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Alfred knelt in front of the candles in the kitchen at midnight and clasped his hands in front of his face. His old, weathered voice croaked, "Dear God, if you exist, please listen. Lady Martha, Master Thomas, Master Jason, if God cannot listen, then will you? Will you answer my plea? Master Bruce will die, if not tomorrow, then soon. For all I have sinned, for all that I am not a saint, please grant my boon, for I do not think I can stand the loss of our son. Please, Master Jason, if you do not wish for your father to die, selfishly, I ask you to send providence. I will gladly walk my soul to Hell if you send this blessing. If I must endure eternal damnation, then I shall so long as you beg an angel to save Master Bruce."
Alfred was not a man who cried easily nor did he cry often. He could count the number of times he had: once, at Master Thomas and Lady Martha's wedding, when they announced Martha's pregnancy, when Master Bruce was born, and again at Master Jason's funeral. Alfred let the tears drip on to his pristine kitchen floor as he begged those long-dead and a being barely believed in for a miracle.
The very next day, the doorbell rang. Alfred cracked open the door, facing a tiny boy with arctic eyes and a handful of pictures in a folder. In that moment, he did not know he was facing his salvation. If he did, he might have cried again.
Timothy Drake stepped into the foyer and spoke logically, with an ice-edged sureness and clarity in his pale eyes. "I cannot let Batman kill anyone," Timothy declared solemnly, "And I will not let him die, either."
Alfred's hands almost shook as Dick guided the boy inside and Alfred turned to set about making a pot of tea. It was almost inconceivable; he had begged for a blessing and suddenly a boy turns up on the Manor's doorstep with the same intentions as Alfred. To not let Master Bruce lose himself to the violence of grief or to death. Master Bruce growled and snarled at the boy like he was some sort of beast. Timothy stared placidly and delicately accepted the tea cup Alfred had prepared. "Oh, thank you, sir," Timothy said, "Oh, blackberry, wonderful. Anyways, are you done? I want to make it clear I am not trying to take Jason's place. Nobody could replace Jason. If it were any differrent, I would stay cracking cold cases and Monday Morning Murders from the newspapers in my bedroom. As it is, you are beating people to near death. You almost killed someone and you better thank God I was on the scene after you left to perform CPR till the ambulance got there. And you are absolutely lucky I lied everytime to the paramedics about who hurt every person I had to call them for. Statistically, mathematically, you do better with a Robin. I'm not qualified, I'm not as amazing as Dick or Jason, but I am the most convenient option you will find in this city."
Master Bruce growled out a resounding, "No."
Timothy did not seem disappointed. He did not seem much of any attitude beyond 'forever thinking'. What a clever, clever brain he must have, and when he saves Master Dick and Master Bruce from Two Face, what a blessedly brave soul he must have as well. Alfred's heart aches for Master Jason, but he has lived long and known much, so Alfred cracks his heart open for yet another boy who steps through the Manor threshhold.
"I love your blackberry tea, Mr. Alfred," Timothy grins from his perch, the telltale evidence of having gone to a finishing school shown in his expert balancing of his tea cup.
"Thank you, dear Timothy," Alfred smirks lightly, "Are you ready to join us, Master Bruce?"
Master Bruce has been relegated to being Timothy's cushion on the surprisingly large loveseat. Master Bruce can bark orders and snap his criticisms at Timothy down in the Cave as he pleases and the boy will take them all with a stoney seriousness that doesn't waver. Yet the second Alfred calls for a tea time break, Timothy, 90 pounds and 4'10 and 13 years old, is dragging all 215 pounds of grown vigilante up stairs. "Mr. Wayne," Tim scolded the first time when Master Bruce had snarled at him, "I am not scared of a grown man who runs around most nights in a high tech fursuit. I have seen the way you act at galas. I am not scared of a doddering fool who cried about turtles for exactly 23 minutes and 45 seconds at the last All Hallows Eve Ball. And I am not scared of a man in grief. I pity that man. Drink your tea and eat something instead of looking like you want to lay down among the bats so they accept you as their own."
Master Bruce had been so surprised by his bite sized protege's scathing tone he tripped up the stairs and let Timothy shove him face down into a seat and sat upon his back. "I do not think he is quite up to eating something, Mr. Alfred," Timothy sniffed, "He has to nap first."
