Set during the time when he lost his memory.
Bruce knew that Alfred always kept a clean house. He knew that he had everything under control and in perfect order. The pantry would always be well stocked, the halls and it many artifacts well polished, and the rooms always ready for guests should there be any.
And yet…why did the pantry hold so much food? More than two people would need. The hallway though clean and shining had little marks and scratches that didn't look new but were equally polished and reminded him of his own marks in his room that measured his height and his childhood escapades. And then there were the rooms. There were rooms that were kept clean but stripped bare. There were rooms that were clean and ready to used if necessary.
And then there were rooms that were locked to him. Alfred had never done that before. And these rooms were unoccupied anyways though he'd noticed similar little marks on them as well. There were more in this hallway than in any other place. Though granted, this was the hallway that lead to his own room. But he knew they weren't done by him. He'd remember that at least right? Most of these little nicks were sort of hidden in places were only a child or young person would be able to get to though a few were at a reach of an adult.
Going down the main stairs to the kitchen, he heard Alfred going through the motions of cooking. The soft and quick sounds of the knife cutting into some produce. The sound of the stove on low heat as it boiled some water in an open pot.
"Alfred."
A pause of the knife as his old friend acknowledged him before pointedly making sure he wasn't about to involve himself in the cooking and was still observing his childhood banishment from the kitchen.
Returning to cutting -it was a carrot, Bruce saw- the butler looked back down at the chopping board. "Yes, Master Bruce?"
Hesitating, Bruce stood just inside of the kitchen entryway and took a deep breath. "Why are the rooms down my hallway locked?"
Another pause of the knife, this time almost too quick to have been noticed, but he did. Alfred simply continued his cutting and then moved to deposit the slices into the pot. Moving about the kitchen to gather whatever he needed next, he replied quite casually but with his back still turned, "The rooms are locked because I don't want you to see the mess they've become. As empty as they are, they need cleaning. However in my worry for you I had been neglectful of them and had even left windows open. The rain had come in and some items have been soaked."
"I can call in some cleaners to help y-"
"No," Alfred cut him off.
"Alfred."
"It is not necessary, Master Bruce. I can handle it myself."
"But-"
"I am not yet so decrepit as to need help doing my duties."
"Oh. I didn't mean to imply-"
Alfred turned to him then. "I know, Master Bruce. But let me have these tasks. I need to keep myself occupied after all whenever you're out and about."
This explanation nagged at Bruce and he couldn't quite understand why. But, he let it go at the old man's look and raised brow. "Okay, Alfie. Whatever you say." He smiled even though he felt like frowning. Even though he felt like pushing, he let it go.
And even though he wanted to know what those rooms were like, he made himself turn away from the kitchen, from the stairs that would lead him up and up onto his hallway.
Alfred watched him go and then smiled sadly. Looking upward, he imagined those same rooms. They were not empty. Though unoccupied right now, they would never be empty. Not of the memories each person had brought into it. Not of the little knickknacks they'd brought with them after their travels, after their patrols, after coming home to live with them.
Taking in a painful breath, Alfred went back to finish making dinner. Thoughts circling themselves inside his dead. Sometimes he wondered if this was right. However, not a one of them had overturned his decision.
Half the time he was grateful.
But in moments like these, he sometimes wished they would.