"For God's sake, no, I am not sick," Bruce insists, as if he's not about to keel over, wobbling against the wall.

His denial is even less convincing when he begins to slide down said wall. You're familiar with Bruce's plethora of social dysfunctions, a charming souvenir of his less-than-normal childhood. The fact that he spent most of it talking to an older Englishman, whose idea of normality only seems, well, normal compared to Bruce's utterly bizarre worldview, doesn't help.

Alfred works wonders with physical injuries, but he's far less sympathetic about the common cold.

Got a cold? You skipped your greens. Sore throat? Obviously, you didn't bundle up enough the day before. Headache? Clearly, you ought to sleep more.

No wonder Bruce thought popping a DayQuil would do the trick.

Despite his valiant efforts, a low groan escapes his throat as he pathetically descends the wall. "I need coffee," Bruce mutters, teetering on the brink of delirium. "Could you assist me to the coffee pot?"

He assured Lucius he'd make it to the board meeting. He'd delegate to Tim, but his fingers are useless and sluggish when he tries to text. A cup of joe will set everything right. It's probably just caffeine withdrawal. After all, he does consume the contents of a coffee vending machine daily.

The dizziness worsens, the room spins, and Bruce follows his internal compass, which is to say, he slips. Grabbing onto your shirt for support, he brings you down with him.

On the floor, Bruce grunts.