This was inspired by a headcanon post from oh-mother-of-darkness over on Tumblr about permanent injuries/conditions members of the Batfamily would have.

You can find the post here, just remove the spaces: bit. ly/ 2TVzQ5A

Mid-July sunshine flooded Alfred's study with warmth and light as he sat at his desk. Two slices of whole-wheat toast with butter and black current jam sat next to a perfectly-brewed cup of steaming English breakfast tea. The scent of freshly-mowed grass wafted in through the open window, in addition to the soothing coo of a pair of mourning doves that perched themselves beneath that same window.

Alfred paid none of it any mind as he leaned back in his chair, re-reading the paragraph he'd just finished typing. He was working in Dick's medical file after receiving a note from Damian about Dick's recent knee injury, adding a few last-minute updates before he went on his annual three-week holiday. He kept extensive charts on everyone he cared for, from Bruce all the way down to the newest members, Duke and Harper. These were files which he shared with no one, apart from Doctor Thompkins, as no one in this family could be trusted not to remove pertinent information about themselves so they could continue to work when sick or injured.

However, after Tim was injured last year while he was away, Alfred realized he needed to grant someone access to this information, just in case. For a moment he considered sending it all to Tim, as he could be trusted not to alter the files at all, but he immediately decided against doing so, as it would bring down even more stress on the young man's shoulders. Therefore, the responsibility would fall on Bruce, as it rightly should.

With a wry smile, he took a bite of his toast, then a sip of his tea as he switched to finish reading Damian's note. The remainder of it wasn't actually about Dick; it was a note written to him wishing him well on his holiday and politely requesting a photograph or two from any of the countries he may visit. He carefully folded the note, slid it back into its envelope and tucked it into a desk drawer reserved for things like Damian's note. Alfred kept every sketch he'd been given, along with holiday and birthday cards.

The family portrait hanging above the fireplace caught his attention, and he leaned forward to rest his elbows on the desk while he finished his tea. Damian struggled quite a bit when they thought Bruce passed away, and he was utterly petrified that Dick might be next. In an effort to cope with that fear, Damian began keeping notes about Dick's health: what he ate for meals, any injuries he sustained, how much he slept, and so on. The notes or phone calls came almost daily at first, to the point he nearly had to ask Damian to stop.

But he knew it was a way for Damian to process what he was feeling. He never said anything, and eventually the calls and notes dwindled to every two or three days, to once a week, and then to monthly summaries. About a month and a half after Bruce came back, the updates ceased completely. And that was why Damian's latest note was so curious. Dick was back to taping his shoulder before patrol again, which either meant he was simply trying to prevent further injury, or he was already injured and was trying to prevent it from getting worse. Considering he hadn't received any kind of note from Damian in nearly eight months, he decided to err on the side of caution and flag this most recent entry for Bruce to follow up on in his absence.

With a smile, he finished his tea, copied each of the files and moved them off his private directory and into the medical directory on the cave's computer network. The only thing left to do was to change his clothes and he would officially be in holiday mode. He shut down his computer and glanced up at the grandfather clock across the room. It was only just after eight-thirty and Jason wouldn't arrive to take him to the airport until ten-thirty.

Two hours was a long time to wait.

Perhaps he still had time to pull some weeds from the bed of flowers beneath his window.

Bruce sat down in front of the computer in the cave, sipping on a cup of black coffee. Damian was playing with Titus somewhere behind him, his deep, excited bark echoing through the cave.

He was scrolling through several folders of intel Dick had flagged from last week when he noticed the blinking green icon in the lower right hand corner. It was a notification about a new file directory from Alfred's private server. That was odd; he didn't know Alfred kept files that large anywhere other than the server down there.

Damian's hand on his shoulder startled him and he nearly sloshed coffee onto the keyboard.

"Father, I'm taking Titus out for his walk before patrol. Is there anything you need me to do before we go?"

He tore his gaze from the screen long enough to smile at Damian and scratch Titus behind his ears.

"No, go ahead. Take your time- it's nice out this evening. Be back for dinner by seven; Tim's bringing takeout from that Italian place by his apartment."

"Come on, Titus. You ready for your walk?"

Titus barked again and bounded up the stairs, Damian sprinting behind him.

Bruce turned his attention back to the computer and opened the directory, reading over the list of files. Everyone had a folder, and based on the size of each folder, there was an enormous amount of data in them. He opened his own and saw more folders with labels like 'Imaging' and 'Bloodwork'. The largest file was labeled 'Medical History'.

He shook his head in amusement as he opened the file, having to wait several seconds until it displayed on the screen, it was so large. Leave it to Alfred to have his own private medical record system, and he had a feeling this was much more extensive than the files he kept himself.

He couldn't help the smile that tugged at his lips as he read through it. It was well-documented that Alfred had a steel trap for a memory, and it showed in the detail in how he summarized the injuries and illness Bruce had as a child. The bout of pneumonia he contracted when he was seven. The broken finger after he accidentally closed the lid of the piano on his hand. A tonsillectomy when he was six. It was all there, as was Alfred's treatment regimen. Hot showers for the pneumonia. Chocolate chip cookies for the broken finger. Ice cream after the tonsillectomy.

As he finished reading the section from before he left Gotham, a sense of nostalgia swelled in his chest and he began to laugh.

If Alfred was this kind about the injuries and illnesses of Bruce's childhood, he couldn't wait to see how the tone changed when he started looking after Bruce as Batman.