Chapter Text
For three weeks following the fall of a meteor , a strange, particulate substance—dubbed "Gotham-Star-Dust" by a nervous media—had been appearing across Gotham City. The dust defied chemical analysis, its true nature remaining a baffling puzzle. Batman, viewed it as a personal affront. His obsession was a silent, driving force that kept him anchored to the investigation, even now as his head swam with a fever that had given him ridiculous dreams last night.
A persistent cough rattled Bruce’s chest, a deep, painful sound that spoke of a battle his body was currently losing. He was running on sheer willpower and a potent cocktail of suppressants, but the fever that had spiked the previous night refused to be ignored. Each time a wave of dizziness washed over him, he gripped the edge of the console, pushing the fatigue and the pain back into the recesses of his mind. He was The Batman; illness was an inconvenience, not a command to rest. Even if his butler technically had issued just that.
“Master Bruce, I do believe I told you to stay in bed until I had time to check you over. you were terribly sick last night” Alfred scolded gently as he entered the batcave with a thermometer.
Bruce gave a small, dismissive wave. His voice weak and raspy “I’m fine, Alfred. Just a little sniffle. I can’t stay in bed with that thing still in my city.”
Alfred’s expression softened slightly with concern, but his voice remained firm. “Nonsense, Master Bruce. You were burning up with a fever, and your head was swimming.”
“A gross exaggeration,” Bruce coughed, holding a hand to his head as a small wave of dizziness washed over him. He was seated at the main console, staring at the monitors with a stubborn set to his jaw. “I still haven't located the source of that strange magical dust that keeps appearing on the streets of Gotham. I need to–"
“You need to stop that sentence right there, Master Bruce,” Alfred interrupted, his voice dropping to a low, warning register that was rarely heard but always effective. “There are other capable individuals investigating the dust, Master Dick, Clark, Miss Zatanna, Constantine, even Harley and Ivy have been assisting with the research… need I list more, sir?”
Bruce gripped the edge of the console, the stubborn resolve in his eyes fighting the obvious fatigue. "They don't have my expertise. I need to handle this. It's too important to—" he trailed off with another racking cough that forced him to lean forward and press his forehead against the cool metal of the desk.
Alfred sighed, the sound heavy with disappointment. He walked around the console and placed a firm, warm hand on the back of Bruce’s neck, feeling the heat radiating off him. “This isn’t up for debate, Master Bruce. Your responsibility to Gotham begins with your health. Now, I shall take your temperature. If it is anything above one hundred degrees, you will go to bed and you will stay there. If I have to find you down here again, I assure you, we will be having a most unpleasant conversation about obedience and consequences.” The implication was clear, and it made Bruce swallow hard, the defiance momentarily draining out of him.
Bruce opened his mouth to protest, but the old butler's eyes held a fierce, unyielding look that brooked no argument. He knew that look. It was the promise of a long, painful discussion in Alfred's study, followed by the enforcement of the rules he was currently breaking. He sighed, the sound raspy and defeated. "Yes, Alfred."
"Open your mouth, any further protest and i daresay I will try to take it from the other end."
Bruce rolled his eyes and allowen alfred to put the termometer in his mouth.
"103.8.... bed master bruce..."
"Yes, Alfred." Bruce repeated
"Good. Now, go. And do not make me wait." Alfred watched as Bruce slowly pushed himself up from the chair, a slight stagger in his step, before turning toward the lift.
Bruce stumbled into his expansive bedroom, the air cool and dim. He threw off the silk evening robe he'd pulled on before heading to the cave and dropped onto the bed without bothering to pull back the covers. The soft mattress swallowed him, and he let out a long, shuddering sigh, his head pounding in rhythm with his pulse. He closed his eyes, fighting the urge to drift off. He had to get back down there. He had to check the monitors. He had to—”
“So you decided to head back to bed, Bruce?” Dick Grayson asked from the doorway bruce could almost hear the smirk on his face.
Bruce opened one eye, then reluctantly the other, wincing at the dull throb in his temples. He pushed himself up on an elbow, looking at his eldest son who was leaning against the door frame, impeccably dressed and looking far too energized for the state Bruce was in.
“Don’t start, Dick,” Bruce mumbled, his voice gravelly. He sank back into the pillows. “It’s Alfred. You know how he gets.”
“Not just Alfred, Clark said you were practically delirious last night, said he had to fly you back to the cave and you bitched that you weren't sick and were well enough to drive the whole flight.”
Bruce scowled at the mention of Clark. “He exaggerates.”
“No, he really doesn't,” Dick countered, sitting on the edge of the large armchair near the fireplace. He picked up a TV remote and idly flipped it in his hand. “He called me, actually. Said he was worried. Alfred made sure we all knew he was sending you to bed, with strict instructions.”
