I hadn't intended on adding anything to this fic, but I was looking through some old notes and found this short nugget. This chapter is a tag for episode 1x10: "Lovecraft" - a line from which fit unbelievably well with my previous chapter. When Alfred hears that Clyde threatened to poke out Bruce's eyes, he is reminded of his dream, and decides to teach the man a lesson: you don't touch Bruce Wayne.
Thanks to everyone who read and favorited the first chapter. =) This chapter contains some minor violence.

"She said I was cute, but Cat warned me to keep moving. She was only a little girl," Bruce explained as Alfred helped him remove the unfamiliar denim jacket. The butler didn't know where that street urchin had found clothes to fit his young master, but the boy certainly didn't look like Bruce Wayne, heir to Wayne Enterprises, when he was in them. Yes, the disguise had helped Bruce avert attention from himself, but Alfred still had his doubts about Selina, and he didn't like anything that seemed to aligned Bruce with her.

"Perhaps age can be deceptive." Alfred suggested, draping the jacket over the back of a chair. "Youth does not denote an inability to act – whether for good or evil." Bruce didn't seem to be paying attention to this bit of advice, as he considered himself in the dresser mirror. His usual look of contemplation on his face. Uncommon on most children, Alfred thought, who were more likely to smile or cry. But Bruce was becoming increasingly stoic, like his father.

"Would you say I'm 'cute,' Alfred?"

The question surprised him. Bruce wasn't normally one to go on about appearances, least of all his own. Alfred raised his eyebrows. It was something a young boy would ask, a normal boy whose only concern was impressing the young lass who sat beside him in class. The words reminded Alfred that Bruce was still a child yet, and had all the same inclinations as other children, no matter how he tried to hide them.

With a thinly veiled chuckled, Alfred answered truthfully, "You are quite a handsome young man, Master Bruce. I have no doubt that you shall be quite the ladies' man when you are grown." The boy had inherited his mother's beauty.

"Come now, Alfred. I plan on remaining a confirmed bachelor." Alfred's chuckles increased, for Bruce seemed completely serious, and he could not suppress the hearty laugh that escaped him.

Bruce ignored his butler's amusement, and unzipped the hoodie. Alfred helped him remove it. Bruce winced as the fabric slid off his arms. Alfred stopped smiling.

"You alright?"

"I'm just sore; that's all."

"You have had a good deal of excitement today, haven't you Master Bruce?" Alfred asked, trying to keep his tone light, but he faltered as he noticed the purple skin peeping out from beneath the sleeve of Bruce's t-shirt.

Alfred gingerly rolled up first the left sleeve, then the right. There were large, dark, angry bruises forming along the boy's arms. The right one was decidedly worse than the left, probably from when he had landed on the stairs. "What happened?" he asked, trying to keep himself contained.

"Cat's fence, Clyde, his man restrained me. I tried to shake him off, but he was strong. I couldn't get away, and I couldn't help Cat...I suppose his grip caused most of the bruising. And then that woman grabbed me and I hit the stairs." This seemed all matter-of-fact to Bruce, who examined the shape of each bruise, trying to determine how it had been caused. But then, in a soft voice, he admitted, "Clyde threatened to poke my eyes out." He knew the man would have followed through on his threat, probably would have enjoyed it too. He pictured blades drawing ever nearer to his eyes, imagined blood splattering the floor, blinding pain and plunging into inescapable darkness.

Bruce shuddered at the thought. Somehow the threat frightened him more than the guns had – though he hated guns, saw them every night in bad dreams. The man's sadism, the danger of losing his sight, was much worse than the fear of death.

White hot anger burned within Alfred. Several weeks back, when the Spirit of the Goat had been at large, Alfred had one of the worst nightmares of his life: he had cradled Bruce's pale corpse, from which the boy's eyes had been gouged out. Just another reminder of their mortality, and how easy it could be for someone to take Bruce away from him. He had already lost Thomas and Martha. He couldn't lose Bruce too.

Clyde the fence. Alfred tucked the name away in his memory, along with the warehouse address, as he carefully helped Bruce peel off his t-shirt and button his pajama top.

"I hope it shall be a good, long while before you decide to have another adventure," Alfred said, as Bruce climbed into bed. He pulled the boy's sheets up around him. The boy didn't even protest to being tucked in.

Bruce answered with a yawn and a sigh, sinking into the softness of his pillows. "Good night, Alfred."

Alfred smoothed the hair back from the boy's head, and whispered, "Good night, my boy" before he turned out the light.

Gotham

It was two days before Alfred was able to find an excuse to slip out of the house. Two long days in which the hatred and anger within his heart festered. He couldn't have gone back to the warehouse that first night, because he imagined the police would still be there. And the day after Bruce had been so sore that he could barely get around without Alfred's help. His luck had changed, however, when James Gordon came to the manor to check in on Bruce.

Alfred was sorry to hear that Jim had lost his job, but he wondered if, now that Jim had that day off before he started at Arkham, he wouldn't mind staying with Bruce for a couple hours.

