A/N: Yes, I am alive and writing! I know, it's amazing. You must have thought this story was going cold-turkey. Well, no. It's just being updated at a snail's pace now that I have school and everything associated with it. Including lots of homework and sports. So, second to last (possibly? It might be third-to-last if I split it into two chapters) is FINALLY up and next update will probably be posted next Ice Age :( Sorry. But hey, this chapter is almost twice as long as the rest of my other chapters. But twice as long also means twice as much stuff I can accidentally make mistakes on. Since I don't have a beta and wasn't able to check this over since I wanted to get this out ASAP (yeah I know, I would have needed MORE time?!) I kinda neglected that part. But I'm pretty sure most of it is error-free.

Ok, so everybody give DestinedJedi a huge round of applause for giving me an awesome idea for this chapter. More about it after the chapter, so I don't spoil anything. :)

I sat at home and watched the television when Bruce turned himself in. I saw the news conference in 36-inch plasma perfection on the "damn good television." I watched as he walked up to the stage, face stony and unforgiving. It was the same look he donned before roaring out into the night as Batman. It was the expression he wore behind the mask. It was grim determination, a stubborn refusal to back down from the choice.

The only thing that betrayed his nervousness was the way his hands would twitch and clench into fists. He knew it was a risk, he knew it was most likely a bad idea. Goodness knows I had said so enough times. But with the same stubborn streak that had begun as a child and only strengthened during his time away, he went through with his plan.

Tears trickled down my face as I watched. Why didn't I have the courage to turn myself in, to take some of the responsibility off of Bruce's shoulders and onto mine? My young employer would have immediately denied the offer and refused to let me near the press conference, but I should have offered anyway. I should have told him that he was like my son before he went, and that I didn't want to see him locked in jail. But the wall between employer and employee – however thin- had kept me from saying that.

I had worked for many families before having a permanent job with the Waynes, and in that time I had learned there were rules and social stigmas that separated a butler from the family he served, however close they were. I had to dance a line, between acting as a loyal employee and acting as his friend and guardian. Although Bruce knew I cared for him, he didn't know how much. He didn't know that his father and I would worry over his scrapes and bruises together, and sometimes chuckle at each other once we realized it. He didn't know the reason why I became his guardian, and not his mother's cousin living in Chicago. He didn't know of the adoption papers I had all but finished before I found out that Bruce considered having other parents an insult to Thomas and Martha's memory.

The quiet young boy who had remained fiercely protective and loyal to his parent's memories had grown into a sullen teenager who disobeyed everyone except me. Only I could sometimes bring back into line, remind him that he would not throw the family's name and his own life away. The fierce, raw emotion was still there, but mostly it was buried under sullen brooding. It would flare out on occasion, to protect his family against insults or slurs to their memory.

The day of Joe Chill's trial, I had though the flares would change into a raging inferno. I called Rachel, asked her to accompany Bruce to the trial and keep him from doing anything stupid. They had gone, and Chill had been shot. I had watched the news bulletin with dread, fearing that it was Bruce. When they did not mention the billionaire except in passing, I had sighed and felt the tension drain from my body. I shouldn't have relaxed that easily. When Bruce didn't appear that night, I had called Rachel. She told me that the last time she had seen Bruce was when she had dropped him off outside Falcone's restaurant. She refused to say why, and I dreaded the worst.

For a while, I had thought Bruce dead. Publicly, I maintained the position that I thought Bruce had just disappeared to take a break from the stresses of leading a company, but deep inside I mourned his death. When a postcard came in the mail, I only had to read it once to know what it meant. On one side it showed a scene of the English countryside and on the back was a very short message in familiar handwriting. I'll come back when I've found what I'm looking for. That one sentence absolutely convinced me that Bruce was alive and well, somewhere in the world.

I kept the house in top condition while I waited for Bruce to come back. As the years passed, I began to doubt myself. Had that really been Bruce who wrote the postcard? Was it just addressed to the wrong house? The years still dragged on, and Bruce still didn't come back. Had Bruce been killed abroad and lay in a morgue unnamed with nobody to claim him? Had he found someone he loved and decided to abandon his life in America for good? Where was he?

