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Despite what Alfred would lead you to believe, Bruce did his best to ensure his body would perform at peak capability at all times. Sure, he swung from rooftop to rooftop with six stitches in his side but he was meticulous with wound care and has never gotten it infected after that one time in his youth. Bruce was diligent. He was up-to-date with every vaccination under the yellow sun and even some alien ones. He ate multivitamin gummies every day. He had a protein bar chock full of calories and nutrients that would sustain him the entire day when he was busy. (Which was always and Alfred always scoffed at him and said it was unhealthy but Bruce was fine so take that, Al! His stomach will suffer for it? The copious amounts of coffee he drank disagreed.)
If anyone asked (which no one ever did because all they saw were the skipped meals and chronic lack of sleep and not the brilliant self-care), Bruce would tell them that it was to ensure he was battle-ready at all times. But Alfred knew the truth and Bruce knew that Alfred knew and Alfred knew that Bruce knew that Alfred knew and– Point is, there was a secret hidden reason that Bruce was trying his absolute best to take to the grave and beyond (too many people walked out of their graves nowadays). Unfortunately, it really wasn’t up to him.
^..^
Bruce had seen the symptoms coming from a mile away. He doubled his intake of vitamins for that semi-placebo effect, ate one blueberry, a slice of apple (you know what they say about doctors and apples; his mother used to eat apples whenever she was mad at his father) and had three actual meals (which resulted in Alfred giving him a side-eye the entire day; you would think the man would be happy that he was eating his cooking without being cajoled into it for once). Bruce even halved his coffee intake and slept for a full seven hours. It was a miracle. Bruce was taking care of himself so well. (Alfred made so many snide remarks but still had the audacity to wonder why Bruce was so snarky all the time. Have you ever heard yourself speak, Sir?)
So when Bruce woke up at way-too-early o’clock feeling less than fine, he briefly considered taking up Waylon’s offer to ‘eat him until there was nothing left’. Not seriously, of course. He wouldn’t do that to Waylon. The man was doing so well recently and it would be a major setback to his progress. However, Bruce was feeling quite shit right now and would like the sweet release of death and being able to provide sustenance to another in his death was quite appealing. It would be like a sky burial without the hassle of chopping his body and fewer vultures and more human crocodiles. It also had the added bonus of ridding Bruce of this burning fever and whatever the hell was going on with his nose and throat.
“Master Bruce,” Alfred’s wry voice cut through his thoughts.
Bruce poked his head out of his cocoon of blankets and blinked up at Alfred. The sun had not even risen yet and Alfred knew that Bruce did not wake up until after noon unless he had a meeting.
“You always wake up at dawn when you are sick,” Alfred explained, answering the unspoken question.
Bruce glared at his surrogate father and got a single raised eyebrow in return.
“I tried my best to allay the symptoms but alas, the virus had already taken hold in your systems. You have the flu, my boy,” Alfred dryly reported, as if he had not just announced Bruce’s immediate future of painful suffering and eventual death, fated to be confined in bed until he drew his last breath, filled with regrets and wistful dreams. (For example, if only the person that infected him could be sentenced to the deepest layer of hell to suffer as Bruce is and more.)
“Oh, stop with the dramatics.” Alfred placed a cool hand on Bruce’s forehead and it was only because it felt nice that Bruce levelled down his glare to a simple pout. How did Alfred always know what he was thinking anyway? He wasn’t even speaking.
“You’re mouthing everything you’re thinking, Master Bruce.”
Bruce jutted his lower lip out further in a more pronounced pout and pulled his blanket over his mouth. Somehow he doubted it did much against Alfred’s particular brand of telepathy.
“None of that now. Sit up, eat and then you can take your medicine.”
Bruce whined and shuffled further into his covers. He didn’t want to eat. Bruce was going back to sleep and was going to wake up at a reasonable time! And when he woke up, he wasn’t going to be sick because being sick was awful and he hated it!
“You can only get better if you eat.”
The flu-infected man poked his head out of the sheets once more. “Alf-red,” Bruce croaked, pushing his hoarse voice through his irritated throat. “I want you to feed me.”
Alfred sighed and sat along the edge of Bruce’s bed. He sat the man up and supported Bruce’s head on his chest – something he has always done since Bruce was a child – and grabbed the bowl from the bedside table. Alfred blew on the fragrant (not that Bruce could tell what with his blocked nose) egg drop soup and wrapped his arm around Bruce’s shoulder, feeding him with all the patience and care in the world.
