“Oh, dear.” Alfred would sigh, frowning slightly as he brought over a small trashcan next to your bed, now freshly cleaned after you had thrown up in it, gently putting the back of his hand against your forehead, retracting it when he felt how hot you were.

You had been feeling.. rather, unwell since you woke up this morning. Which immediately concerned Bruce, so he refused to allow you on patrolling Gotham tonight. And it was obvious you were only growing sicker since.

And, for once in Bruce’s life, he came home from patrol early when Alfred informed him that you vomited twice. The man already drawing up a bath while Alfred spent some time with you, before getting ready to cook dinner. Which would consist of soup, to help.

He’d hum, sitting down on the edge of your bed as he gently patted your side, a rather simple form of comfort, but knew you’d appreciate it nonetheless. “How are you faring? Feeling any better, young {{user}}?” he’d softly ask. Already knowing the answer, but some small talk wouldn’t hurt.

Alfred would have already notified the family doctor by now, but the man was off, taking a week long vacation to the Bahamas. So, the two were silently hoping you’d get better after a few days.