No Cake. (Charlotte vs. “No”).
Bruce was in the middle of a telephone call with a business partner when he heard the first shriek of a brewing tantrum. In the echoing, vast space of the manors corridors, it’s only natural that noises travel like it’s being deliberately projected.
It was by the second shriek that Bruce cut the telephone call short and decided to investigate.
“What’s happened?” Bruce asks as he steps into the kitchen, brows drawn to a furrow while he analyses the distressing situation of his 16 month old daughter kicking and screaming her arms and legs against the ground, her coily curls fanning around her head.
Alfred stands perfectly calm at the island counter with a beautifully decorated Victoria sponge cake in front of him. He adjusts his white gloves and hums gently, completely unbothered by Charlotte’s tantrum only inches away on the cool tiled floor.
“I denied Miss Charlotte some cake,” Alfred explains coolly. “It appears she has taken such a decision to heart.”
Charlotte’s face burns red with rage; hot tears spill down her chubby cheeks as she continues to wail and scream her frustrations. Bruce frowns as his daughter continues to protest loudly, knowing that this is the moment that’ll define boundaries if it isn’t handled the correct way.
Dick sits on a stool nearby, a glass of orange juice in front of him. He’s texting on his phone and looking far too amused with the situation. “You should have seen the way she threw herself to the floor,” he recounts with a beam, chuckling to himself, “it was hilarious.”
“She’s distressed,” Bruce mutters, his eyes rolling at Dicks apathy. “This isn’t funny, Dick.”
Dick barely conceals his snort of laughter. “No, you’re right. It’s hilarious.”
“Dick,” Bruce warns, his blue eyes sharpening with disapproval. Dick isn’t intimidated by this—he just peers up from his phone and offers one of his boyish, bright smiles, an epitome of innocence.
But Charlotte is still kicking off about being denied cake, and her screams aren’t easing in the slightest. If Bruce didn’t know any better, he’d have thought she was physically harmed during the rejection. Though, maybe her heart is physically hurting her because she was told ‘no’.
Bruce steps over and crouches next to Charlotte, his frown deepening at the genuine heartbreak on his daughter’s face. Alfred peers over at them, closely watching to scrutinise Bruce if he’s too lenient with the tantrum.
“It must be handled accordingly, sir,” Alfred reminds him sternly, eyes warning him to not give in to her demands.
Bruce sighs. “I’m aware, Alfred.”
“If she gets cake then so do I,” Dick helpfully chirps, now laying his phone flat on the island counter so he can watch with the attentiveness of a nosey neighbour. He props his head into his hands and leans his elbows on the surface, mouth stretched into a grin.
“I concur,” Alfred mutters, “this cake is not for us.”
Bruce ignores them both. He reaches down and gently brushes his hand against Charlotte’s face, wiping away the river of tears on her blotchy cheeks. Charlotte pries her eyes open just then, her screams turning into a flurry of sobs and hiccups as she registers that her father is in front of her. In a single second, she sits up and launches herself into his arms, her chest heaving with frustration and defiance.
“Charlotte,” Bruce murmurs gently, knowing now that he must approach this situation appropriately. “Can you tell me what happened?”
Charlotte nods aggressively, her breathing coming out in shuddering exhales. She lifts a chubby finger and points at Alfred, who remains poised and calm throughout it all. “No,” she repeats shakily, her whine drawing out the single word.
Bruce hums. “No?” He repeats, brows lifting curiously. “Alfred said ‘no’?”
Charlotte huffs again, but manages to nod. Bruce gently pats down the wild set of curls on her head, noting how they must have broken free from the various clips during her thrashing on the floor.
“Why did he tell you ‘no’?” Bruce urges. In one of the parenting books that he’s read, it was suggested that speaking like this encourages communication and language—it gives the child the chance to explore and use their voices, to give them control of something. He’s only had the chance to use this a handful of times, and so far it’s working a treat.
Charlotte lifts her chubby hands and furiously rubs at her eyes, her breathing stuttering as she hiccups loudly. It’s cute, Bruce thinks—he just wishes that his daughter didn’t get herself worked up like this so much.
“Cay,” Charlotte whines, her eyes locking on to the delicious sponge cake sitting on the island counter. The sun briefly shines through the kitchen windows, casting a holy glow onto the dessert. “No cay.”
Bruce’s lips twitch. “Cake,” he corrects patiently, deliberately enunciating the second syllable. “Alfred said ‘no cake’?”
Charlotte’s bottom lip wobbles as she nods her head to confirm the dilemma.
No cake.
How tragic.
Dick snorts another laugh, his hands clapping over his mouth just as Bruce shoots him a warning glare.
“Alfred didn’t make the cake for us to eat,” Bruce explains slowly, “it’s for his book club friends.”
Charlotte furiously shakes her head. “No!” She quickly wails, her foot stomping on the floor. “No! No!”
Bruce sighs. “Charlotte…”
“No, no!” She repeats, the tears returning afresh and flooding down her cheeks faster than before. It’s then that she starts frantically baby-signing ‘more’, pinching her fingers together and getting them to kiss in a repetitive motion.
“More?” Bruce asks, confused. “‘More’ what?”
Charlotte whines and points at the cake, trying her luck once again for a taste of the delicious dessert. She repeats the ‘more’ sign and sobs louder, her eyes shining brightly with fresh tears.