A deep sigh escaped Bruce. “I have to find the source of that dust.”
“And you will, but you’ll find it faster if your brain isn’t boiling in your head. Apparently the so-called Gotham-Star-Dust has made its debut appearance outside of gotham…. Metropolis….” Dick Added, a mischievous twinkle in his eye. “Clark and I are heading out in an hour to check it out. Alfred told me not to tell you, but I knew you’d throw one of you little tantrums if I didn’t update you on that.”
Bruce closed his eyes again, a low groan escaping him. “I’m not throwing a tantrum. I’m being responsible. That dust is my responsibility.”
Dick chuckled, “Sure, Bruce. Look, Clark is worried enough about the stuff appearing in his city. He doesnt also need to worry about his beloved pet bat running around in it with the ‘sniffles’ as you call it. You look like a tomato that’s been left in the sun.” He stood up, giving a mock salute. “Now, I’m off. Be good, or Alfred will tan both of our hides. He made it very clear: ‘Master bruce is to stay in bed and is not to be fed any information regarding the ongoing investigation that may excite or upset him’. And trust me, I don't want to be on the receiving end of a wooden spoon armed lecture myself.”
Bruce scowled as Dick headed for the door. “He doesnt use the wooden spoon on me,” he mumbled into the pillow, his voice muffled but carrying a note of petulant pride. “That’s for you and the others when you were children. I’m an adult. A world-renowned CEO. The Batman. Alfred would never.”
He hadn’t even finished the thought when the bedroom door opened again. Alfred stood there, He wasn't carrying a thermometer this time. His hands were clasped loosely behind his back, but Bruce knew what that posture meant.
Bruce looked to dick with a glare “you saw him grabbing it didn’t you?”
Dick’s smirk widened, completely unrepentant. “Let’s just say I happened to glance towards the kitchen entrance. He was quite meticulously wiping it down.” He pushed himself off the doorframe, a picture of false innocence. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go help Clark with the investigation. Good luck with your... discussion.” Dick slipped out the door, closing it with a soft but definitive click, leaving Bruce alone with his butler.
Chapter 2: The Spanking
Chapter Text
Alfred walked to the center of the room, his expression a perfect mask of calm disappointment. He slowly brought his hands from behind his back. The wooden spoon was indeed in his right hand, the familiar, well-worn object making bruce’s stomach lurch a bit.”
“Alfred I didn't actually leave! I just accessed the bat computer… and-”
“And you were not where I explicitly ordered you to be, Master Bruce,” Alfred's voice was quiet, but it resonated with a steel that Bruce had learned, over many years, to fear more than any super-villain's monologue. He took one slow step closer, the spoon—a thick, solid, olivewood utensil polished smooth on one side by years of unintended use—rested against his thigh. “The last time I checked, the main console of the Batcave was a significant distance from your bed.”
Bruce sank back against his pillows, the exhaustion and fever making his usual defiance crumble to dust. He looked small, pale, and thoroughly cornered. “I just needed to check the coordinates of the dust samples, Alfred. It’s a simple—”
“Simple disobedience, Master Bruce,” Alfred finished, his lips forming a thin, straight line. “ Clark had to physically carry you home last night. Do you think me a fool, sir? That I would not know your stubborn ways after all these decades? Do you think i believe for a second that if i don’t smack your backside now you wont be climbing out the window in about 10 minutes time? I came here because I thought you might benefit from a little… sample…. of what you will get if you try to leave the manor again. Sir. ”
"Alfred, please," Bruce pleaded, his voice thin, suddenly sounding far younger than his years. He pushed himself further back into the pillows, a purely defensive, childlike gesture. "It's just a cough. I'll be fine. I'll stay here, I promise. Just... just put that thing down."
Alfred did not move, the olivewood spoon resting casually against his thigh, yet radiating a profound sense of authority. "Your promise rings rather hollow at the moment, Master Bruce. I gave you a direct, simple instruction, and you chose to violate it. You know the rules of this house when you are under my care. Obedience is not optional, regardless of a cowl or a corporate title." He took another slow, deliberate step, closing the distance between them. "I have no doubt that your intentions were noble, but your actions were reckless and disrespectful to your own health and to my worry"
Bruce averted his gaze, shame mixing with the lingering lightheadedness of the fever. “I understand, Alfred. I just—”
“You will understand better in a moment, sir,” Alfred cut in, his voice firming one last time. He moved to the side of the bed, and sat. Then, he looked down at his charge. "Now then, Master Bruce. Over my knee. No more discussion."
