Author's Note: Here's some more Bruce and Tim bonding. Set amongst the backdrop of the festive season. Bruce tries to maintain professionalism between them. Alfred offers someone else's opinion on the tactic with expected results. Enjoy.

Tim 4

Tonight is Christmas Eve. I am in the Narrows, concluding my most recent narcotics and human trafficking investigations with the assistance of the GCPD. I have given Tim a period of extended leave to be with his father and friends during the holiday season. The boy will return to his duties as Robin in the New Year and hopefully be refreshed as a result. I do not require such a lengthy reprieve. Snow falls steadily as I wait in the shadows of an abandoned bus depot which is currently being used as both a safe house and a warehouse for Warren Fenchurch's latest shipments. From recent surveillance of the compound, I have ascertained the presence of twenty-five young women from Eastern Europe who are to be sold into the sex industry and a minimum of two metric tons of Columbian cocaine contained within the main building.

This combination of goods is somewhat unusual in Gotham, but something of a trademark to such a notorious career criminal as Fenchurch. His disregard for human life is well-known in his usual stomping grounds of mainland Europe and South America where he has evaded law enforcement officials and capture for years now. The percentage of fatalities normally experienced in his human cargo transportations is almost forty per cent. Many die of narcotic-related illnesses and symptoms. His decision to try and ply his trade in the North American market was a well-calculated and smart move to further expand his business interests and criminal empire. Unfortunately he elected to funnel his goods through Gotham instead of neighbouring cities or states. He decided to test claims that Gotham is a trafficker's graveyard and he decided to test me. As a consequence, he is about to lend his name to yet another headstone in my personal cemetery. Because, within sixty minutes I will have buried both him and his fifteen-year operation like they never existed.

Gordon is preparing his tactical response teams for a war of attrition. I have told him to rendezvous at my current location in less than fifty-five minutes. He is unaware that I am already here and preparing to cut the war short with a little attrition of my own. He and his men may consider it my Christmas present to both them and their families. No-one is going to die tonight…but some people are about to get seriously hurt. I enter the building via the ventilation duct on the roof. Fenchurch's efforts to maximise profit and minimise cost are about to prove costly. He has no security cameras in place, no motion sensors and the twenty-two men he is using to guard the depot and its goods are equipped with basic flak jackets and light-weight assault rifles only. They are all of a military background and possess some form of specialist training for these kind of scenarios, but they are not the best available. Therefore they are not sufficient to stop me.

I am also aware through my surveillance of the site that Fenchurch is also in the depot and perhaps further abusing the women he has already denied freedom and sold into slavery. I will leave him for last. Since he is shielded from immediate view by a pre-fabricated office structure, I cannot envisage him escaping before I am finished with his guards.

I incapacitate the five men on the upper level of the depot first, subjecting them to a series of nerve strikes that first disable their vocal chords before knocking them unconscious within two seconds. Once they are down and their weapon systems are unloaded and secured from use, I drop down a level to the ground floor. Here there are the remaining seventeen men. They are mostly standing in groups around the shipping crates and containers. The majority of them are inattentive and complacent of their surroundings. I crouch in the darkness of a secluded corner and consider. As I begin to deliberate the pros and cons of a full-frontal assault against that of a more complex scheme of manoeuvres, I become aware of a presence beside me. I am not alarmed, merely surprised.

"You shouldn't open your presents before tomorrow." I whisper as the boy's favourite aftershave clogs my nostrils with a renewed vigour that can only come from a fresh bottle.

"I didn't want to get hit for being too inconspicuous." Robin replies. I can of course see the boy's logic. Since I know only he wears this atrocious scent, I will immediately treat him as a non-hostile regardless of circumstance.

"You should be with your father at home."

"He's asleep already. I thought you could use a hand." I am more than capable of tackling this scenario on my own. Fenchurch might injure one or two of the women in trying to escape, but the situation could be adequately contained without external assistance. However, the boy's presence negates even that contingency. I appreciate the gesture. It is not often I receive such gifts, even in this holiday season.

"Fenchurch is sequestered in the office to your right. He's armed with at least a 9mm semi-automatic pistol and has access to twenty-five vulnerable hostages. I need you to negate the threat he poses whilst I deal with his other personnel." I tell him without feeling the need to repeat myself.

"Do you need him eliminated from play before you make your move?"

"I need him away from those hostages. You have twenty seconds before I break cover. Go now." I watch as the boy suddenly rushes out of the blackness in a silent blur of red and green, evading the attentions of all seventeen individuals to his immediate front in getting to the office. He has ten seconds. Suddenly he is inside the office and I detect the faint sounds of a muffled struggle taking place. Five seconds. No shots are fired. Time is up.