Then, I had gotten the phone call. At first I didn't recognize who it was. His voice was deeper, calmer, more… peaceful. The thing that I had recognized was his laugh. It was the same as his mother's, a quiet chuckle that meshed well with his dry humor. Hope ballooned in me, and I rushed to schedule a private jet as soon as possible. At that moment, it hadn't occurred to me to ask what Bruce had been doing across the world in the middle of a poverty-stricken country.

When I finally saw him again, Bruce was older, with creases in his face that hadn't been there before. A few scars accented his face; ones that I knew were acquired sometime during his disappearance. He didn't hold himself with the confidence of one born to money anymore, but rather the confidence of one that has proven himself to be great. He was still quiet, but more reflective than sullen. His clothes were old, worn, torn, muddy, ill-fitting, and not adequate for the weather, but Bruce seemed to be right at home in them as he strolled down the runway. A most preposterous thought came into my head at that moment, one that kept me from breaking down into thankful tears and instead returning Bruce's smile. How will I ever manage to convince him to wear a suit again?

When we started talking on the plane, it was more obvious that Bruce had changed. Especially when he told me of his idea to take on Gotham's underworld (or majority population) by himself. I had doubted him, but kept my thoughts to myself. I helped him assemble materials and construct the Batman. Before his debut as Batman, I demanded he give me a demonstration of his fighting skills. What I didn't expect was for him to drag me out, place me on a fire escape, hand me a gun (in case he lost) and then proceed to attack a gang of five men who were mugging someone below my perch. He won with only a few bruises on his part, and that was the last time I had questioned his ability to fight.

I had helped Bruce maintain his double life, and made it possible for him to continue. I patched him up after his Batman excursions, I set up meetings and arranged parties for his billionaire persona. I made sure the equipment was hung up and in the right spot, and I monitored papers and other forms of media for information about both lives. I kept the house running and made sure Bruce made his meetings. I cooked for him and comforted him when Batman failed. But I hadn't managed to help him this time. The Joker was a unique and brilliant psychopath, and I had no ideas that could help. I had nothing to say that kept Bruce away from the press conference.

The days following the "Batman Revelation" were tense for me. I kept the television on all day, keeping my ears open for news about Bruce. I kept on fearing that the inmates would gang up on him, and with no body armor or gadgets, superior numbers would simply overwhelm him. I worried that the police would finally issue a warrant for me, and come banging on the door of the penthouse demanding I turn myself in.

Paparazzi and television stations had set up camps outside, trying to find a way to get inside the home of the Batman, or talk to his butler. I ran errands with a hat set low upon my head and the collar of my coat popped. The secret exit Bruce had used to leave his home without detection so he could safely patrol the streets as Batman proved to be a blessing for me. I could come and go as I pleased, effectively avoiding the media who waited by the front door.

I contemplated simply moving into the "Batcave," as I unofficially called it, before quickly banishing the idea. It would not do for someone to follow me and find where all the Batman gear was safely stored away. If someone managed to escape with even a handful of the technology, it would be disastrous for law enforcement. The police's weapons and supplies would be ineffective against the technology criminals could glean from whatever they managed to steal. I shuddered to think of what the Joker would do if he got his hands on something like the tumbler.

A week passed with no news about Batman. Or rather, no news about his condition in jail. There had been plenty of hours devoted to interviewing employees, Gothamites, old classmates, and the hundreds of other people Bruce had run into during his life. Psychologists gave contradicting ideas as to hundreds of questions the people had about Bruce, and his life was examined under a microscope. Some of the psychologists had legitimate ideas or diagnoses that hit close to the mark, but others were simply wrong. Bruce wasn't imagining Batman as a separate man, thinking his orders came from a giant life-sized bat, or overly fond of bats.

The news stations grated on my nerves, but I continued to watch them in hopes that they would actually air news about what was happening to Bruce. What I didn't expect was the Joker to call, demanding Bruce's release. I couldn't believe my ears. The same man that had held the city ransom for Batman to reveal himself was now demanding he be released. It brought to mind the jewel-thief all those years ago – It's so boring…- But I pushed that thought to the back of my mind, and headed for the secret exit. Bruce was a man of action. I knew what he would do, and I wanted to be at the Batcave to greet him.