When the bowl was emptied, Alfred shifted behind him but Bruce latched onto his hand and refused to let go.
“Master Bruce,” Alfred sighed again.
“Alfred,” Bruce whined.
“I must prepare breakfast for the young sirs and ma’am.”
“It’s only 6, they won’t wake until at least 11.” Bruce directed upturned eyes at Alfred, wobbled his bottom lip and released his ultimate weapon, “please.”
A little-known fact about Alfred: he was absolutely weak against the deadly combination of puppy eyes and manners. This was something that Bruce took merciless advantage of many times in his youth and only used very sparingly as an adult (dignity and all that). The kids would call bull, citing every time they tried to beg Alfred to extend bedtime, or order in junk food or escape punishment, but the fault lay in the weakness of their puppy eyes (alright, maybe their puppy eyes were the opposite of weak and Bruce fell for them every time but Alfred was the real target, not him).
The truth of the matter was that Baby Bruce had the singular most devastating puppy eyes in the entire world. He was cuter than cute, with big round eyes, an adorable little button nose, and lips that so easily formed lovely smiles and impish pouts. He was a little cherub, Alfred’s baby angel who could do no wrong. All Baby Bruce had to do was to look up at Alfred, jut out his lip every so slightly and say please, and Alfred was a goner, he’d gone and taught his little boy how to incapacitate a man in less than three moves.
Now that he was all grown up, Bruce no longer had that adorableness of his youth to assault Alfred’s heart. He did, however, have nostalgia, rarity and the fact that he was Alfred’s boy on his side. So, a pair of upturned eyes, pouty lips and a whispered please later and Alfred folded like a house of cards. Too easy.
“Alright. But only until 10.” Alfred placed the empty bowl and spoon on the bedside table and offered Bruce a glass of water along with the promised medicine. Bruce swallowed the tablet without complaining and snuggled against Alfred’s side as soon as the latter settled back into bed. Alfred turned the TV on to the episode of Gray Ghost Bruce had been watching a week ago and the two of them allowed the sounds to wash over them. Alfred ran his hand through Bruce’s hair, the regular motion helping to soothe Bruce’s headache.
“Alfred, remind me to kill Ollie when I’m better,” Bruce mumbled, his voice muffled in Alfred’s chest, not helped by his sore throat.
“And why is that, Sir?”
“He was sniffling and coughing beside me on monitor duty two days ago. He must’ve been the one to make me sick.” Bruce foolishly growled and threw himself into a coughing fit. Alfred rubbed circles into the sick man’s back and handed him a glass of honey lemon water for his throat.
“I’m afraid you were already sick at the time so it wasn’t Mr Queen that caused your illness.”
Bruce pouted. “...I’m still choosing to blame him.” He wasn’t even going to ask how Alfred knew he was already sick when Bruce himself didn’t know. Alfred hummed and carded his hands through Bruce’s sweaty hair again. The constant motion lulled Bruce back to sleep and soon he was slumping against Alfred and snoring.
^..^
Bruce woke up clutching a very plush and round Bat stuffie to his chest. How? When?? What??? Alfred????? Gray Ghost was still playing at a low volume on his TV but the person he was watching it with was gone. Alfred? Where art thou Alfred? Bruce had been forsaken. Abandoned. Left in the ditches to rot and die.
“Alfreeeeeeeeeed,” Bruce mournfully called out, sounding tragically like a lost pup howling at the moon for mother has abandoned him and left him to fend for himself. He wrapped his blankets around his shoulder and hugged his new stuffie to his chest (he did not know where it came from but it was his now and he was never ever letting it go. Their name shall henceforth be Basil). If Alfred wasn’t going to go to him, Bruce would just have to find him himself.
He stumbled out of bed, fighting against lightheadedness every ten steps and waddled through the ornate hallways while wrapped in his blanket like a burrito (a batrrito, if you even cared). Alfred was a cruel, cruel man for forcing Bruce to undergo such a perilous journey in his quest to find him. He was lucky Bruce loved him so much and was willing to brave even death for him. Otherwise, Bruce would have just stayed in bed and waited for Death to embrace him in her loving arms finally.