I begin my assault by rolling two CS gas pellets into the middle of the room before following up with three batarangs that all find a target to eliminate. Moments after the projectiles hit, the pellets detonate and the whole space becomes engulfed by a choking white cloud. I don my respirator, arm more batarangs and enter the cloud. There is chaos within its confines. The fourteen remaining combatants are struggling to breathe and streaming at the eyes from the debilitating effects of the gas. Rifles litter the ground from where some have lost hold of their weapons in the confusion while those that have managed to keep hold are in no position to fire them effectively. I waste no time in trimming the numbers to less than four courtesy of three more batarangs, five nerve strikes, two straight rights to the jaw, one uppercut and three spinning heel kicks. I ensure I connect fully with every blow dealt to ensure success.

By now, the cloud has dissipated enough to allow the remaining individuals to regain both their equilibrium and control of their weapons. Despite this revitalised awareness, I am able to circumvent any challenge presented by simply using my remaining projectiles to disarm them and then implementing a standard block, arm bar and take-down sequence to end any hope of resistance. I remove my respirator and move towards the office. Inside I find Robin fastening an unconscious Fenchurch's wrists with plasticuffs whilst wide-eyed and terrified-looking women look on. It is clear they do not trust either him or me. It is understandable given their ordeals. I turn to the boy.

"Have you tried out your Russian on them?" I ask. He offers a sheepish smile.

"I think my pronunciation still needs some work. It didn't look like they understood any of it beyond 'hello'." It is expected: the boy only began learning the language six weeks ago and has had his schoolwork and duties to contend with as well. I am pleased that he had the confidence to attempt communication. I incline my head in gratitude before turning to address the crowd staring us down.

"We are not here to hurt you." I begin in the most widely used and understood Russian dialect, one used frequently on television programmes and news broadcasts, "The police will arrive shortly. They will talk to you about what has happened and help you get back to your families and loved ones. Until they arrive, we shall wait with you, to ensure your safety." Relief starts to break out on many of the concerned faces confronting me. Those that still look apprehensive are quickly assured by their neighbours using other less common dialects and minority languages until everyone seems happier. One of the older women, roughly thirty or so, gestures to Robin with an air of curiosity.

"Is he your son?" She inquires. I look at Tim and find he does not understand the query posed. I consider. I nod.

"Yes." The woman smiles at me with a warmth and understanding that can only come from a mother.

"You should be very proud of him. He just needs some elocution lessons." I smile back and incline my head.

"I shall bear that in mind."

It is almost ninety minutes later. Gordon and his men arrived some thirty minutes ago to find the hostages safe, the narcotics secured and all involved personnel, including Fenchurch, neatly arranged into three ranks in the centre of the depot's ground floor. He immediately informs me that I should have waited. He chides the boy for enabling me. Jim is pleased though. With Christmas Day only hours from now, he is glad he does not need to ring the coroner or phone for an ambulance. Nobody was hurt and everything is ready for arraignment and trial work to commence. Regardless of how I have controlled the situation with the boy's invaluable assistance, I apologize to Jim. He deserves more notification than I have given him. This case is an international one and Fenchurch's conviction would be headline news around the globe. I tell Gordon to take all the credit, but he refuses. He will mention my involvement in order to further deter international criminals from taking up residence in our city. It is a smart move and one I feel obliged to agree with, given my lack of disclosure. After an additional twenty minutes, we are given leave to depart. We bid Jim and the department a happy Christmas and exit the depot.

"How did you get here?" I ask as we walk through the deepening snow that has settled in the past two hours since my arrival.

"I took the Redbird. Did you bring the car?" I did not. I departed straight from the office to my safe house in the Bowery utilising my vagrant disguise to remain unrecognised. From there, I conducted the final stages of my pre-operational planning, consumed a protein and calorie-enriched drink and then suited up for the evening. I had intended to radio Alfred and ask him to send the car on auto-pilot to predetermined coordinates in the city as soon as matters with Fenchurch were concluded. However, I believe I have a simpler idea.

"No. Would you mind driving me back to the cave?" The boy shrugs.

"If you really don't mind being a passenger in a car with a fifteen-year-old boy at the wheel." I have every confidence in Tim's driving abilities. He is very capable. I smirk.

"Consider it an early Christmas present."

