Alfred has put up with a lot these last years.

He's raised a man that suddenly decided vigilantism was a good career. In fact Alfred has raised so many vigilantes, he wonders if he should start hiding black-haired, blue-eyed children from Master Bruce.

He's kept them alive. Not only by bandaging their cuts and stitching their wounds, but his precious, talented, intelligent idiots still haven't internalized the concept that human bodies need food and sleep.

Even now he plays with the idea of strapping life monitors to the boys' wrists. Boys, because the Girls haven't quite mastered the art of self-destruction yet. Perhaps he can even set recorded alarms of, "Master _, it has been over 18 hours since you last ate." Or "Master _ did you know hallucinations are a sign of sleep deprivation? Master _ it's been over 3 days...Do not make me come out of the Manor to get you, Master _"

Alfred tries not to think how many family 'deaths' he's endured. The sharp pain of "No, please. Not this again." If Master Bruce stays dead this time he will find a spare Batmask and eat it. Besides if anyone can find Master Bruce...it's Master Timothy.

Alfred hadn't thought his task load was overwhelming. True, molding the oldest and always angry youngest into a crime fighting duo is a challenge. Playing skeleton crew on the Batmonitor, directing, with help from Barbara, is tiresome. Trying to lure Master Jason from the underground for a decent meal is frustrating, and one day, one day, Alfred will twist off that boy's ear for making him worry so much.

But what Alfred didn't plan on was breaking his leg.

He had been playing backup sniper...using tranquilizers but of course. Batman and Robin had found a decent-sized drug chain to bust and capturing over a hundred people can be quite tedious. Alfred may have not been as spry as he used to be, but he hadn't been in the Queen's service for nothing.

Besides, the way each thug collapsed and ate pavement was truly poetic.

It had been a job well done, so of course it was time for something to go wrong. Alfred tries to count his blessings.

At least he had been able to put away all the equipment beforehand.
At least the rusty emergency ladder had given out near the bottom, instead of the top.
At least it had been only 7-8 feet.
At least he hadn't screamed when he landed. When he heard the sickening crack of his hip.

Then again Alfred had been trained much better than that. He was even able to keep most of the pain out of his voice as he called Master Richard.

"Master Richard I—"

"Alfred, you were AMAZING! I've never seen so many people hit the floor at the same time! No wonder Jason wanted you to teach him how to shoot—"

"Dick. I require assistance."

"Alfred, what's wrong?" His voice sharpened. It's rare for Alfred to call him just Dick.

Alfred cannot believe he's going to say this.

"I seem to have fallen...and cannot get up."

Alfred has never seen his boys move so fast.