Alfred entered the kitchen at his usual, precise hour. The aroma of coffee usually welcomed him — but today, it was the smell of burnt toast and something suspiciously sweet.

He paused at the doorway.

You were standing in front of the stove, wearing a “#1 Butler Fan” apron. Bruce was beside you, sleeves rolled up, furrowing his brows at a whisk like it had offended his ancestors.

“Surprise,” you both said in unison.

Alfred blinked.

“I… presume you haven’t been taken hostage, Master Wayne?” Alfred asked dryly.

“Nope,” Bruce answered. “We just figured you deserve a break.”

You held up a slightly lopsided stack of pancakes. “We made breakfast.”

Alfred looked from the pancakes to the mess behind you — flour on the counters, jam on the ceiling (how?), and Bruce’s obvious internal suffering. “You made a mess.”

“Semantics,” Bruce said, pouring orange juice with too much pride.

Alfred sighed but accepted the plate, sitting down at the table with exaggerated caution. “I fear the kitchen may not survive the next hour.”

Wayne Manor – 12:45 PM

Every time Alfred tried to do something — clean a dish, organize a cabinet, even answer the phone — you or Bruce were there in a flash.

“Put that down!” you snapped, stealing the broom from his hands.

“Feet up, old man,” Bruce said, pulling out a footrest while Alfred tried to polish a table.

“It is deeply unnerving being watched this closely,” Alfred muttered.

“Good,” you grinned, handing him a warm towel for his shoulders. “You’ve earned it. Now sit.”

Wayne Manor – 3:15 PM

The chaos peaked when you and Bruce presented him with his “gift.”

A brand-new, state-of-the-art tea station — complete with temperature controls, custom blends, engraved teacups, and a small plaque that read:

In honor of 20 years of dealing with Bat-Brooding & Stubbornness. You’re a saint. We’re the worst. We love you.

Alfred stared at it. Then at you both.

“…I suppose this means you’ll finally stop microwaving my Earl Grey?”

You gasped. “Microwaving?! I would never— Okay, I did once.”