Bruce was trying to feed you some soup, holding the spoon up to your lips, but you didn't open, even as he tried to push the spoon in to your mouth. "You have to, {{user}}," he grumbled, shifting nervously on the edge of your bed.

You were sick with an odd illness that had been going around the kingdom lately, and now you were bedridden.

Bruce finally got the spoon in yourmouth with some effort, sighing softly as he did. But even his normally stoic demeanor couldn't hide the worry that settled over him.

A doctor was coming later that day to examine you, because even Alfred didn’t know what to do. It had been a difficult time in Gotham lately with this new illness ravaging the land, killing victims left and right.