I was rebooting the computer system and worrying about what was taking Bruce so long when his arrival was announced by the slow whirring of the elevator. Personally, I thought it was quite ingenious to make a shipping crate the entrance to the temporary Cave. I finished typing in the last password (Bruce had insisted on having at least four), stood up, and turned around to smile at him. "I hope you're well, sir?"

It sounded so formal, but I knew Bruce could hear the worry and relief behind it. Again, it was me dancing between the lines of guardian and friend and butler. Bruce strolled off the elevator, still clad in his prison uniform. He was whole and healthy, hands shoved casually into his pockets and a small smile on his lips. I had feared he would be beaten and starved, but if anything Bruce seemed more rested than before he went to jail.

"As well as expected."

"I'm a bit curious as to why you're so late. The prison is across town, yes, but I didn't think it would take longer than a half-hour. Surely they released you soon after the Joker's call."

Bruce gave me a half-smile, with the corner of his lips just quirked up slightly and his head tilted to the side. It was one of the mannerisms he'd gotten in the years he'd been 'abroad.' Whenever I asked him about something he'd done that was something I'd disapprove of and most likely illegal, he'd simply smile and tilt his head and sometimes throw in an ambiguous sentence or two. He'd become adept at giving non-answers.

"How are you, Alfred?" The smile became an expression of genuine worry and apprehensiveness. Of course, Bruce would be worried about his old butler. I let a small smile creep onto my face. "I don't think you should be worried about me, Master Bruce. I don't recall having to spend the past week in jail."

"But people know you're my butler. Did the press do anything? What about the mob? Batman has so many enemies." Bruce couldn't hide the tired look that flashed across his face. Batman had basically made an enemy out of every single criminal in the city. Before, the only time they could attack him was when Batman was in specially made bulletproof armor, well-equipped and ready to defend himself. Now, they could attack Bruce Wayne or his loved ones at any time. We both knew it would happen eventually.

"That secret exit of yours can be put to use at other times than fancy parties. I find it most helpful when one is carrying in groceries." I widened my smile. Bruce shouldn't be worried about me, not when so much was happening. Luckily, my assurances seemed to put his fears to rest for now. He slid into the seat in front of the computer that I had recently vacated.

"If you don't mind my asking, sir, what are we going to do about the Joker's newest threat?" Bruce's hands paused for a millisecond before going back to their rapid typing. I don't think he noticed it, but he always paused whenever I mentioned the Joker, and I couldn't tell whether it was from fear, hate, fascination, or a some sort of mix.

"We are going to stay here and try to figure out what his next move will be."

"Didn't we already figure that out, sir, when he told us on national television? Or perhaps you missed that while in prison?"

Bruce smiled. "No, I heard that. But the police can handle that threat. Gordon will be evacuating all the hospitals in Gotham as we speak. No, we need to worry about why. The Joker has a plan, he always has a plan. We need to figure out how this attack figures into it before he starts."

"I believe I already know what he wanted out of this."

Bruce's forehead wrinkled. "What?"

"You." He opened his mouth to argue, but I cut him off. It was obvious to one who wasn't the target, and therefore otherwise occupied with a multitude of other things, including survival. "He wanted you out of jail and free. I don't know exactly how, but the Batman fits into the Joker's plans."

Bruce sighed. "And that's why I'm not doing anything until I figure out why."

I glanced down at my watch. "Well you have fifteen more minutes if you decide to change your mind. And I'm curious as to what exactly you're doing on the computer."

"I'm sorry Alfred, but I can't tell you yet." Ah, so it was that mysterious project Bruce had been working on ever since he'd gotten home from Hong Kong. The only clue I had been able to glean from him was that it had something to do with cell phones. His refusal to tell me more made me quite certain that whatever he was doing, I would not approve. But I kept my opinions to myself, because usually Bruce's less noble doings would be the ones that could save lives. Getting blackmail on Judge Faden during Falcone's case, for example.

For the next ten minutes, we sat in comfortable silence. Bruce was working on his secret project, while I simply sat on the couch and reflected on how happy I was now that my charge was safely back. I had no idea for how long, but for now the fact that I knew where he was and that he wouldn't be jumped by thugs was enough to keep me happy after days of worrying.

