Chapter Text
Unlike most things, this started with cookies.
To nine-year-old Bruce Wayne, a warm, gooey chocolate chip cookie wasn’t just dessert—it was treasure. But Alfred had rules, and one of his most sacred was: No dessert before dinner.
Normally, Bruce would follow the rules. Mostly. But today was different. Alfred’s cookies were sitting right there on the counter, smelling like heaven. And Alfred? He was busy folding laundry.
It was the perfect opportunity.
Bruce peeked around the kitchen door, making sure the coast was clear. Tiptoeing in, he grabbed a cookie off the plate. Victory. He took one big bite and—
“Master Bruce.”
Bruce froze, the cookie halfway to his mouth. Alfred stood in the doorway, arms crossed, looking thoroughly unimpressed.
“I was just… uh, testing them!” Bruce stammered, spraying crumbs everywhere. “Y-you know, quality control.”
Alfred raised an eyebrow. “Dinner first. Then dessert. That’s the rule.”
Bruce groaned but knew better than to argue. He trudged back to the dining room, where a plate of vegetables waited for him like some kind of punishment.
“Why do I have to eat these?” Bruce asked, stabbing a carrot with his fork like it had personally wronged him. “I’m rich! Can’t I just pay someone to eat vegetables for me?”
“Unfortunately, nutrition is not transferable,” Alfred replied without missing a beat. “Eat your dinner, Master Bruce.”
Bruce pouted but obediently shoveled the vegetables into his mouth as quickly as he could. Finally, dinner was over. He sprinted back to the kitchen to claim his cookies—only to find the plate gone.
“They’re in the pantry,” Alfred called from the dining room. “And locked.”
Bruce stared at the locked pantry door, betrayal written all over his face. “Locked?” he muttered.
“This is tyranny.”
But Bruce Wayne didn’t give up easily. If Alfred wasn’t going to let him have cookies, he’d make his own. How hard could it be?
Dragging a chair to the counter, he started pulling out ingredients. Flour? Check. Sugar? Definitely. Chocolate chips? The more, the better. He opened Alfred’s recipe book but quickly got bored.
“This looks easy,” he said to himself. “I don’t need to measure stuff. It’s just cookies.”
Grabbing a coffee mug as a substitute for measuring cups, Bruce dumped flour into a bowl. Sugar came next, followed by eggs—some of which actually made it into the bowl.
The kitchen quickly descended into chaos. Flour covered the floor, chocolate chips ended up in the sink, and Bruce himself was covered in sticky dough up to his elbows. He was just about to put his “cookies” in the oven when—
“What in heaven’s name—”
Alfred stood in the doorway, staring at the mess.
“I made cookies!” Bruce announced proudly, holding up a tray of lumpy blobs.
Alfred’s face remained stoic. “Did you follow the recipe?”
“Kinda…?”
“And the oven? Did you preheat it?”
“...The what?”
Alfred closed his eyes, clearly summoning patience from the depths of his soul. “Step aside, Master Bruce.”
Under Alfred’s supervision, Bruce was tasked with cleaning up his mess. Counters were wiped, flour was swept, and Bruce had to take a very thorough handwashing break.
Later, Alfred pulled a tray of perfectly baked cookies out of the oven. Golden brown, with chocolate melting in the middle—absolute perfection.
Bruce bit into one and practically melted. “These are way better than mine.”
Alfred smirked. “A low bar, but I’ll take the compliment.”
Bruce grinned. “Next time, I’ll get it right.”
“Next time,” Alfred said, raising an eyebrow, “you’ll wait until after dinner. And you’ll ask for help.”
They both knew that wasn’t going to happen.