Both boy and ex-detective looked at Alfred quizzically. "Are you going somewhere, Alfred?"

"I just need to take care of something. Run a few errands. Nothing to worry about, Master Bruce." He shot Gordon a meaningful glance. "I'm sure Detective Gordon doesn't mind keeping you company while I step out."

"I really should be -" Alfred cleared his throat. "What I, uh, mean is that I'm sure I could spare a couple of hours." Alfred nodded approvingly.

As he donned his coat, Jim joined him by the front door. "Don't do anything foolish, Alfred."

"Foolish, whatever do you mean?"

"You know what I mean. There is no use in getting yourself into trouble when you can avoid it."

Alfred laughed, "James, my good man, I should think I shall be causing more trouble than getting into it."

"I've seen the way you hold a gun," Gordon said. "Just don't get carried away."

Gotham

Alfred found the man in his "office." Alfred sniffed in disgust as he scanned the room. The place was a disaster – items scattered a foot deep over the floor, furniture overturned. Clyde swore, rummaged through some papers, came up empty-handed, became frustrated, and kicked the desk as hard as he could, sparking a new slew of cursing that would have made a sailor blush. All of which affirmed Alfred of the pleasure he was going to gain in this.

He cleared his throat.

Clyde whirled around and scrutinized the butler's face. "Do I know you?"

"I suppose not. I believe you were already gone when I was last here."

"Well," the man spit, "what do you want?"

Alfred stood straight, hands clasped behind his back, and said calmly, "I'm here to file a complaint."

Clyde snorted. "A complaint? What do you think this is?"

"I should say it's a hovel, obviously."

"Listen, either state your business or get the hell outta here. I'm in a bit of a hurry."

"Yes, well, I imagine you must be. This won't take long." Alfred checked his watch and pressed a button on the side. "Right, just timing myself here."

"What are you –?"

Alfred's right fist connected squarely with the man's face. As blood gushed from his broken nose, Clyde screamed, "What the hell?" Neither his profanities, protests, or fists protected him from the butler's surging wrath.

Alfred's onslaught was well-executed, well-timed, and merciless. Hit after hit connected with its target. Though he used only his hands, Alfred inflicted significant damage. Clyde was reduced to a bloody, whimpering mess. He probably would have continued to have beaten the thug within an inch of his life, but Alfred's watch chirped at that moment.

Alfred straightened up, silenced the alarm, and smoothed out his clothes. He glanced briefly at the criminal at his feet, and grunted his disapproval. The dirty coward, pleading for his own life when he wouldn't have thought twice about hurting a twelve year old boy. He didn't know the meaning of bravery, or fear, if he thought the worst things in life were death and physical pain.

"I believe I have made my objections clear," Alfred stated, fixing his cuff-links. "If I ever hear that you have approached, threatened, or so much as breathed on Master Bruce Wayne or Miss Selina Kyle, you will wish that I had killed you this afternoon. Are we clear?"

Clyde stammered incomprehensibly.

"I beg your pardon, what did you say?"

"I got ya."

"Very well then. If you'll excuse me, I have a few errands to run, and I do hate running late."

Gotham

"Ah, Alfred, you've returned," Bruce greeted indifferently. But there was a trace of a smile in his voice. Even he couldn't conceal his pleasure at seeing his butler.

"I best be going then, Bruce." Gordon stood abruptly. He and the boy had run out of conversation topics half an hour ago, and had spent the last fifteen minutes sitting in silence. Gordon wished he had new information about the Wayne murders; being in Bruce's presence only intensified his guilt and anger at losing his job.

"Thank you for coming to see me."

Jim nodded, and turned to leave. "I can show myself out, Alfred, thanks." He lowered his voice as he passed the butler, and said, "Don't ever leave me to babysit again. Did you take care of it?"

"Yes, I did."

"Make much of a mess?"

"I believe I have the right to remain silent."

"Well, right then. I'm off. Goodbye, Bruce. Take care of yourself. You too, Alfred."

"As long as I am alive, there will always be someone to take care of young Master Wayne." Jim smiled and clapped Alfred on the back.

"I don't doubt it."

Orphan and butler looked steadily at each other. The sound of the front door slamming reverberated throughout the house. "Were you able to finish your errands satisfactorily?" Bruce asked.

"Yes, sir, I was."

"What happened to your knuckles?" Bruce gestured to Alfred's bruising hand.

"Tad careless I was, knocked over an entire grocery display. Made a terrible mess really."

Bruce tried to read Alfred's face, to unlock the secret he knew was hidden there, at the corners of his mouth. To hear the unspoken words behind this answer. But Alfred wore an indecipherable mask.

Someday, Alfred knew, he would tell Bruce everything, would open up the book of his life and let Bruce study its contents, let him see what he had spent years saving up in his heart.

But that day wasn't today.

"Shall I make you a cup of tea then, Master Bruce?"

Not as good as my first chapter. A different approach in this one, but still quite in line with Alfred's character and his relationship to Bruce. I hope you enjoyed. Leave a review in the box below!