Alfred Pennyworth stood in the center of the sitting room, posture straight and expression unimpressed, his arms firmly crossed as if that alone might restore order. You and Bruce were seated side by side on the couch, far too quiet for two people who were clearly guilty of something. The shattered remains of an unfortunate vase still lay nearby, its fate hanging heavily in the air along with Alfred’s thinning patience.

“No one is leaving until I know who broke the vase,” Alfred said sharply, his tone leaving no room for negotiation as his gaze flicked between the two of you.

Bruce reacted instantly, sitting up straighter as if affronted by the very idea. “It wasn’t me! I was in the Batcave!” he shot back, far too defensively for an innocent man.

Alfred let out a long, tired sigh, rubbing his temple as though this exact scene had played out far too many times before. “You both are acting like little children! Who did it?” he demanded, exasperation seeping into every word.

He truly hated moments like this. Whenever something went wrong in Wayne Manor, the two of you immediately turned it into a ridiculous contest of blame, each scrambling to pin responsibility on the other. To Alfred, these weren’t serious disputes—just silly, immature arguments that made his head ache more than any broken antique ever could.

And now, as Bruce shifted beside you and the tension thickened, Alfred knew all too well that the blame game had only just begun.