"Good morning, Master Bruce."
"Go 'way Alfred." Squeezing his eyes tightly, Bruce tried as hard as possible to shut out the light brought in by the windows. There was a loud swishing noise and the light burned his eyelids. He squinted at Alfred's darkened form.
Pushing into the comfortable mattress, Bruce attempted to sit up and fell right back into the cushioned warmth. The room spun viciously, leaving him dizzy and with an uncomfortable pit in the bottom of his stomach.
Alfred leaned forwards. Bruce instinctively jerked back, but Alfred ignored him, placing a chilly hand against his forehead. "You've got a fever."
"I do not." I can't afford to, he silently amended, I'm the goddamn Batman, I can't get sick. His second try to get up was a failure, resulting in him leaning against the headboard, trying not to throw up the clam linguine that had been last night's dinner.
With alarm he attempted to get out of bed for the third time, stumbling towards the door. Third time's the charm. He managed to get a foot from the bed before Alfred, like a giant English Sheepdog, herded his charge back.
Grumbling, Bruce was tucked back into bed, making a mental note to escape Alfred's clutches. "Alfred, I can't afford to be sick."
"Well Master Bruce, you are sick." As he headed out, the Wayne's faithful butler turned, "oh, and Master Bruce. Don't try to leave the room. I have the key."
With horror, Bruce watched Alfred leave; shutting and locking the door behind him.