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The first time it happens, Alfred is serving dinner. It's something simple, something he didn't cook, certainly. He's eyeing Bruce as he sets the plate down. Their recent conversation, about Bruce's eating habits, had led to this arrangement. Alfred will sit with him for every meal, and they'll stay for at least 30 minutes once his plate is empty. The understanding that Bruce will not go upstairs to the bathroom hidden away in his room goes unspoken.
When the food is set down in front of him, Bruce stares. Alfred doesn't expect a thank you, he knows better, but he stands for a second when Bruce doesn't even reach for a fork. He swallows before speaking.
“Would you like a smaller portion, master Bruce?” This was also something they had talked about, the option for less food. For now, it worked. As long as Bruce ate during every meal, as long as Alfred could be sure he wasn't hiding away in the upstairs bathroom after dinner, he didn't mind. But the question makes Bruce angry, his hand slamming down on the table.
“What I'd like, Alfred, is to have no portion at all, but that's not a fucking option, is it?” He startles at the response, Bruce's voice is loud, carrying through the dining room. He braces himself for where this will lead. He doesn't remember the last time Bruce had had an outburst like this.
“I'm afraid not, master Bruce.” Alfred takes a step back when Bruce stands up, chair pushing back against the floor, the screeching noise filling the room.
“Yeah well that's the fucking problem, isn't it? You aren't my dad! But you feel pretty fucking entitled to telling me when I can and can't do!” Alfred doesn't bother to remind him that it was Bruce who had asked for help, Bruce who had practically begged him to find a solution, to help him get better. He feels his jaw tighten when Bruce continues to yell.
“Master Bruce, sit down!” He notices Bruce's shoulders tensing before he hears his own voice getting louder. And then he sees the pleased look on Bruce's face, the way anger has been replaced with a muted sort of joy and he feels disappointed. Bruce sits down regardless, finally picking up his fork to eat.
Alfred settles down as well, and the rest of the meal goes by silently.
The second time it happens, it's less predictable. Bruce is the one who comes to find him, in his study. Alfred expects a question, a request, anything but what he really wants.
“Did you clean my room?” His tone is accusatory, and Alfred tries to remember if he has, if Bruce has any reason to justify his anger. He comes up empty handed. He didn't clean Bruce's room much, regardless, and the confrontations it usually brought had made him do it less and less. He tries to convince himself he can trust Bruce to come to him if something is wrong, now, instead of having to find out through cleverly hidden proof.
“I have not, master Bruce. What makes you ask?” Alfred tries to stay calm. He usually does. He remembers Bruce coming to him in the middle of the night, tears streaming down his face, small and afraid, telling Alfred that he didn't want to die. He remembers, so he doesn't raise his voice unless he has to, he doesn't scare him, or he tries not to. It usually all comes back to him trying.
“Don't fucking lie to me. I can tell. My shit isn't where I left it. Don't clean my room, I'm not a child, I can do it myself.” It becomes less of an accusation and more of an attempt to rile him up, Alfred passively realizes. He takes a deep breath before he answers.
“I'll keep that in mind, sir, but I'm very certain that I haven't cleaned your room today, or recently.” Alfred can hear his own voice getting tighter, pushed out through gritted teeth, and it only seems to make Bruce angrier. He walks closer to Alfred's desk, until he's practically bent over it, hands slamming on either side of Alfred's keyboard when he starts talking again.
“Do you think I'm fucking hiding something? Is that it? Cuz even if I am, it wouldn't be any of your fucking business, Alfred.” The way his name is said almost makes him recoil, at the anger, the disdain, but he stands his ground, pushing his chair back to get away from whatever intimidating attempt Bruce was attempting.
“If your only reason for disturbing me was to accuse me of doing my job, sir, I'd like for you to leave. I'm sure you have much more important business to attend to.”
He can tell Bruce is fuming, but he relents anyway, standing up straight and turning towards the door, letting it slam behind him. Alfred grits his teeth, letting out a loud sigh when he hears footsteps retreating up the stairs. He doesn't understand what game Bruce is trying to play, but he doesn't want to be part of it.
The third time it happens, it's Alfred's fault. Not through misplaced guilt. It's simply his fault.
Alfred calls Bruce to his study after dinner. He knows it's not a place either of them enjoys, for conversation. It implies something serious. He waits at his desk regardless, for Bruce to come.
When he walks in, his face is tight. He's prepared himself for the worst outcome, Alfred knows it, and suddenly he worries that he's missed signs of another problem, something more serious, something more worrying, but he pushes it away for now. Bruce doesn't need his prompting to sit down. They stare at each other for a beat. Bruce is the one who speaks first.
“Did you need anything?” It's something Alfred would expect from a rebellious teenager, the type of tone he wasn't used to from Bruce. But he supposes he should get used to it now, if he wanted to keep acting like this. He takes a deep breath.
“You've been picking fights. I just want to understand why.” He can see when the words register in Bruce's mind from the way his mouth forms a tight line and his fists are clenched shut. He waits for the outburst.
“I don't know what you mean.” His tone is deceptively calm, compared to his demeanor, and Alfred almost backs down until he rationalizes that this is something that needs fixing. He pushes more.
“You know exactly what I mean, master Bruce, don't lie to me.” It's rougher, more blunt, and Bruce hunches in on himself when he hears it. He pushes more. “If you are trying to play some sort of game with me, I will not play along.”
Bruce stares at him for a second, and Alfred almost apologizes. He looks scared, uncomfortable, he looks small. Alfred feels guilty. He should know better than to push. The urge to apologize leaves when Bruce starts yelling.
“Maybe I just fucking hate you, have you considered that?” The words bounce off the walls of his small office, and Alfred just stares at him. Bruce doesn't say anything, and Alfred just stares at him. For a minute, two, three. The tension fills the air. Alfred just stares. Finally, he opens his mouth.
“Get out.”
Bruce gets out of his chair slowly. He swallows, turns back towards Alfred before closing the door behind him.
He runs a hand down his face, then through his hair. He sighs. He sighs again. His eyes stay locked on the door he just watched close. He takes a sharp, stuttering breath before turning his eyes back towards his work, but the words seem to blend together into a black smudge in front of his face. He sighs again.
He spends maybe 20 minutes staring at his closed door before he hears the quiet, tentative knock. He calls out an affirmative response and Bruce walks in. His shoulders are curled in towards himself, and he still looks small. Alfred can see dried tear tracks down his cheeks. This time, he doesn't dare speak. Bruce doesn't sit down.
“I'm…” Alfred waits for the apology. It doesn't come. “... Angry? I'm angry.” Alfred nods. He doesn't wait for an apology when Bruce opens his mouth the second time.
“I'm so angry, Alfred. I don't know what's wrong with me.” Alfred blinks, stares at him for a second. He takes a deep breath. Those seem to be the only thing keeping his feelings at bay.
“Would you like to learn how to fight, master Bruce?” Bruce blinks. Stares at him for a second. Inhales sharply.
“What?”
“You're angry. Do you want to learn how to fight? It'll be a healthy outlet.” He says it like it's a simple solution to a simple problem. Bruce blinks again. Alfred watches passively, lets him digest the information, lets him decide on his own.
“Yes. I'd like that. Thank you.” He walks out of the study without saying another word. Alfred doesn't know why he expected a hug.