Bruce having a butler/staff to do for him whatever he needs done but still doing it himself for the people he loves is so infinitely important to me, especially because the people don't realize its him.
Dick's fondest memories of childhood is the hot chocolate he used to drink every winter. He thought Alfred had always made it for him, because Alfred had always been the one to give him a mug of it, but the year after Alfred dies Bruce hands him a mug and Dick bursts into tears right then and there. "You know his recipe?" he sputters, through snot and a lump in his throat. Bruce pauses, considers briefly and dismisses the thought of telling him the truth. "Of course, chum." He lies, because Alfred wouldn't have known where to start in making hot chocolate, that sort of drink was beneath him. "I'll teach it to you."
Jason's favorite feeling in the world is slipping on a freshly ironed shirt. It's fucking fantastic. The greatest thing ever. He loves it so much. He used to watch Alfred do the laundry because he knew ironing was a part of it. Alfred never ironed a thing in his life. Bruce did all the ironing in the house. It soothed his mind to do it, to watch the wrinkles smooth out, to see the mistakes go away with just a little bit of water, heat and pressure. Jason comes to the Manor after a rough patrol and snaps 'where's Bruce?' and Tim points wordlessly to the laundry room. 'doing laundry? yeah right." Jason scoffs, and slams the door open only to find Bruce actually ironing. His shirt. "What are you doing?" He barks, and Bruce looks up, surprised. Like... genuinely surprised that someone is questioning the fact that he's ironing. "I'm... ironing?" He questions, and Jason snorts, snag his shirt and tosses it over his shouldr. "Yeah right. You lose a bet or something, old man?" Bruce debates for a moment, dismisses, and smiles at his son. "It can wait to be fulfilled. Hungry?"
Tim loathes cucumber sandwiches with his whole heart, but his parents staff used to do this thing where they'd put zuccini in the sandwiches in the center just for him. He told the story once to Bruce, and Alfred was in the room with them, and the next time he reached for a cucumber sandwich on the table, it was zuccini. He was elated. Alfred never bought zuccini. Never cooked it. He listed it amongst the top five worst gourds to exist. He never knew there were zuccinis hiding amongst his cucumbers
Steph had this one specific spoon that she loved eating with whenever she was at the Manor, and it was always polished to perfection everytime she needed it. She'd seen Alfred polishing and had been forced to polish utensils as a punishment enough times to assume that he'd just been doing it. When Bruce finally passed, he left the rag he would polish her spoon with and the spoon to her in his will. "I'm sorry I can't do it for you, anymore, but at least I taught you how to do it yourself."
Damian walks into his room to find Bruce bent over his shelf with a feather duster, meticulously cleaning his room for him. "What are you doing?" He barks, sharp and harsh. Bruce straightens, turns to him in surprise. "Damian! You weren't supposed to be home for another few hours!" "Only Pennyworth is allowed in here to clean." Damian says stifly, crossing his arms. Bruce raises an eyebrow. "I thought you said we're only allowed in to clean, unless you give permission otherwise. It's your room, Damian. I will respect your privacy." "Yes but-" Damian begins, and then stops. He'd said they could only go into his room to clean because thats what had happened in the League. Unimportant people, the servants, had cleaned his stuff. It didnt matter to him if they saw it because... they didnt matter. He'd thought... he'd assumed Pennyworth would- not... Bruce smiles.
Just. i dunno. Bruce doing the mundane 'servant' tasks for his family because it matters to them and as a form of affection and them not realizing it/realizing it much too late
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