The boy has parked his vehicle in an abandoned garage complex less than two city blocks from the depot. Despite being both large and a garish shade of red, he has managed to render it largely inconspicuous, something of a minor miracle. We get inside, Tim fires up the engine and then carefully manoeuvres it onto the road. For the first five minutes of our journey, I am content to observe his driving skills. He still drives with both hands on the wheel, always covers the brake pedal with his foot and is constantly peering in his mirrors. I am amazed he has not either lapsed into bad habits or copied the worst of mine. I suppose it is different because this is his car and therefore his responsibility. He conducts the gear changes required with both a relaxed smooth sequence of actions and the utmost care when releasing his foot off the clutch. Alfred would be proud.

"So what have you got planned for tomorrow?" The boy inquires when we are a few miles from the city. I have nothing planned. I attended the Wayne Enterprises Christmas party three days ago and am now free of obligations for the next week. The house is devoid of decoration and I intend to spend the majority of tomorrow resting. I will close down the Fenchurch case files and begin final inventory of the intelligence gathered sometime in the late afternoon or early evening. There is no rush.

"Just dinner. How about yourself? How is your father?"

"He's good. He's uh…he's better. He's definitely getting better. I think tomorrow we'll just open some presents and then laze around in our pyjamas. Mom was the one who liked the formal dinner stuff." Tim informs me whilst concentrating intently on the road ahead. The pain of his mother's death is still fresh. I understand and will not broach the subject. "Did your mom like the meal at the dinner table bit too?" He asks with a suddenness that catches me off-guard. I stare at him in silence for some time. He can evidently feel the weight of my gaze as he retracts his question. "I'm sorry. I know it's none of my business." I shake my head.

"It's fine. My mother did enjoy a traditional dinner. She enjoyed the entire festive season as I recall, especially the decorating. We used to spend many hours dressing the tree in the parlour in anticipation of my father's arrival from work." The boy nods and is clearly trying to picture such a scene in his head judging by his bemused expression. It seems he cannot imagine the scene with me as a willing participant. He looks like he wants to ask another question but is incredibly wary. I believe I know what it will be. "I am sorry to say that all Christmases after their deaths were hard to cope with. They still are, but I think you'll fare slightly better in your father's company: he's a good man." Tim nods in appreciation of my praise for Jack.

"You know…you're always welcome to come over for a while tomorrow. Maybe you could even stay for some food?" The boy suggests in an uncertain but hopeful tone. I am thankful for his invitation, but must decline. I am not good company during these kind of occasions, especially since Jason's death two years ago.

"Thank you but I would prefer to spend tomorrow in Alfred's company." I say as we begin our final approach to the cave's vehicle entrance. "I think I will get out here and walk. Please stop."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. There is adequate space for you to turn around without difficulty if you stop now."

"I'd like it if you'd let me drop you off in the cave."

"You've done more than enough this evening."

"You know my Russian pronunciation may suck, but I understand it well enough: you told her I was your son." The atmosphere between us is immediately saturated in deathly silence. He has evidently read more into what I said than was necessary.

"I apologize if I made you feel awkward as a consequence, Tim. It was merely the simplest way of explaining such a complex arrangement without convolution." I say to break the quiet. The boy passes the turn-around point and continues into the hidden tunnel.

"Yeah and I would believe it was just that if not for one thing."

"And that would be?"

"You considered saying no. And it didn't make me feel awkward: I consider it…a compliment." I cannot find a suitable response so I do not reply. Tim is also unable to find a way to continue the conversation in any sustainable fashion so the ensuing silence is filled with the gentle hum of the car's engine. Eventually we reach the vehicle park. The boy brings the vehicle to a halt and I am free to leave.

"Thank you for your assistance this evening. I hope you and your father enjoy yourselves tomorrow. Good night, Tim." Before I am out of reach, the boy puts a hand on my forearm. When I turn to look at him, I find he has removed his domino mask. It is presumably so I may view the sincerity in his eyes, of which there is plenty as well as slightly childish sentiment that speaks of hope. The effect is powerful but not overpowering. He is an emotionally-charged adolescent, but not sensitive. I cannot hurt his feelings in this matter, only disappoint him.

"You don't have to be alone, you know. Just because you made a mistake with Jason it doesn't mean you're a bad person. It doesn't mean you have to stay in the dark. I literally live just down the road and you can phone Dick. You're not a monster. You're not." He says before releasing his grip and putting his mask back on. He smiles at me. "Happy Holidays Bruce." I shut the door and watch him leave without adding anything else. I understand his reasoning on the matter. That he is brave enough to offer such remarks to my face and not shy away when the topic demands full commitment is also admirable. I am aware I am not yet a monster, but I am also not ready to commit to a deeper more meaningful friendship with the boy at this time. I am inordinately fond of him and his company, more so than I could have ever expected to be at the outset of his tenure as Robin. Jack Drake is fortunate to have been blessed with such a son. That is why I cannot commit. I am afraid of hurting him.

