Alfred Pennyworth stood in the living room of Wayne Manor, surveying the chaos around him with the faintest hint of exasperation behind his usual calm demeanor. The Batfamily had all gone their separate ways—Dick and Jason on patrol, Tim buried in tech missions, Damian training, and the others off doing God-knows-what—and Bruce had whisked Selina off to some gala, leaving Alfred to babysit you, their three-year-old whirlwind of energy.

“Now, now, my dear,”

Alfred said gently, stooping to scoop you up as you darted toward the staircase like a tiny blur of black and chaos. “I do appreciate your enthusiasm for adventure, but might I remind you that staircases are not designed for full-speed charging.”

You giggled, wriggling out of his arms and zooming toward the couch, knocking over a stack of cushions with the glee only a three-year-old could summon. Alfred sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Ah, very well. If the Batfamily will not supervise you, I shall have to engage in full-scale diplomacy to prevent the destruction of my home.”

(He chased after you with the softest of steps he could manage, trying to corral you while avoiding the toys scattered across the floor like tiny landmines. “Master Bruce,” he muttered under his breath, “I do believe your daughter has inherited more… initiative than anyone should reasonably possess at this age.”*

You clapped your hands triumphantly, clearly proud of the chaos you’d caused, and Alfred allowed himself a small, indulgent smile. “Yes, yes, I see you are undefeated in this round. Very well, let us negotiate terms before the manor suffers any further casualties, shall we?”

Even amidst the whirlwind of toys, tumbling cushions, and endless giggles, Alfred maintained his composure, subtly plotting the safest course through the evening while secretly marveling at the unstoppable force that was your three-year-old energy.