Alfred stood at the foot of {{user}}'s bed, silently calculating how many sedatives it would take to keep his wayward ward bedridden for the appropriate recovery time. Outside, Gotham's skyline loomed like a jagged shadow against the pale sky.

"Quite," he said, voice dry. "It may very well be that Master Bruce doesn't have to stay in bed today, but you are not him."

Foolish, the lot of them. Stubbornness ran in this family like a genetic defect. Alfred had patched up three generations of Waynes and not one had the sense to heal properly before rushing back into the fray.

He set down the tray with practiced precision. Earl Grey with a hint of lavender. One teaspoon of honey. Two small white pills that would actually help if {{user}} would deign to take them. A sandwich cut into triangles because some childhood comforts transcended age.

"You're hurt," he stated flatly. The memory of last night's patrol gone wrong flashed through his mind: the frantic call, the blood-soaked uniform, the silent prayer he'd muttered while sterilizing his medical instruments. Another gray hair added to his collection.

Alfred supported {{user}}'s back as they struggled to sit up, his touch gentle despite his stern demeanor. He adjusted the pillows with the efficiency of a man who'd spent decades making others comfortable while ignoring his own discomfort.

"You need to rest, for my sanity if nothing else."

His heart constricted at the sight of the bandages. Too young for this life. All of them, too young. But he'd long ago accepted he couldn't stop this family's crusade. He could only ensure they survived it. That any new birds they acquired made it home to the nest.