The walking batrrito hugged Basil with his eyes closed and allowed instincts to take over, leading him to the kitchen. Alfred was cooking pancakes on the stove, head down as he focussed on his task. “Master Bruce, what are you doing out of bed?”
Wha-? He didn’t even look up so how did he know?? Bruce hugged Basil tighter and whined accusingly at his butler. “You were gone.”
Alfred huffed and plated the fluffy pancakes. “I left a note. Clearly, you did not read it.”
Bruce pouted. “You left.”
Alfred set a cup of peppermint tea on Bruce’s usual seat at the table. “Sit there if you’re not going back to bed.”
“Alfred~ you said you were going to stay.” Bruce was starting to regret speaking so much – each spoken word felt like he was pushing rocks out of his throat – but it was important so it must be said. “You left me to dieeeeeeee, Alfieeeeee.”
“I said I will stay until 10. It is currently 11.” Alfred pushed the cup forward in silent command and Bruce reluctantly took a sip of the hot tea. It was– okay, it was actually quite nice for both his throat and annoyingly congested nose but Bruce was supposed to be mad at Alfred right now so he wasn’t going to admit it.
“I’m glad you like it, Master Bruce.”
Damn it. Bruce had forgotten about Alfred’s telepathy. One of these days, he was going to steal Alfred’s blood and test it for a metagene. It had tested negative the last six times he tried it but Bruce was sure the seventh time would be different.
“Father…?” Damian walked into the kitchen, already dressed for the day. His eyes raked over Bruce, taking in the beauty of the batrrito and lingering on the bat stuffie before settling on Bruce’s face. “Why are you dressed in a blanket?”
“I am a batrrito, Dames.”
Damian made a perplexed face and it was so cute that Bruce wanted to squeeze his cheeks. Alas, he didn’t want his son to be mad at him so he controlled himself. He settled for smiling adoringly at his child instead.
“Ignore your father, Master Damian. He has a tendency to act like a drunk when he is ill.”
“Father is ill?” Damian’s eyes widened. “I didn’t know Father could get sick.”
“Yes, I’m aware of the saying regarding idiots and illnesses. Unfortunately, it isn’t quite true.” Alfred placed a plate of pancakes and a glass of orange juice in front of Damian, the corner of his mouth lifting when he caught sight of Damian’s barely hidden smile. It was endearing enough to make Bruce’s annoyance at being called an idiot turn into fondness.
“If Father is ill, why is he here and not in bed?”
Bruce cleared his throat and winced when it almost triggered another coughing fit. “I’m here because Alfred abandoned me and left me to die all by my lonesome.”
“Your father is rather clingy and dramatic when he is under the weather. I had hoped the stuffie would deter this but alas, he had dragged his entire bed with him to the kitchen.”
“Exaggeration is unbecoming of you, Alf.” Bruce huffed in indignation. He did not drag his entire bed with him. “And the stuffie has a name.” Bruce lifted his new friend up, holding it under its wings. “His name is Basil.”
“Wonderful name, Master Bruce.”
Alfred had already turned back to cook up more pancakes and Bruce pouted at being ignored so he turned to Damian. The boy was staring at Bruce in an almost mystified sort of way. Bruce vaguely registered that it may have been his pout that caused it.
“Damian, will you join me in the living room to watch the latest episode of Runway High? Lena thinks Erwin is trying to break up with her but I think he’s actually planning to propose to her.”
Damian blinked three times. “I was not aware that you watched soap operas, Father.”
Bruce shrugged. “One of my ‘dates’ likes to watch them with me.”
By ‘date’, Bruce was of course referring to the group of lesbian and bisexual women that had a secret pact with Bruce. He would provide them publicity and help hide their sexuality while they protected him from high society vultures and help maintain his colourful reputation. Many of the women just assumed he was using them as beards as well and were more than happy to troll the media with him. Most of the time, when Bruce spent the night with one or more of his ambiguous friends, they were gossiping and catching up on TV drama. These nights were also a great way for Bruce to matchmake his beards.
“I’d be amendable to sitting on the couch with you, Father.” Damian shot a glance at Alfred and added, “after I finish eating, of course.”
Bruce beamed at his baby boy. Friendship ended with Alfred. Now Damian is my best friend. (Yes, Bruce knew memes. He has to know them in order to misuse them and make his kids cringe. It took time and effort to be cringy.)