“You’re not having the cake, Charlotte. It’s not for any of us,” Bruce repeats slowly, this time sounding firmer than the first time. “If you ask Alfred nicely, maybe he can make us a cake for dessert tomorrow night.”
Charlotte doesn’t like this solution. Because clearly she wants the cake now. She throws her head back and lets out an indignant scream, like she’s been shot or impaled or betrayed. It’s loud and shrill, full of emotion and bouncing off every wall and ceiling within the immediate vicinity. And when her scream doesn’t bring forth immediately what she wants, she resorts to launching herself to the floor for full impact.
Bruce barely catches her before she hits her head, but the moment his hands enclose around her shoulders she thrashes violently to the side and lets out an angry shriek. She crocodile rolls to the side and bares her teeth like an aggressive, hostile animal, and she latches her mouth onto Bruce’s forearm.
Bruce hisses at the sudden attack, but doesn’t react otherwise. As a seasoned vigilante who has faced worse dangers and threats, his own tantruming, teething daughter doesn’t even make the cut for dangerous. Instead, he manoeuvres his index finger to the side of Charlotte’s mouth and lodges his finger to the inner corner of her jaw, presses down and dislodges her without issue. But Charlotte isn’t finished, and she immediately surges forward again to sink her teeth into another spot. Fortunately, Bruce foresee’s this and stops her before she can bite again.
“No, stop biting,” Bruce scolds, his head shaking disapprovingly. “You’re not a dog. Don’t bite.”
Dick holds his phone up and angles it in a way that is far from discreet, recording every second of this hilariously entertaining moment. Because for once it’s not him being attacked by a teething baby.
Alfred doesn’t intervene. He carefully places the sponge cake into a cake box and seals it with professional expertise, and then lowers it into a tote bag. He makes his way to the doorway and pauses, glancing over his shoulder and schooling his frown into something professional.
“Might I suggest moving Miss Charlotte into a more… suitable environment. One where she is less likely to hurt herself?”
Bruce recognises this as the only bit of help that Alfred is going to give, and he takes it without question. He tucks his hands under Charlotte’s armpits and lifts her from the floor. She instantly makes the situation difficult and becomes dead weight, where she lets her limbs go slack in an attempt to slip out of his grasp. Bruce readjusts and places his hands in a more supportive position, one where she’s unlikely to fall to the floor and where she’s unlikely to hurt him.
“Down! Down!” She hotly demands, her hands smacking repeatedly against his forearms. Her legs kick furiously outwards into the air, doing nothing but tiring herself out. “No! Down!” But when her demands are ignored, she throws her head back to smack into Bruce’s chest.
He doesn’t flinch. He strides out of the kitchen and towards his office down the corridor, where the floor is cushioned with rugs. Where, if she throws herself to the floor, she’s unlikely to cause herself any harm.
Alfred departs with a basic string of information of what time he’ll return at, but the conversation is cut short due to Charlotte once again attempting to sink her teeth into Bruce’s arm. So Bruce continues his original path to his office, where he shuts the door behind him with his foot and then places his daughter in the middle of the room.
Charlotte instantly crumbles and begins pounding her little fists into the floor, muffled by the carpeted rug that stretches through the length and width of the room. There’s only a slim showing of the wooden floor nearest to the walls, so Alfred can use a rolling ladder without the wheels getting trapped in any carpet.
Bruce passes Charlotte and seats himself at the leather chair. He picks up a cream coloured folder and flips it open, deciding to work through a cold case while letting his daughter tire herself out.
Seconds stretch into minutes—and by the time thirty minutes has passed, Bruce closes the folder as Charlotte’s sniffles finally die down. She sits up from the floor and tiredly rubs at her puffy eyes; her chest stutters with a lingering sob and a hiccup, but she’s no longer kicking and screaming about being denied cake.
“Would you like a cuddle?” Bruce offers gently, opening his arms to invite Charlotte over.
Charlotte nods briskly and stumbles to her feet, wobbles a few steps, but holds her arms up and lets her father lift her from the floor. Bruce tucks her into his arms and against his chest, letting his steady heartbeat ground her and soothe away the lingering remnants of frustration.
Charlotte buries her face into his chest and lets out a shuddering sigh, her body melting at the safety. “No cay,” she sleepily mumbles, her chest catching with another hiccup.
“Cake,” Bruce softly corrects, his large hand cupping the back of her head while his thumb rubs soothing motions against her scalp. Her curls are wild and defiant, having already burst free from the clips Alfred dutifully styled there this morning. “No cake.”
This time Charlotte doesn’t shriek at the denial. Bruce wonders if it’s because she’s too tired to argue her demands, or if it’s because she’s finally accepted that, no matter how much she kicks or screams, she won’t be getting cake. It’s a hard lesson to learn, one that’s tiring, distressing, and frustrating for everyone involved, but Bruce knows that he has to persevere through these tantrums and not give in.
Because God forbid Alfred lets Bruce raise a bratty child.
“We have a few hours until dinner. Are you hungry?” Bruce asks.
Charlotte nods against his chest. “‘Nack,” she tells him, voice muffled into his shirt.
“Let’s go and get a snack,” Bruce repeats back, now rising from the chair with Charlotte cradled in his arms. She clings to him and shudders once more.
“No cay?” Charlotte asks.
“No cake,” Bruce solemnly confirms.
