Disclaimer: Still don't own anything Batman related.
A/N: Thanks for reading!
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"Hey, where's Bruce?" Tim asked. "It's almost time to go on the nightly patrol, and I haven't seen him."
Bruce had taken the rest of the day off, and was apparently still napping after his fiasco with the Joker. Dick had managed to stitch up his arm, but it just wasn't the same without Alfred around. It had taken ten minutes to find all the necessary medical supplies, and when he had finished, the stiches looked gory and uneven. (Of course Bruce fidgeting the whole time hadn't helped matters.) He had gruffly assured Dick that the stitches were 'perfect' and he felt fine. Dick didn't believe either statement.
Dick ran a hand through his hair and sighed. Sure he always appreciated everything that Alfred did, but it wasn't until the man was gone that he truly realized just how much the butler did on a regular basis. Not the least of which was keeping Bruce in line.
"Maybe we should let him rest," Dick suggested. Truthfully, he was slightly surprised Bruce was still asleep. He'd half-expected Batman to be stubbornly dragging himself to the Batcave by now. Dick hoped Bruce wasn't more injured than he had let on.
Tim, Dick, and Damian went down to the Batcave to suit up. It was then that they discovered that laundry doesn't do itself. At least not when Alfred wasn't around. Piles of discarded outfits and clothing lay in a haphazard pile near the laundry room.
"This is disgusting," sniffed Damian. "My outfit smells like raw sewage, and the spare is dirty as well."
"I, uh, guess we'll have to wash them?" Dick suggested.
Dick went to find some laundry detergent as Tim and Damian squabbled over how to load the washing machine.
"Damian, I'm pretty sure you can't stuff everything in at once. You have to separate out different colors and fabric types," Tim said, while beginning to sort through the gigantic mess.
"We don't have time for foolishness, Drake. Obviously the most efficient way to wash things is all at once so we can leave at a reasonable hour for patrol," Damian said while scooping and handfuls of clothing and stuffing them into the washing machine.
"Well, yeah, but- hey! What are you doing with my underwear?" Tim screeched.
Dick sighed again. It would be a long evening, and it was looking like they would be needing a new wardrobe very soon.
-o-
The washing machine made many strange thunking noises that they all agreed it had never made when Alfred was around.
"Hey, uh, are our uniforms supposed to look…shredded?"
Nightwing looked down into the washing machine and facepalmed. "Guys, don't tell me someone forgot to take the batarangs out of their uniform before putting it in the washing machine."
Tim gingerly picked up a corner of his suit. "Looks like that's what happened." He surveyed the shredded shirt and pants. The strong Kevlar suits were in tatters, and the washing machine had giant dents and gashes that were sure to give Alfred a heart attack when he returned. The batarangs were on the bottom of the machine, dulled and chipped from the destruction they had caused.
Nightwing picked up his costume, which was now, black, blue and holey. "Maybe we could sell them online as sexy Halloween costumes," he joked.
Tim stared glumly at the shredded uniforms. "Bruce is going to throw a fit."
"Nonsense. Father can easily afford more clothes."
"Alfred is going to throw a fit," Tim amended with a glance at the dented machine.
"Pennyworth's reaction is no concern of mine."
Tim rolled his eyes. "I'm sure you'll change your mind when he makes you scrub the bathrooms with a toothbrush.
Damian folded his arms and glared at Tim. "Ha! I'd like to see him try."
Dick facepalmed again. "Guys, please don't make this any harder than it has to be."
Tim and Damian glared daggers at each other back and forth, until Tim glanced away and Damian smirked victoriously.
"I think this is a sign," said Tim, gesturing towards the ruined machine and shredded uniforms. "A sign that we should all sit on the couch, eat pizza, and play video games until Alfred comes back. The house might be a mess, but we'll all be in one piece."
Dick looked at the washing machine of destruction and sighed. "I think you might have a point."
"Very well, Drake. I look forward to defeating you at video games."