“I advise you finish your meal too, Master Bruce.” Alfred set a bowl of soup in front of Bruce along with a bowl of buttered bread.
Bruce shot a betrayed look at Alfred. “But I already had breakfast.” His tone had adopted a whine distinct to teenagers when told to clean their room.
“You had a small bowl of soup four hours ago. Finish that so you can have your next dose of medicine.” Alfred’s tone left no room for arguments so Bruce settled for an exaggerated groan and started eating.
Duke had walked in at some point and just blinked at Bruce’s appearance. “What’s with the blanket?”
“Father is ill,” Damian explained. “He becomes a child when under the weather.”
Duke turned the statement over in his head as he sat down beside Damian. “Dick told me Bruce doesn’t get sick. Ever.”
“Master Bruce goes to great lengths to prevent himself from falling ill. The last time he got sick was November eighteen years ago.”
“How’s that possible? He falls into the harbour at least twice a month.”
“Anything is possible with multi-vitamins,” Bruce told him very seriously. His statement was undermined by the half-crazed look in his eyes and the sickly paleness of his face.
“Richard told me that Father would wear a gas mask around him whenever he was sick. Apparently, the rebreather made Winnie the Pooh sound like a horror story,” Damian shared, immediately debunking Bruce’s claim.
Bruce pouted. “I didn’t want to catch his cold but Dick wanted me to read him a bedtime story!” The cry of outrage was soon followed by a coughing fit and a dramatic cry directed at Alfred. “I am dying, Al! Coughing up my lungs like some french aristocrat dying of tuberculosis.”
Alfred just poured him some more peppermint tea and ruffled his hair. “How tragic, Sir. Do try to finish your soup before you die so that you may take your medicine.”
Duke snickered and got his phone out to quickly snap a photo of Bruce miserably dipping his bread in the soup, very visibly sulking in his blanket cocoon. He sent the photo to the group chat with the caption: Bruce is sick for the first time in eighteen years :p
Dickingale: !!!
Dickingale: whY IS HE IN A BATRRITO?!
Iwillstabyou: Father called it a batrrito too.
Iwillstabyou: Why do you both call it that?
Dickingale: He whAT?
Dickingale: OMFG
Dickingale: I KNEW BRUCE LIKED MY NAMING SCHEME
Dickingale: ‘iT’s ChilDisH DiCK, peoPLe SHouLd feAR bATman, nOT laUGh aT HiS weAPon NAmEs’
Dickingale: Bullshit, Bruce
Iwillstabyou: Father is reading over my shoulder and he is protesting. He says the names are bad because batarangs are shurikens, not boomerangs.
Dickingale: Batarang sounds better than batriken!
Mothsloveme: Lmao. Bruce just got scolded by Alfred because he won’t stop whining about batarangs and making himself cough. Now he’s sulking and aggressively dunking bread in soup
iT’s eGgPLanT: so, WHY is Bruce in a batrrito?
Mothsloveme: Alfred says he doesn’t have much experience being sick as an adult so when he does fall ill, he regresses back to a child. Apparently, that involves dragging his blanket everywhere and being extra clingy
Mothsloveme: This is a direct quote from Alfred: The last time Master Bruce fell ill, he would not let me out of his sight and followed me around like a lost child. He was also rather feverish and so would stumble every five steps. I forced him to stay in bed but as soon as I left his sight, he would cry like I had abandoned him. Once he was better, Master Bruce was so mortified that he simply refused to ever get sick again.
iT’s eGgPLanT: LMAO
iT’s eGgPLanT: Batman? More like Babyman!
Dickingale: OMFG
Dickingale: Is that why he would wear a rebreather around me whenever I got sick?
Dickingale: He treated me like I was contagious for days after I got better!
Big Brother: Batman’s greatest weakness: the flu
iT’s eGgPLanT: I wish I didn’t have this attend this stupid lecture so I can make fun of him to his face! :c
Big Brother: He’s not going to get better any time soon. I’m sure you can make it in time to see the big baby
iT’s eGgPLanT: u rite Babs
iT’s eGgPLanT: someone tell Alfred I’ll be there for dinner
Mothsloveme: He says he’ll prepare dinner for everyone
^..^
Cass wandered into the kitchen dressed in an oversized hoodie that used to belong to Bruce and froze at the sight of Bruce. She scrunched her nose in distaste and walked a few steps backwards. “Bruce, sick?”
