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Bruce does not love Timothy Drake. There are times when it’s much harder to remind himself of that: that no matter how many small and large acts of kindness the 11-year-old performs for no reason other than he’s a kind young man, Bruce does not love him.
Sometimes, it’s a little easier to remember that. Such as now, as his groggy, mildly encrusted eyes crack open to the notification that Tim has input his specific security code to enter the manor through the side door, uninvited. Not that coming over uninvited is itself an offense. Bruce (and more forcefully, Alfred) had let him know he is welcome whenever he wants for whatever reason (or lack thereof entirely). However, seeing that it is 2:42 A.M. during the middle of a hailstorm on a Saturday morning, which would be annoying on any weekend anyhow but quickly escalates Tim’s behavior from quirky to irresponsible considering it is the Saturday of Tim’s placement exam into Gotham Academy, Bruce allowed himself a level of indignation.
The behavior evolves from irresponsible to…somewhat ominous when Bruce checks the security feed to see that Tim is wheeling inside what appears to be a wagon filled with contraband under a tarp.
At least the twerp had the wherewithal to have mounted some kind of hail-proof umbrella to his wagon.
“Good morning, B!” is the immediate response Bruce is greeted with as he enters the 2nd floor South-Eastern-most kitchen. Despite the…briskness Bruce feels towards Tim’s cheeriness at a quarter-‘til-three, he does feel some level of pride that Tim had somehow gotten his wagon of groceries (???) upstairs into the kitchen quickly, before Bruce could intercept him and quiet enough that Bruce had to recheck his location on the security system.
“I think whether or not you can call this ‘morning’ is debatable,” Bruce says, with…a nonzero level of exasperated fondness in his voice. “May I ask why you are delivering groceries into my kitchen on the morning of your placement exam?”
Bruce himself isn’t sure if he’d had let Ja--…his sons even attempt to skip ahead two grades to be in high school before becoming a teenager, but Tim had worked hard to qualify for this exam, and should be getting enough sleep to prepare for it instead of doing…well…I’m not quite sure what he’s doing, Bruce pondered as he looked inside the large cooler on the floor, filled with, amongst other things, two whole crabs, and two gallons of buttermilk.
Tim, to his credit, kept his bizarre-behavior-roll a-going by staring at Bruce like he had two heads. “It’s the 8th, Bruce. Of April?”
“I’m aware.”
“It’s Alfred’s birthday, isn’t it?”
And Bruce had to take a full 3 seconds to recover from the grinding halt his brain came to. A full second to remember that, yes, it is Alfred’s birthday; a second full second to come to terms that Bruce had forgotten Alfred’s birthday for the first time in seventeen years; and a third second to recognize that Tim, whom had known them personally for less than six months, had not. A bonus fourth-through-seventh seconds was spent wondering how this connects to the significant amount of green food coloring Tim had just placed on his counter.
“Are you here to…make Alfred something for his birthday?”
Tim smiled wide, bright, and boyish. It was somehow both highly reminiscent and entirely alien to the impish, vicious grin that Robin wore when he got one over on a criminal, which was the smile Bruce was most accustomed to seeing on the boy.
Somehow, that mischief, both offensive at night and charitable right now, had become something of the zeitgeist of this era of Bruce’s life.
“I’m making crab benedict! I figured he never gets to eat English food anymore unless he makes it, it might be nice to cook something more…imperial for him for his birthday breakfast. I also have stuff for his cake once that’s done. I thought about waiting until after my test today to make that, but I’ll probably be pretty tired, and I kind of want to cut the marzipan pretty evenly, and my lines always look a little scrungly when I’m tired, so I figured I’d cook it here and put it in the fridge for whenever he wants it. I mean, I know making breakfast and dessert at the same time isn’t exactly Alfred-sanctioned-cooking-order, but you know, I want it to be good, and I just feel more confident in my processes than trying to work his, and—”
“Buddy.”
Tim immediately went quiet at Bruce’s uncharacteristic term of endearment that seemed to have just fallen from the man’s mouth.
The silence stayed at the sight of the warm smile and rouge on the cheeks of the older man, though it was much more amenable once he noticed that.
“You didn’t need to get here at two a.m. to do this,” Bruce said, no longer paying attention to keep the fondness from his tone.
“I mean, Alfred wakes up at like, 4:30 to start his tasks, right? If I want him to have food ready when he wakes up, then yeah, I do,” Tim explains with a sort of…almost monotonous logic, almost like walking a wagon full of groceries over a mile to your neighbor’s house to make breakfast and dessert for your employer’s butler was to be expected, as normal and mindlessly considerate as holding the door open for someone.
Bruce was almost too involved in taking in the sheer kindness emanating from Tim to notice Tim arranging what seemed to be three different varieties of flour onto the kitchen island. Tim seemed to notice the curiosity in the stare.
“The almond flour is for the marzipan. I thought about making it last night but just kind of forgot, haha. The AP flour is for the sponge, and the bread flour is for the muffins for the benedict.”
“That…seems like a lot of work for a beginner.”