It was like having a travel sized P.A. who was unafraid of losing his job. "Hm, I do agree, dear Timothy. Come along, I shall train you in scone making," Alfred directed, "Plain scones for today, but we shall work our way up to cherry scones. They can be very tempting to Master Bruce."
Between kneading dough and melting butter, Alfred and Timothy sipped blackberry tea, always with half a teaspoon of honey. Master Dick always preferred making his mother's green sun tea, but otherwise refused to drink it unless sick. Master Jason had been partial to menta poleo. His neighbor always made it during winter. Master Bruce drank a proper Earl Grey. Master Thomas had loved lavender tea. Lady Martha had been fond of chai. Alfred had grown up with his mother's blackberry tea. It was nice, he supposed, to share the drink with someone else. "Timmy, hey," Master Dick greeted as he jogged inside, "Is Alfred trying to induct you? Need a rescue, Itty Bitty?"
Master Dick draped himself over Timothy, arms loosely curling around the boy. Timothy shuddered and briefly went slack like a marionette with cut strings. Then, he seemed to remember himself and straightened up stiffly. "I am not itty bitty," Timothy insisted, "And I like tea."
Master Dick wrinkled his nose and obstinately picked up a tea sandwich. "It's just leaf water," Master Dick argued.
"Then scones are just bread and you will be fine with not partaking in any," Alfred interjected with dry humor hidden.
Master Dick quickly backtracked, still draped over Timothy and slowly rocking from side to side. The motion served to make Timothy relax slightly, little by little letting himself droop over. Timothy was not the only one determined to help.
"LEAVE! LEAVE! STOP FORCING ME TO LOOK AT YOU! YOU ARE NOT ROBIN," Master Bruce roared, seemingly towering meters over Timothy.
Timothy did not react, did not cower. He stared right ahead, mimicking the look Alfred had found on his own face many times before. Timothy was adept at studying the microexpressions of those around him. "Bruce Wayne," Timothy blankly stated, "I am not Jason. I am not the Robin. I am a Robin, though. I am not leaving till a better one is found, if that happens. If Dick wants to be Robin again, then I will give it to him and back away. If you have some biological child who has been trained to be Robin, I will give it to them if you wish. But I am not leaving you to kill yourself or anyone else. Deal with it."
Master Bruce swung his heavy arm, blindly and wildly. Alfred started forward, but Timothy ducked and motioned for him to stay. Master Bruce roared again, an incoherent scream. Timothy's hand was gentle as he caught the other arm and tugged. "Tea, Bruce," Timothy whispered softly, "Or a nap. You can't do anything when you're like this."
The build up to this particular breakdown had been a case of serial kidnapping and murder of street children. There were already 14 victims, and Master Bruce was pushing 5 nights without sleep. Timothy suggested he break away because he could not fight the perp when found them if he was ready to drop dead. And Master Bruce had snapped viciously. Dearest Timothy, who usually used a professional, clipped tone, softened his voice and carefully guided with his hands. Alfred found Timothy sitting on Master Bruce's back again (he claimed the central pressure was a grounding method usually used for therapy dogs but he was around the same size as a large dog so it should work). "It hurts," Timothy was saying, "That's fine. I don't know about this kind of hurt, but I've never had a kid. I am 13, y'know? But I know that it hurts you a lot. It won't ever stop hurting, that's what this one therapy article said, and it's only been a couple months. It's pretty fresh still. But, maybe one day, you'll be able to say that it hurts and you can still live. For now, I'm here to make sure you hurting won't hurt you or anyone else. I'll stay as long as you need, Bruce. That's what I'm here for."
Alfred silently passed Timothy a tea cup of blackberry tea. 'Thank you', they mouthed to each other. Bruce made a sorrowful grunting noise. "Try calling Dick after you eat, Bruce," Timothy suggested, "He may not have lost his son but he lost his brother. You're both hurting."
Bruce made another sorrowful but more contemplative grunting sound. Timothy sipped his tea and gave Alfred a small almost-smile. Alfred had known the boy for all of one month and he had never been more thankful to one person before.
Alfred set out the candles in the kitchen at midnight and knelt before them. He bowed his head and whispered, "Lady Martha, Master Thomas, Master Jason, Dearest God. Whoever listened to an old man's woes and pleas, thank you. I thank you with all I am. I do not care about the price I must pay someday because you have given me the greatest gift. You have given me a chance to save my son, our son, Master Jason's father. You have given me Timothy."