I glanced down at my watch again, and reached over for the remote. "I know the hospitals are cleared, but it is a good idea to find out which one he targeted. It could have something to do with whatever he's doing." Bruce looked away from his project and nodded, so I flipped on the television. It was already set to the news channel. What else what one going to watch down in the Batcave? It's not like we stayed there for tea and crumpets.

The news anchor was sitting at her desk, nervously shuffling papers while she talked about the one thing on everyone's mind. "- according to sources, he's been released almost immediately after the Joker's demand. Both Batman and auditor Coleman Reese's whereabouts are unknown. Rumors say that multiple attempts have been made on Reese's life, and he is currently in protective custody. But not everybody is ready to give in to the Joker. Witnesses report that a SWAT van, said to be carrying Mr. Reese, was nearly hit by a pick-up truck until an unidentified car drove between the two larger trucks. Nothing is known about the driver, but many speculate it could be the rising of another masked vigilante."

I turned and glared at Bruce. Now that I was looking for it, I could see the beginnings of a bruise on his chin, and faint scratches on his hands and face. Of course Bruce would take the time to rescue someone who practically hated him. I shook my head but said nothing. Hadn't it been me who had said that you should be courteous of everybody, no matter what you felt about them? Of course, I had always considered being courteous as simply using polite language and refraining from insults, not reckless driving and interrupting assassination attempts. Bruce steadily met my gaze, but I said nothing and simply turned away, refocusing on the television.

The anchor was still compulsively shuffling her papers. "The Joker's time limit is up, and now we citizens of Gotham wait with baited breath for news. It is unknown for now what he has done, but -" She paused, looking at someone off-screen and putting her hand to her ear. "This just in, the Joker has attacked. Just minutes ago, a building in upper Gotham has been bombed. It is unclear what building, but reports say it isn't a hospital. It's located on Prosper Street…" She paled and trailed off, while Bruce and I watched her in tense silence. "It- It's a school… Gotham Medical College…."

I felt as if someone had punched me in the gut. a school. The Joker had gone after a campus full of teenagers that barely fit into the legal-adult category. There was a loud slam across the room, and I flinched at the sudden noise. Bruce was white with anger, staring at the television. The anchor was talking, and I knew sound was coming from the television, but I couldn't hear it through the buzzing in my ear.

Bruce's teeth were bared in a growl, and he was nearly vibrating with cold anger. He forcefully pushed himself out of his chair and stalked over to where the Batsuit was stored. I had thought I'd seen Bruce angry before, when Ra's Al Ghul had attacked Gotham, but that was simply annoyance compared to this. His movements were completely fluid, with not one extraneous movement.

I stood up in a daze and helped him into the armour, relying on the instinct of routine than actually paying attention. All my thoughts were shadowed by the numbness of shock."What are you going to do?"

Bruce was fully suited, and he held the cowl in his hands. He turned to me, eyes flat and unemotional. "I'm going to find him. And then I'm going to make sure he's locked up for the rest of his life."

"Are you going to kill him?" I didn't know where the question had come from, but it felt imperative to answer. Something had stirred within me, and I could feel a bloodthirsty need for revenge for people I've never even met. I could only imagine what that would do to Bruce, who took every death in Gotham as a personal failure of Batman. And although I felt the need for revenge, I didn't want my honorary son to become a killer.

"Batman doesn't kill. And I don't want to end his suffering so quickly." A savage look flickered across Bruce's face that I could relate to. "It doesn't mean I'm not going to hold back if he fights."

I nodded in approval, and put my hand on his shoulder. We stood there for a second, before Bruce headed for the computer. "When it's dark, the Joker and I will have our final meeting. For now, we need to prepare."

I headed towards Bruce. "How can I help?"

A/N The Second: Yes, there it is. The chapter that took me forever to write. What do you think? Good? Bad? Disappointing? So-so? Please review, they make me happy! Anyways, back to DestinedJedi's idea. You know who came up with that whole thing with the college being blown up instead of a hospital? Yes, that's right. DestinedJedi. An amazing idea, and please everybody give a round of applause. Seriously an awesome person.