Bruce felt a blush creep up his neck, a hot mix of shame, annoyance, and the sudden, vivid reminder of his childhood. He knew the script. Arguing would only make the discipline longer and the consequences more severe. He pushed himself up and swung his legs off the side of the bed. Every movement felt sluggish, his muscles aching with fever. He didn’t meet Alfred’s eye as he positioned himself. It was an awkward, undignified climb, but he settled into the familiar position. He rested his cheek against the blanket, a quiet, defeated sigh escaping his lips. He felt Alfred grip the waistband of pajama bottoms and briefshe old butler pulled them down with a firm, practiced tug, exposing Bruce’s pale skin to the cool air of the large room. The sudden vulnerability, even to Alfred, made the blush on Bruce's face deepen to a burning crimson.
Alfred paused, the spoon resting flat against the curve of Bruce's bare bottom.
He lifted the hand and brought the wooden spoon down for the first stroke. The sound was sharp, echoing slightly in the quiet room. Bruce gasped, a sharp, involuntary sound. It was a sting, a shocking heat that bloomed instantly across his flesh. The fevered aches in his body made the impact feel disproportionately severe he clenched his hands into fists, digging his fingers into the blanket beneath his head, fighting the childish urge to squirm or protest. His mind, already fuzzy from the illness, struggled to maintain a shred of his usual control. The second strike was harder, landing on the other cheek, sending a fresh wave of pain. A low whimper escaped Bruce before he could stop it, swallowed quickly by the pillows. As the strokes continued The wood was solid, unforgiving, and the rhythm was slow, deliberate, and entirely focused.
The pain was starting to coalesce, a deep, radiating burn now covering both cheeks. Tears pricked at the corners of Bruce's eyes, an unexpected, humiliating reaction he couldn't stop. He swallowed hard, trying to take deep, measured breaths The new swats landed squarely on the previous hits, causing Bruce to involuntarily arch his back, a silent, desperate plea for relief. Alfred's grip on his waist tightened, a non-verbal assurance that there would be no escaping.
“A-Alfred—! Stop! Please… I’m sorry! I… I won’t get up again. I promise, just… just stop!” The words were thick and muffled, forced out between clenched teeth and desperate, shallow gasps against the bedding. The shame was almost as hot as the burning ache blooming across his fever-sensitive skin. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to swallow the humiliating sting. The thought was a weak echo against the solid, unrelenting rhythm of the olivewood spoon.
Alfred's strong, steady hand tightened on Bruce's waist, a clear sign that the discipline was far from over. The rhythm of the strikes did not falter, though they were perhaps fractionally less powerful after the desperate plea.
“I believe you are sorry, Master Bruce,” Alfred's voice was low, and though it lacked anger, it carried a heavy weight of disappointment that stung more than the olivewood spoon. “A boy with a bottom as sore as yours, should be very sorry indeed. Now then My boy, You will stay in bed, you will rest, and you will allow your body to heal. Is that understood, without question, without protest, and without any further trips to the Batcave?”
Bruce could only manage a choked, defeated sound that was somewhere between a sob and a gasp. The pain on his backside was a fierce, radiating heat that was making his whole body tremble, exacerbating the throbbing in his fever-addled head. He pressed his face hard into the pillows, which were wet he hadn’t realized he’d been crying.
“Y-yes, Alfred,” he finally forced out, the words muffled and thick with a fresh wave of humiliation and sheer exhaustion. His voice was barely a whisper, the last remnants of his defiance completely broken. “Understood. I... I won't. I'll stay.”
Alfred gave one last, firm pat to Bruce's backside, a purely administrative gesture that nonetheless made Bruce flinch and press harder into the pillows. He reached down and, with gentle but decisive movements, pulled the pajama bottoms and briefs back up over Bruce's burning, smarting flesh. He waited a moment, watching the slight, fever-induced tremor that ran through Bruce's body. Then helped the men back into bed.
“I shall return with a cool cloth for your head and a fresh glass of water. And perhaps, a small, non-excitatory book. I expect to find you precisely as I leave you, Master Bruce. The investigation into the 'Gotham-Star-Dust' is in more than capable hands. Your job, in the meantime, is to rest.”
The door closed with a soft click, leaving Bruce alone in the dim, cool room. He remained exactly where he was, cheek pressed into the damp pillow, the rhythmic throbbing in his backside a searing counterpoint to the ache in his head. The humiliation was still a hot presence in the room, but beneath it, the exhaustion of the fever, the physical shock of the discipline, and the sheer finality of Alfred's authority began to drag him down. He let out a long, shaky breath, the pain a guarantee that he would not, could not, move. He was too sore, too tired, and too thoroughly chastised to defy Alfred's command. He closed his eyes, to exhausted to do anything but sleep.