I loved both Dick and Jason with equal affection. Both their tenures in the Robin mantle yielded similar and impressive scalps in the criminal underworld and both their childhoods ended in a blaze of anger, tears and…at least in Jason's case, blood. I fear I am beginning to love Tim just as much as either Dick or Jason. That means that violence and death wait for him further down the path if I continue to act as his shadow. His mother has already paid with her life. That is why I must limit our interactions to those of a business-like nature. I must make him keep his distance if only to spare him more heartache from being involved with my crusade. It is not only the right thing to do: it is the ONLY thing to do. I return my equipment and suit to the armoury, put on my dressing gown and begin my ascent to the house.

"I do not believe that one will ever be contented with merely a professional relationship, Sir." I look over my shoulder and see Alfred emerge from the vehicle park wearing coveralls and carrying a toolbox. I tasked the old man to check the suspension and shock absorbers on the Bat mobile in Robin's absence. Evidently the job also has other uses it can lend itself to, namely eavesdropping.

"Am I to take it that you have completed your checks, Alfred?" I say descending from the few steps I have climbed in order to meet him near the command centre. The old man nods.

"You are back early, Master Bruce. I did not expect your arrival for several more hours. It is barely after eleven. I was also under the impression you had granted the boy an extended absence from his duties to be with family."

"It seems he cannot stay away for too long. It's barely been six days since he left the cave. I think he enjoys being Robin a little too much."

"You and I both know it is not simply the mantle that compels him to keep returning here most evenings and weekends. It is also your company. It is remarkable that despite or rather because your efforts to the contrary, this boy still relishes your company more than that of any other person in his life, including his own father." The old man is something of a busybody. He is trying to insinuate that I am one of the most important people in Tim's life. Perhaps I am, but there is a reason for that.

"That is hardly surprising given his father's current condition and his preference for spending time here instead of pursuing a more active social life with his peers." I counter. Alfred almost looks bored by this response.

"Why must you pick fault with his life choices rather than your own?" I do not like the fact he alludes that blame lies with me and not anybody else. I barely restrain myself from snapping in issuing my reply.

"Why must you always try to impress upon me that he considers me his best friend? You are the one constantly getting these adolescents to gravitate towards me like I'm some kind of lighthouse beacon in an otherwise dark landscape. I told you that after Jason I would not become involved with another one on anything but a professional level. That was a strict rule."

"With all due respect, Sir, you began breaking that rule not long after you met him. You attended his mother's funeral and let him stay at the manor whilst his father was in hospital. The very reason you allowed him to try for the mantle was because you were emotionally invested in him as a person. When you see an adolescent with the right potential and drive as well as a tragic past, you simply cannot help yourself. I think its grand myself. Even after losing Jason, you still feel this overwhelming need to help someone reach their full potential."

"What are you saying Alfred? You want me to adopt another one for you to dote on? Perhaps you would prefer it if I paid his father off for the privilege of raising his son." The old man adopts an expression of irritation and lethargy at my retort. He dismisses the conversation with an errant wave of his hand.

"Very well, Master Bruce, if you're going to be childish about the matter, forget I spoke." He says setting the toolbox down and beginning to stride past me to the stairs.

"Did you really expect anything more of me, Alfred? It's been two years and it's still…raw." I tell him expecting him to stop at the mention of Jason's death. But the old man continues his journey without even slightly slowing his pace.

"That is only because you keep opening the wound up, Sir. The truth is you do not want it to heal. You are afraid of letting yourself and letting him go. Let it be known that this behaviour and isolation is not simply disapproved by me: Master Jason would also look down on you for freezing such a wonderful boy out of your affections because of his death." Alfred says with more than a trace of venom as he nears the summit of the stairs and the entrance to the library. The old man stops at the penultimate step to turn and regard me. "I believe the words he would use to describe you at this moment would be a 'pussy-faced bitch'. And he would be correct." He says with a thin smile. I say nothing in reply. Seemingly satisfied with himself, Alfred resumes his journey. "In or out, Master Bruce, sink or swim as they say."

I stand in the dark for a long time after the old man's departure. Then I make my choice. At just after midday on Christmas day, I knock on Tim's door.