Chapter Text
One week without Alfred.
Not even a full week - just Monday evening to Sunday morning.
And by Tuesday night Bruce’s beloved (spoiled?) children had wreaked havoc in the huge kitchen Alfred normally kept spick and span.
A pot on the stovetop dripped spaghetti and sauce onto the burner. The open pantry was in disarray. No-one had stacked the dishwasher, instead leaving dirty dishes, cups, cutlery and more - was that the fondue set? - all around the sink.
On the central island, exactly where he’d left them, the tray of sandwiches Bruce had assembled for his brood sat largely untouched. It was easy to tell that each (definitely spoiled) child had taken at least one of the crustless triangles. For the World’s Greatest Detective - and apparently least appreciated father - it was almost as easy to see what had become of them.
One in the bin, half eaten - Dick. One left on a plate with only a cautious nibble gone, beside an empty coffee cup - Tim. One soggy tower of disassembled ingredients in a corner - Cass. Another in the bin, inspected but untasted - Damian.
Bruce couldn’t decide if he felt fondness or frustration when he found a fifth plated in the fridge with a post-it note. Alfred - please never leave again, this is what happens when B tries to feed us.
Jason.
Very spoiled. All of them.
The only upside of them not eating the sandwiches was that it meant Bruce didn’t have to prepare anything for dinner. He wouldn’t order in - not after he had told the children on no uncertain terms that they were all clever and capable enough to feed themselves in this abundant kitchen - but he hadn’t been looking forward to cooking after a long day of Wayne Industries meetings and poring over case notes down in the Cave.
Bruce poured himself a tall glass of cold water from the jug in the fridge and took a seat at the island. He pulled the tray over, grabbed a sandwich, and ate.
He had tried so hard with these sandwiches. The rye bread was Tim’s favourite. The Kraft singles and ketchup were a combination Bruce remembered from his own childhood that he wanted to share with Damian. Jason has often ranted about how a moisture barrier was important so he’d buttered the bread thoroughly, thinking Alfred’s herb butter would be the best choice. Pickled herring for Dick, a reminder of his childhood before Bruce. Sauerkraut and dill pickles because Cass liked flavours that bit back.
Bruce managed to eat the whole sandwich triangle, caught up in thoughts of his children. The second was more challenging. The third was a real struggle that he got through by reminding himself that he’d told the children, ever since Dick was hip-high and cartwheeling around the kitchen instead of eating his dinner, that, while he’d never force them to eat something, food waste was discouraged in the Manor.
He gave up one bite into the fourth.
His children are right. He can’t cook.
He can’t even make a decent sandwich.
Bruce looks mournfully down at the mass of sickening sandwiches and figures out how to dispose of them without his children - his intelligent, teasing, spoiled children - finding out.
They can never know that they are right.