Chapter Text
"Master Bruce, dinner time," Alfred's voice rang through the kitchen. The nine year old heir walked in as demanded, his feet shuffling nervously.
"So, what did you say we were having again Alfie?"
"I do wish you would refrain from calling me that Master Bruce. It would be most undignified if we were to have company."
"But we don't," the young boy muttered under his breath before continuing, "You didn’t answer me. What are we having?"
"Steak and asparagus."
Bruce felt his stomach turn in discomfort and anxiety as he fought to keep his hands from fidgeting. A Wayne should never fidget.
"Were you able to get that one kind of steak I like?" He asked hopefully, trying to find a silver lining. Bruce didn’t like it, not really, but it was the only kind of steak he could tolerate if he had to have some.
"Unfortunately not, sir. I do not understand why you always insist on that particular brand. It's all meat in the end."
"It's the only one that's not so chewy," the boy tried to explain, "It takes forever to eat and it's stays in your mouth and becomes mushy and-"
Bruce was silenced by his own disgust and a disapproving look from Alfred. Knowing that there was no point in arguing with the older man, he accepted his fate and sat at the table to wait for his plate.
The moment it was set in front of him, the young boy's nostrils were assaulted by the odor of asparagus. He could tell it had been boiled too, his least favourite type. Bruce could feel the bile rising in his throat and the turn of his stomach as nervous sweat gathered on his brow. He stabed one with his fork and brought it too his mouth as Alfred looked on almost expectantly.
Bruce tried, truly, he did. Every time he tried to put in his mouth, however, he just couldn't. The disgust and fear were just too strong. He knew Alfred was using that disappointed look and couldn't bare to face it. His parents would be ashamed of him. How could he possibly become the head of the Wayne family when he was trembling in fear over a vegetable?
The young boy took a breath to recollect himself. That is what adults did and he needed to be mature. If the asparagus was out of the question, then he would eat the steak.
Bringing the fork back to his mouth, Bruce tried again. He felt the familiar sensations of anxiety and revulsion arise within him, but choked it down.
It's the good steak. It's the good steak. It's the good steak, he tried to think. It was no use. The texture was intolerable, tough and stringy in a way that made his senses go into overdrive. All of this simply added to his nausea and forced the boy to spit it out.
"I can't do it Alfie," he admitted with as much dignity as he could muster. Admittedly however, there probably wasn't much given his "outburst”, as Alfred would describe it.
God, why did he have to be so childish?
"Master Bruce," the older man responded, "I am afraid you have no other option. I spent time to make this meal. The least you can do to show gratitude is eat it."
"I tried Alfie, I just-"
"Then you can try again. I will wait, Master Bruce," Alfred said with a sigh that shot guilt through Bruce like a bullet. Why did he have to be so difficult after everything Alfred had done for him?
As commanded, he took another bite, this time of the asparagus. It was slimy, grean, gross, and an awful texture, but he choked it down anyway. This seemed to please the butler and Bruce took another bite dispite his stomach flipping like an acrobat.
That was a mistake because the boy immediately started gagging. Alfred's look dropped that of disapproval once more, making it all the harder to keep down the bile that was threatening to escape him.
"If you think so lowly of my cooking, young master, then perhaps it would be best if we dine separately tonight," the older man declared as he rose and took Bruce's plate as well as his own.
"No! I'm sorry. Please don't leave me. It was good, I just-" but the young boy's pleas were ignored and met with the slam of a door. He didn't dare follow his guardian. Bruce knew he would only coninue to be ignored (rightfully, for being so ungrateful). Bruce cried in a very undignified way as he scrambled to think of a way to possibly make Alfred forgive him. It was all his fault.
The next day, Alfred woke up to a handmade apology card. At dinner, Bruce ate the prepared casserole like a child should, no complaints or pickiness to be found. The older man couldn't help but beam with pride. The lesson had been learned. Success had been achieved.
Even if his young ward had dug his nails into his palms so hard they bled to tolorate the discomfort. Even if Bruce later thew up that casserole and cried himself to sleep without Alfred's knowledge. Even if the boy trembled at the sight of food for a week afterwards. At least he wasn't picky anymore.