion questions with you?"

"Tim Drake, probably about eleven in the morning, in my room, Alfred, Grayson, Todd, Drake," Tim said with a thin smile. "But my head really hurts."

"Not surprising I'm afraid," Alfred agreed. "I'll give you something for that. What else hurts?"

"My ribs, my arm, my stomach doesn't feel too great either," Tim listed. "Also I think I broke some toes."

"You did," Alfred agreed affectionately. "Do you remember what happened?"

"Bruce's son sucker punched me," Tim said slowly. "Where is he? He got you too. Are you okay? Where's Bruce?"

"It's a rather complicated story I'm afraid," Alfred said as he injected another dose of morphine into the IV drip. "But I suppose I can give you the footnotes if it would help you rest easier."

"Please."

"It seems Talia is still up to some mischief, so Master Bruce has gone to stop her, and taken the boy with him."

"What?" Tim demanded, sitting up, groaning and curling up around his broken arm and stomach.

"Master Timothy," Alfred said firmly, standing up and catching the boy's head. He whimpered very quietly as Alfred half helped, half forced him back down to his pillow. "Really, you must rest."

"Alfie," he begged miserably.

"I know," Alfred agreed, stroking the boy's hair affectionately. "It's not an ideal situation by any means but you will not make it better by making yourself worse. Just rest for now."

"Who's going to patrol?" Tim whispered as his eyelids started to flicker a little.

"For the moment, no one," Alfred said. "You're in no condition to worry about it."

"Should call Dick," Tim mumbled.

"If you would rest easier with him here, I will call him," Alfred agreed. "Otherwise, I will leave Gotham to fend for itself for a night or two. If there anything you need that I can get you?" Alfred asked.

"Bruce home safe?" Tim suggested. Alfred smile sadly. "Water would be okay."

"Of course," Alfred agreed. "Here." He had seen this coming and had brought in a glass of water earlier. He helped Tim sit up enough to have a few sips but by then it was obvious that the boy could barely keep his eyes open and by the time Alfred had settled him back in the bed and pulled the covers back up over his chest Tim was asleep again.