-o-
When Bruce woke up it was already dark outside. His arm hurt, his head throbbed, and his throat felt dry. Maybe if I eat something I'll feel better.
The kitchen was full of junk food, and Tim and Damian lounged around with their feet on the table. They had one of the televisions set up at the end of the table, and were currently trying to beat the crap out of each other virtually with Metal Combat III: The Age of Swords.
Dick was attempting to make spaghetti and meatballs. The meatballs smelled burnt, and the spaghetti was so overcooked it was starting to emerge from the pot and slide onto the stovetop.
"Why aren't you out on patrol?" Bruce rasped.
"We thought about it," said Tim. "But then we decided it's too dangerous without Alfred. So we're just going to have our own vacation until he gets back." Tim glanced over at the stove. "And I think Dick is trying to summon the flying spaghetti monster."
"Hey, that's not funny," Dick complained, finally checking on his culinary monstrosity.
"What? If you cook those noodles any longer, Cthulhu is going to emerge fully formed from that pot."
Dick scowled slightly, and drained the spaghetti into the sink.
Bruce stared at the scene dumbfounded. He still felt dizzy and weak. Was he hallucinating? "So you're all just going to stay home and play video games?" he asked incredulously.
"Drake ruined my clothes, father," Damian whined. "All of my uniforms are torn, and I can't be seen in public until you buy me new ones."
"Hey, don't blame me," Tim countered while impaling Damian's character on screen. "You're the one who crammed everything into the washer."
Bruce rubbed his face. His stomach heaved and he could feel another headache coming on. Forget about food. Maybe it was better to leave Tim and Damian behind at the mansion. "I'll be leaving on my own then," Bruce said gruffly and stomped towards the Batcave.
Dick looked up concerned. "Are you sure you're feeling alright, Bruce?" He set the spaghetti back on the stove and started after Bruce.
"Grayson! You're just going to leave dinner in the sink?" Damian demanded. "What scandalous behavior!"
"Have Tim serve you," Dick shot back.
There were scuffles and shouts and fighting from the kitchen. At Bruce's last glance back, it appeared Damian was making Tim's vision of spaghetti monsters come true as he emptied the entire pot over the other boy's head.
-o-
Dick watched disapprovingly as Bruce made his way into the Batcave. He could barely walk straight, there was no way he was in any shape to go out on patrol. Dick wished for the fifteenth time that day that Alfred was around. The butler would know what to say in this situation.
"Bruce," Dick began as Bruce stubbornly opened the door to the Batmobile. "You don't look well. Maybe you should rest instead of patrol."
And indeed he didn't look well. Bruce was pale, and his hands shook as he steadied himself against the car. "I'm fine, Dick," he grit out. "Why don't you watch Tim and Damian tonight?"
Dick felt anger building in his chest at Bruce's dismissal of him. Bruce always had to be stubborn and overprotective and shut him out. "You're not fine," Dick replied, noticing blood dripping from Bruce's arm. "You've torn your stitches, and if Alfred was here, he'd make you stay home."
Bruce glared at him, something dangerous glittering in the depths of his eyes. "Don't tell me what to do," he growled.
Dick suppressed a shiver and glared back. "Someone has to. You're so stubborn you would have killed yourself years ago if it hadn't been for Alfred."
"Oh?" Bruce clenched his fist and banged it on the roof of the Batmobile. "And whose fault is that? Who's even more stubborn than me and need to be rescued all the time?"
Dick felt his face grow hot. "That's not fair! I was younger then." A part of him thought that this wasn't like Bruce, that something was wrong, but he was too angry to care. He found a roll of gauze and hurled it at Bruce. "At least take care of yourself if you won't let anyone else help you." Then Dick turned before Bruce could see how hurt he was and stomped out of the cave.
-o-
Bruce winced at Dick's dramatic exit. Quickly finding the pile of cleaned uniforms, he pulled his Batsuit out. He knew what he had to do, and Bruce pulled on his uniform, hardly noticing the rips and tears, and headed outside, into the night.