“Yes, Miss Cassandra. Master Bruce currently has the flu.”
Cass nodded and pulled a rebreather out of her pocket. She fastened it to her face and signed to Alfred: I will eat after dad leaves.
^..^
Mothsloveme: Apparently Cass hates being sick as much as Bruce because she’s wearing a rebreather and is refusing to eat until Bruce leaves the room
Mothsloveme: Bruce is devastated but very understanding
Mothsloveme: He is eating faster and is urging Damian to speed up
Mothsloveme: Apparently they made plans to watch TV together
Iwillstabyou: Father made plans to watch TV. I am simply going to sit there with him.
Mothsloveme: Bruce just took Damian’s phone away. He wants Damian to focus on eating instead
Duckduckgoose: rip damian
Duckduckgoose: couldn’t be me
Duckduckgoose: i’ll just take out my spare phone
Dickingale: Timmy!
Dickingale: You’re up before noon!
Duckduckgoose: yes dick
Duckduckgoose: i do that sometimes
Big Brother: he had a lecture
Duckduckgoose: i had a lecture
Mothsloveme: Tim, Alfred says you’re not allowed in the manor unless you’re wearing a rebreather
Duckduckgoose: this is discriminatory towards the spleenless
Duckduckgoose: B should quarantine himself
Duckduckgoose: y should the rest of us suffer just because B is sick
Mothsloveme: Alfred says a sick Bruce is more stubborn than an injured Bruce. He won’t stay in his room unless someone stays in there with him
Duckduckgoose: what im hearing is that someone should sacrifice themselves for the betterment of the rest of us
Big Brother: Or you can just wear a rebreather
Big Brother: Or don’t go to the manor
Duckduckgoose: >:(
^..^
After a rushed breakfast (brunch?), Bruce and Damian relocated to the living room. Bruce was acting like a spurned Victorian mistress because Cass stole Basil from him to add to her collection while Damian was still recalibrating his mental image of his father to include whatever this was. Despite all that, the father and son pair were acting rather serene. Bruce suffered quietly as he watched his drama while Damian drew a sketch of his sulking father.
“Damian, honey, I don’t think I’m contagious right now and I’m very sleepy but I can’t sleep if I’m not hugging something,” Bruce suddenly said. He sat up from his slouched position on the couch and opened up his arms. “Can I hug you while I’m trying to sleep? You can leave once I’m asleep?”
Damian blinked once and twice and three times before he responded. “Can’t you hug your blanket?”
“But I’m using it.” Without even realising it, Bruce activated his Puppy Eyes. “Please.”
Damian recoiled backwards like he just got shot. He looked away from Bruce and did a double-take just to confirm what he was seeing. Damian thought Richard had the best puppy eyes in the world but to think Father was hiding this arsenal up his sleeves. Truly terrifying. Does the might of Batman know no bounds? “...Very well, Father. I shall concede just this once.”
Bruce beamed at Damian and it did not make Damian happy to be the cause of that smile, not at all! The little Robin was very cool and collected as he sat in his father’s lap because it was not a Big Deal, sir. Damian was not shy because he was cuddling with his father, because that was not what they were doing. Damian was just helping his father as he recovered from his illness. It just looked like they were cuddling because father had wrapped his arms and blanket around Damian and now they were horizontal on the couch and Damian could hear the steady thump thump of his father’s heart as he rest his head on his chest and ran his hands through Damian’s hair, but they were not cuddling, sir. Damian was simply being a filial son.
^..^
Mothsloveme: [Picture of Damian and Bruce cuddling on the couch, both asleep]
Mothsloveme: They’re cuddling!
Dickingale: awww Batcuddles!
Dickingale: I’m so jealous
StoptellingpeopleI’mdead: Why are two people who are allergic to physical affection cuddling?
Duckduckgoose: if u just read the rest of the chat ull know that b is a baby when he is sick and thus craves affection
StoptellingpeopleI’mdead: I know that dumbass
StoptellingpeopleI’mdead: What doesn’t make sense is the baby bat going along with it
Mothsloveme: actually, I watched what happened and filmed it
Mothsloveme: [Video of Bruce’s puppy eyes and Damian blushing as he allows Bruce to cuddle him]
StoptellingpeopleI’mdead: holy shit
StoptellingpeopleI’mdead: wtf was that?
