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Bruce knocked gently on the door, then twisted the knob and nudged the door open with a knee.
A child, pale and wilted, peeked an eye out from underneath the covers, and then pushed himself up onto his pillows.
“Hi,” Jason said, in a voice that sounded like death, freezer burned and then grudgingly microwaved back to room temperature.
“It’s time for dinner, kiddo,” Bruce said. “Chicken soup.”
“Did you make it?” Jason asked, his hoarse voice rising slightly.
“Of course,” Bruce said, easily, and only lying a little bit.
“It smells better than what you were making before,” Jason rasped. “I thought the kitchen was on fire.”
“Nothing was on fire,” Bruce told him, firmly. “The onions were just...well, I threw them away, so don’t worry about it.”
Jason pushed himself up against his pillows, and then pulled the tray closer to him. “This actually smells...super good.” He dipped the soup spoon into the bowl, and slurped up a small mess of carrots and noodles and celery. “This is good,” Jason said again, sounding surprised, and ate another spoonful. “It’s takeout, right?”
“Of course it’s not,” Bruce said.
“I’ve seen you cook,” Jason said. He leaned over the tray and inhaled the steam. Then he flopped back against the pillows, and coughed, pathetically. “Sorry. It’s too good to be you-soup, Bruce. It’s gotta be takeout-soup.”
Bruce said to him, solemnly, “On my honor as Batman, I cooked those noodles myself.”
“On your honor. As Batman,” Jay said, staring him dead in the eye.
Bruce nodded, not breaking eye contact. “As Batman.”
“Well. It’s good,” Jason said. He leaned over it again, then, and ate about half the bowl, a little too quickly, always too quickly, and then he shoved the rest away. “M’sorry. Tired. I’m gonna take a nap.”
“All right. Get some rest, Jay-lad,” Bruce told him, before he collected the tray.
“Bruce?” Jason’s sleepy voice stopped him at the door.
“Yes?”
“Thanks.” Jason was already mostly asleep, but he shifted around on the bed to clutch at a pillow. His eyes fluttered open for a second, and he said, trailing off, “I love you, Dad.”
I love you too, Jason.
Bruce had no idea if he’d said actually said that out loud.
He had stop outside the door to put a hand over his heart. He came to himself a moment later, marveling that he hadn’t dropped the tray from the other.
He called me—
***
Another trip to the kitchen, before Bruce took the second tray to Alfred’s room.
Alfred was at his desk, clad in the stately, dark blue silk pajamas Martha Wayne had once gifted him with, underneath an eye-watering orange plush bathrobe clearly picked out by a young child with very little aesthetic sensibility.
“Alfred,” Bruce said, exasperated.
Alfred ignored him in favor of placing a puzzle piece. The puzzle was a thousand pieces, and featured the Twin Bridge Tower in London. Bruce had meant it as a joke gift, for Alfred to work on in his copious spare time.
Alfred had already built the frame.
“I’m not that ill, Master Bruce.”
“The prescription for antibiotics and extended bed rest beg to differ.”
“And haven’t I bounced back? Thank heavens for modern medicine.” Alfred reached across the table, and picked up a puzzle piece. “What monstrosity will I be subjected to tonight? I know we’re out of beef tea and last week’s house rolls.” He placed the piece against the frame, pale blue sky. “There’s no shame in calling for aid, sir. Master Wok delivers to Bristol.”
Bruce rolled his eyes. “It’s just soup, dammit.”
“I’ve had your soup. I’d rather you raided Master Jason’s granola bar stashes.”
“I’m not taking any of Jay’s granola bars, Al. You said he almost bit you, last time.”
“I had in mind that you’d be the one to undertake that risk this time, today, if we’re so far reduced.” Alfred made a perfunctory cough into his elbow. “Seeing as I’ve been stricken with Streptococcal pharyngitis.”
“Well, you’re not the only one,” Bruce said, wryly. “Jay’s flat on his back.”
Alfred’s face lost its mirth. “Oh dear.” He paused a moment. “Oh dear.”
“Could you just…eat the damn soup, before you make that expression.”
“I do worry,” Alfred said, softly, but he finally took his tray and set it down carefully over the puzzle. After a few bites, he raised an eyebrow. “This is takeout, isn’t it?”
“Of course it’s not!” Bruce said, exasperated. “It’s completely homemade. I put in those noodles myself.”
“Just the noodles, sir?”
“Just the noodles...in this version,” Bruce hedged. “Dammit, Al, I spent all evening on this.”
“There’s just something curiously familiar about this soup.” Alfred arched an eyebrow.
Bruce threw up his hands. “Fine! No, I didn’t make this myself. I found some of your old soup in the freezer and I put it on the stove, and then I added some noodles. Are you happy.”
“Funny,” Alfred said. “I was actually about to say that it tasted very similar to Mr. Rosenfeld’s matzoh ball soup. Minus, of course, the matzoh ball.”
“It does?”
“I applaud your ingenuity, sir. Working with the material you have on hand is a truly admirable talent, and very useful in cooking. Did you say it took you all evening to thaw a bag of frozen deli soup and add some dried egg noodles to it?”
Bruce stared at him for a long, hard minute. Finally, he said, almost under his breath, “I didn’t know the egg noodles would take so long.”
“You thought it would take as long as one of those ramen cups, didn’t you,” Alfred said, with a barely buried hint of something like glee in his voice. “To think of how I’ve failed you.”
“Would you just...eat the damn soup,” Bruce said, face a little pink. “I’ve got to go check on Jay.”
“Imagine what he’d think of you if he knew you couldn’t read the packet instructions on bloody noodles,” Alfred said.
“I’m sure you won’t be telling him, Al,” Bruce said, head held high. “You’d never undermine a father in his son’s eyes like that.”
“Wouldn’t I?”
“Not when the son has just….called his father his father.” Bruce meant it to be casual, but he couldn’t help the catch in his voice.
There was a pause. And then Alfred said, “No indeed. I would never.”
“Thank you,” Bruce said. “Thank you.”
“There is...nothing you need be grateful for,” Alfred said, softly. “You are correct. And there is especially nothing that needs thanks, when I’ll be taking an additional Sunday off, every month, now, as payment for my silence.”
An additional Sunday a month?
Another Sunday a month, then, when Bruce would be responsible for feeding himself and his son. Just the two of them. For a whole day.
Another Sunday a month, that, if Bruce was honest with himself, would mean watching Jason run around the kitchen, chattering like the little monkey he always was when he was at home, while Bruce did his best to supervise Jason’s kitchen ambitions.
(Supervision, so far, had mostly entailed sitting at the kitchen table, trying to whittle down Wayne Enterprises paperwork that needed his signature, occasionally getting up to level off a measuring spoon at Jason’s insistence, and trying not to flinch when the boy stuck practically his entire head into the oven to check on a pan of biscuits.)
Bruce cleared his throat, and started to rise. “Well. If that’s what it costs, Al. An additional Sunday off. Of course.”
“That’s the least of it,” Alfred told him, head tilted over his shoulder, with a swallow of a smile. “There’s still the dishes to be done.”