"Alfred's sick," a distraught Bruce Wayne spoke more out of factuality than sympathy. He knew that the old man's influenza wasn't life threatening. In fact, he was expected to recover within two weeks, thanks to the assuring words of Dr. Leslie Thompkins.
Dick, Jason, Tim, and Damian sat around the table, their question on why they weren't greeted with the precious scent of Alfred's cooking this morning was answered.
"He'll be fine, right?" Dick looked away from his mug of coffee, his blue eyes were ridden with unnecessary concern.
"In ten days from now, yes."
"So who's going to prepare my breakfast?" The youngest scolded at his father. "I told you you should've hired more servants."
"Alfred is not a servant." Tim chimed in while reading a newspaper, blasé to the kid's constant bitching even this early in the morning.
"Quiet, Drake!" Damian snapped at his adopted elder brother "This is all your fault. If you hadn't had the flu, Alfred wouldn't have-"
"Enough!" Bruce had to cut the conversation before it would blow out of proportion.
"So what are we gonna do now?" Jason grabbed a handful of his hair, thinking it would appease his oncoming headache.
"I can try making someth-"
"No."
They all cut off Dick, remembering the last time he'd tried to cook resulted in half of Gotham's fire department winding up at the Manor.
It was silent for a moment as all their faces had an expression of tiredness and annoyance. Except for Dick's. Dick's face was politely incredulous.
"Simmons Services," Tim finally spoke as he pointed to a boxed section in the paper. "A woman named Mabel Simmons is looking for employment." Tim bit his lip. "We can always hire a temporary butler."
They all moved towards the third Robin and looked at the gray newspaper. Tim wasn't lying.
Mabel Simmons. Sixty years old. She had white, curly hair, styled in a way that would have been popular forty years ago. Her thick, wide glasses covered her face, giving her a dorky appearance while a pleasant smile was plastered across her face.
"She seems nice" Dick stated, breaking the awkward silence.
"We'll give her a call." Bruce sighed.
******BREAK**********
Two hours after calling, the doorbell rang. Dick had been the one to answer the door, of course. He always had the habit of showering guests down with excessive amusing, yet annoying kindness.
Madea was the replica of her profile picture. She wore a flower print dress with white socks pulled up to her knees. Dick glanced down to the nametag on her left chest.
"Good evening, 'Madea'."
She tilted her head.
"How yer dern,"