StoptellingpeopleI’mdead: What the fuck?
Dickingale: I-
Dickingale: Boose???
Dickingale: puPPY EYES???
Duckduckgoose: this is why puppy eyes don’t work on Alfred!!
Duckduckgoose: he raised Bruce
Duckduckgoose: he gained immunity to all other puppy eyes
Duckduckgoose: our game is WEAK compared to Bruce
iT’s eGgPLanT: it’s as if Brucie was actually real
iT’s eGgPLanT: and combined with the soul of a baby golden retriever
iT’s eGgPLanT: to do whatever the fuck that was
Dickingale: if Bruce’s puppy eyes look like That now, what did they look like when he was a kid?
Big Brother: …
Big Brother: Alfred has a secret collection of home videos he watches whenever Bruce is being extra annoying
Big Brother: How much do you want to bet that Baby Bruce’s puppy eyes are in it?
Dickingale: Oh my god
Dickingale: Babs
Dickingale: Babs
Dickingale: we HAVE to watch it
Big Brother: They’re not digital! I can’t just hack Alfred’s computer to find them!
Duckduckgoose: no
Duckduckgoose: alfred must have made digital copies of them
Duckduckgoose: he’s hiding them in USBs
Mothsloveme: Cass says she’ll find them for us
iT’s eGgPLanT: FUCK YEAH
iT’s eGgPLanT: GO CASS
Dickingale: CASS!! WE LOVE YOU BABY SISTER
StoptellingpeopleI’mdead: YOU’RE MY FAVOURITE SIBLING
Duckduckgoose: BEST SISTER IN THE WORLD
Mothsloveme: She’s very smug right now
Mothsloveme: She’s already smug because she stole Bruce’s new toy (a bat plushie called Basil) and somehow you made her smugger
Dickingale: Cass deserves to be as smug as she likes
StoptellingpeopleI’mdead: She stole Bruce's toy?
StoptellingpeopleI’mdead: LMAO
StoptellingpeopleI’mdead: Queen shit
^..^
Damian woke up to his father’s snores in his ear and pulled his arm free from Bruce’s iron grip. His phone had been buzzing incessantly and Damian was more than annoyed by his sleep being interrupted by his siblings. He read the first texts he missed and mentally made notes to kill Thomas at a later date and skimmed through the texts as they derailed into mission plans to distract Pennyworth and steal his collection of videos. As childish and dangerous (due to the risk of enraging Pennyworth) as the plans seemed to be, Damian had to admit that he was also curious about the videos. Did they truly capture father’s puppy eyes in his youth? Or maybe something embarrassing instead? Something they could tease father about when he regained enough brain cells to feel shame?
“Shhh, go back to sleep, honey.” Bruce didn’t bother opening his eyes and simply hugged Damian tighter and pressed a kiss to his forehead. “Love you, Damian.”
Damian flushed red and hid his face in Bruce’s chest. “...I love you too, Baba.”
^..^
Bruce woke up the next day with his memories replaying in his head like a bad film. He hid his face in his arms and rolled around in mortification. Someone take him out right now or just erase his and everyone’s memories of yesterday, please!
“Ah, I see you’ve gotten over your cold.” Alfred walked into the room and pressed a hand to Bruce’s forehead. He seemed very unsympathetic to Bruce’s pain.
“Alfred. Did I really forcibly cuddle with everyone? Did Jason actually wrap me in my blanket like a sushi roll and throw me into bed?”
“Yes sir.”
“Alfred, why do you let me out when I’m sick? Next time, please just tranquilise me,” Bruce moaned.
Alfred just huffed and ignored him. “Miss Cassandra is banned from patrol for the next week.”
Bruce blinked. “Why? What did she do?”
“She tried to take something that wasn’t hers to take.”
Bruce cocked his head to the side. His brain still wasn’t fully online but he was pretty sure that Cass had successfully stolen Basil from him. Thanks to that, Bruce was able to cuddle with his baby boy but he was pretty torn up about it when it was happening.
“The other young sirs and ma’ams are also cleaning the batcave to make up for their crimes.” Alfred’s tone was steady but Bruce could hear the underlying emotion behind the calm facade. He decided he did not want to know. Whatever they did, they deserved the punishment.