Work Text:
Bruce has never been opposed to what appears to be Damian's determination to establish his own private zoo on the grounds of the Manor. It's made for some odd conversations at the office, when he mentions his son's pet cow, and Titus and Ace had some difficulty getting along at first, and Goliath is...certainly a pet that Damian has. But somehow, the most problematic addition to the menagerie has been the cat he decided to name Alfred. Because that's never been confusing.
He's a sweet cat, and he's affectionate with everyone. Absolutely everyone, to Damian's immense frustration, and he has a particular fondness for Stephanie, who once attempted to rechristen him Catfred and that led to a severe enough fight that both Dick and Jason were needed to break it up before there were any permanent injuries inflicted. And Bruce is included in that everyone, which is not an inclusion that he minds most of the time. He doesn't mind it with Alfred curls up next to him on the sofa, or brushes past his legs on his way down the stairs, or even when he mews plaintively because he wants a pet or to at least be picked up and cuddled.
He does somewhat mind it when Alfred caterwauls as if the world was ending because he hasn't been fed at the exact time he wants to be fed, but it's a minor thing. He does mind it when he comes back to his desk after taking a call and finds Alfred sitting very comfortable smack dab in the middle of his chair, already halfway to sleeping. And he wouldn't even have to step out into the hallway to take a simple business call if Alfred didn't have a terrible habit of starting to meow very loudly and insistently whenever he heard anyone on the other line, as if assuming he was a part of the conversation. It is very ill-mannered, it would make the original Alfred appalled.
"Sorry buddy," Bruce says, scooping the cat up off of his seat. Alfred lets out a noise of indignation as Bruce sits down and deposits him firmly on the desk. Alfred takes a moment to glare at him rather impressively as Bruce moves to grab the stack of forms he was reading over, and then promptly collapses himself on Bruce's hand.
Right on top of his papers.
"Alfred," Bruce says, in a way he can never say to human-Alfred ( who would probably refuse to do work for a week if he heard himself being referred to as human-Alfred ), admonishing and a touch stern. Alfred the cat licks his paw and rubs it over his face, and renders himself boneless. Bruce tries his hand at attempting to slowly drag his work out from under the cat, but somehow, Alfred is both incredibly light when being picked up and capable of weighing a thousand pounds when he doesn't want to be moved.
And it appears that he doesn't want to be moved now, right when Bruce needs to do his work.
"Alfred, bud, I need those," Bruce tries. There's a beam of sunlight shooting through the window right onto where Alfred is prone on the desk, and the cat has apparently decided to bask in it. Bruce sighs.
This isn't new. This is a tale as old as time, ever since he was a kitten. Alfred has some sort of mystical sixth sense where he can tell when someone is using a paper for work, and he will immediately sit on it. He's sat himself on a notebook Jason was using, Duke's math homework, a newspaper Dick had left discarded, even one of Damian's drawings ( and later managed to step on it while his paw was wet and leave a quite pronounced print ) once. And he likes to park himself on Bruce's paperwork quite a lot.
Fortunately, Bruce has a trick for this. It's one he figured out pretty early on, and it's one that works, even if it's bit ridiculous. The trick is the one he employs now, when he takes a small sheaf of blank printer papers and lays them out in front of him, stares at them intently, and starts writing furiously on one of them. He's writing nonsense really, what he's doing right now is just listing known physical attributes of his children ( Dick Grayson — scar on his upper lip, Jason Todd — central heterochromia from teal to gold, Cassandra Cain — hair currently chin length ) and making it as detailed as possible, so that he looks incredibly busy.
Alfred yawns, stretches, and then lumbers to his feet. He pads over the desk to get to where Bruce is writing, and immediately lies down on the upper half of the paper. The trick is technically two-fold here, because Bruce tries to tug the decoy papers away from Alfred unsuccessfully, tries to keep on writing even when the cat's tail starts flicking over the still visible bits of paper, and then appears to give up. He pets Alfred on his head, rubs his belly when he turns over, lets the cat valiantly attempt to bite his fingers, and then strokes him gently as he purrs loud enough to wake the entirety of Bristol before licking one paw and falling asleep.
And then Bruce immediately ignores his decoy papers and goes back to the actual work that he needs to do, just as he has every single time Alfred has pulled this and he hasn't the heart to bodily drag the cat out and banish him to the hallway. He's got too cute a face for it, and his eyes are nearly the same shade of green as Damian's.
At some point later in the afternoon, Bruce switches his attentions to his computer once the paperwork is done. Alfred takes that moment to stand and rub his cheek over the edges of the screen for a solid five minutes, before collapsing himself right onto Bruce's wrist and immediately restricting half of his ability to move. Bruce scratches him gently under his chin, and feels the rumble of his purr.