Alfred feels good. In fact, he feels great. Truly, he feels better than he's felt in a long while, at least in the physical sense. The emotional sense of feeling is a different matter: Alfred feels as unsettled and unsure and worn and worried as he perhaps has ever been.
Scrambling to his feet, Alfred gets up, looking down at the floor and carefully avoiding Dick's shoe, which had slid several inches across the floor as Alfred had just accidentally trod upon it and then fallen. As soon as he is situated upright, Alfred turns toward the counter, promptly switches the oven and its timers off, and takes a deep but shaky breath. And then-
He raises his gaze.
He locks eyes with Tim.
He stares.
And Tim stares back, eyes wide, skin grayed, jaw agape.
At any other time, Alfred might stifle a laugh at Tim's bewildered look or teasingly chuck the boy under the chin or comment about open mouths catching flies.
And yet, this is not any other time.
Alfred stares at Tim. Tim stares at Alfred. They both stare at each other soundlessly until the sounds of thundering footsteps rush down the hall outside, and Bruce and Dick fly into the kitchen, and Alfred is forced to look away.
"Tim, Tim, what happened?" Dick shouts as he skids to a stop.
Bruce says nothing, but as he halts and looks around, his shoulders are drawn taut and his hands are up and ready in fists, in a determined battle pose.
Tim says nothing either. When Alfred glances at him, Tim is distinctly not in a determined battle pose. In fact, he looks the furthest thing from determined.
"What happened?" Dick demands again, slightly quieter, looking around with a wild gaze.
Tim takes a step back, away from Alfred, but away from Bruce and Dick too, more toward the corner of the room than anywhere else.
Alfred watches. When Tim had touched him…
"What?" Dick presses heavily. "You screamed down to us for help, and as we got up here, we heard you call to Alfred, and we're here, and what happened? What do you need? What can we do?"
"Tim," Bruce says, cutting Dick off. "What's going on?"
Tim takes another step back.
Bruce sighs. "Alfred? A little help here?"
Alfred wishes to help. But he has no solid way to help, and to make the matter worse, he has no words. He's struck speechless, but far from thoughtless. His mind races, trying to make sense of it all. The moment when Tim had touched him…
"If this is some kind of prank," Bruce says warningly but falteringly, as if he isn't quite sure what he's accusing.
Now it's Alfred's turn to take a step back. He steps away from Bruce and Dick, but not away from Tim. He leans against the nearest kitchen wall heavily. At that very instant, the moment when Tim had touched him…
Bruce falls silent.
Moving gingerly, Alfred brings his hand down to his hip. He presses against it carefully. There's no pain. It's like there has never been any pain. Slow but sure, Alfred removes his hand from his hip, and considers. At that very instant, the moment when Tim had touched him.. Alfred was completely healed.
Certain now, Alfred reaches his hand out toward Tim.
Tim gives a choked sound and scurries several more steps back. He's fully in the corner now, his back against both of the walls. His every breath shudders, like he's trying not to cry.
Alfred leaves his hand out in the air, reaching toward Tim. He doesn't look away from the boy, but he does finally find his voice. "I was cooking. Getting ready for dinner. I didn't look where I was going. And I fell."
"You fell?" Bruce says, his voice just on this side of panic. Alfred can hear him take a hurried few steps closer.
Alfred takes a step closer to Tim in turn. "I fell. Hard. I do believe I shattered my hip."
Bruce makes a hurt noise that sounds rather like he's been punched in the throat. It's a sound Alfred has only ever heard before when Bruce is on patrol and has truly been punched in the throat.
"But you're standing," Dick says faintly. "How-"
"I shattered my hip," Alfred says, his voice firm but not sharp. He carefully takes another step toward Tim, who's shrinking even further into the corner. "Past-tense. It was shattered. It isn't now."
"How?" Dick says again, more urgently.
"I'm sorry," Tim says, the first thing he's said since Alfred was in agony on the floor. His chest heaves. His eyes water. He presses back against the walls, and he speaks in a voice so thick with emotion that the words are a bit hard to make out. "I'm, I am so, I can't, I, I'm so sorry."
"You're sorry?" Dick repeats. He sounds concerned.
"You're sorry," Bruce repeats. He sounds confused.
"You're sorry," Alfred repeats. "What for?"
"I'm sorry for lying," Tim manages to get out.
Bruce makes a hurt noise again.
"You didn't lie about needing help," Alfred says, trying to keep his tone as even and gentle as possible. "I fell. I needed help. And, though it seems impossible, or at least implausible, I believe you helped me."
A strangled sob escapes Tim. "I'm sorry! I lied, I'm sorry! Please!"
"You lied about what?" Alfred says, his tone even and gentle and nowhere near resembling the dismayed, distressed trembling his heart is currently doing.
"I lied about what I am," Tim says. He's looking down. After a moment, he sinks to the floor, coming to rest on his knees. He keeps looking down, and he offers up, "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to, but I really did, and I'm sorry I lied about what I really am, I'm so sorry!"
Alfred dreads the answer. But he has to ask the question. "Who really are you?"
Tim sobs for real now. He bows his head and clenches his fists in the stomach fabric of his shirt, bending over as if to make himself as small as imaginably possible. Another achingly deep sob bursts forth. "Not who. What. I'm a what. I'm a metahuman."