Tim looked at him in…well, what seemed like blatant offense, actually. “Uhm, what do you mean beginner? I’ve been practicing this for weeks. And the this is the same muffin recipe I’ve used for years!”
Bruce could almost hear the record scratch in his head. Even all these years, Saturday-morning-cartoons-with-Dick brain rot remained. “You’ve been making English muffins for years?”
Tim’s offense mellowed into something…cooler. “My parents always talk about the food they have on their travels, and how much they enjoyed it. So, at some point I just…wanted to make it for them while they were home, too. In fact…crab benedict was the first dish I learned to make. Mom kept going on and on about a nice café that served it in Cornwall, and how it was her favorite breakfast now. So, I learned. First how to make English muffins and poach an egg, then how to make the Hollandaise sauce, then the crabcake itself.”
The pink on Tim’s cheeks as he spoke…it looked far more natural to him than any color Bruce had ever seen on him. If he had become a different sidekick than Robin, Bruce would assume a pink costume would’ve suited him most. “The look on her face when she bit into it, after months of perfecting it for when she came back…that meant a lot.” Tim shook his head a bit, seemingly trying to force the rosiness from his face after noticing Bruce’s attention. “So, I just…kept going. Learning how to cook anything they said they like. I can make quite a few oriental dishes. Mostly East Asian, but I have recently started making a few Caucuses dishes. A decent amount of Hispanic food too. And like…maybe two African dishes. I would say Eritrean food isn’t exactly something I’d had any exposure to before I started to look it up myself.”
“I see.” Bruce really shouldn’t be surprised to learn Tim can cook at a level above his age. There are entire TV shows about children being talented cooks. It was almost certainly more normal for children to be cooking above their age class than computer programming above it, so really, this should be one of the less remarkable things about Tim’s clear genius intellect.
And yet, Bruce was far more impressed with this than when Tim showed him his new drone with a sonic cannon that he’d built last week.
“Well, I’m very much not welcome to help in the kitchen, and on any day to disobey house rules, Alfred’s birthday seems like the worst time to do so, so I’ll leave you to it.”
Tim smiled with a quick nod. “Get some sleep Bruce, see you after school!”
As Bruce turned to head back to his bedroom, he couldn’t help but stall at a smell. At…that smell.
“Yeah, we never really bought apples,” Jason reminisced, as he peeled and chopped the pears for the pie he was making. “Mom started to lose her teeth from all the chew,” he said, and everyone in the room knew well that the tobacco was not the main cause of such, “and fresh pears were just a lot softer.” Jason looked…melancholic, but not in the depressive way he’d had for the longest time while talking about Catherine. “But I never knew you could just like…make a pear pie,” he said, with a little bit of wonder in his voice. Jason seemed to be able to, to finally be able to remember his mother with a smile.
“Of course, lad,” Alfred continued, as he took the blind-baked dough from the oven. “You’ll find that there is no ingredient in your kitchen that you know everything about.”
With a scoff, Jason used the flat edge of the knife to shove the pear cubes into the bowl. “Yeah, like how baking soda smells like trash when you use a cup and a quarter of it in your cookie dough instead of sugar,” he teased, looking at Bruce who was sitting on the other side of the island.
“In my defense, I was on a call with Hal about strategizing for the War-World incursion we were expecting that month. I think you should forgive my poor baking in exchange for saving the world, hm?”
“What is most impressive is that I can affirm that your father is very skilled in the kitchen, lad. He’s banned not because he’s incompetent, but because he is far too easily distracted by whatever else in his brain at the time. The one time he was undercover at Gordon Ramsey’s restaurant, he received very high marks for his wellington.”
“So, what you’re saying is we need to figure out some bullcrap reason that making cookies will help him be a better crime fighter, and he won’t ever accidentally cook pasta in a pot full of Sierra Mist again?”
Alfred turned towards Bruce with a glare sharp enough to cut Luthor’s Kryptonian-Buster armor. “I’m sorry, do you mean the soda?”
Bruce winced more at that than the time Poison Ivy ripped out his fingernails and poured radioactive lemon juice on the wounds.
“What are the pears for,” Bruce asked. It seemed Tim didn’t detect the hollowness in his voice.
“Pears?” Tim asked, looking around his supplies in clear confusion, before settling on a jar of an amber fluid. “Oh! The jam,” Tim exclaimed, picking it up. “This is for the cake!”
Bruce swallowed and nodded. “Would you mind if I…stayed up?”
Tim’s brow furrowed. “Huh?”
“Just, to make sure you have someone here if you cut or burn yourself.”
Tim rolled his eyes. “Bruce, I’ve been cooking at home for years.”
“And I’m sure your nanny didn’t leave you alone during that?”
Tim paused for a second, before giving an …oddly sheepish nod. “She usually just watches.”
“Please, humor my own anxieties, Tim.”
Tim snorted and gave a nod. “I don’t know why you’re asking for my permission to stay up late in your own house, but sure.”
Bruce purposefully channeled that Rock fellow from that wrestling show Jason used to love in raising one eyebrow. “So, you admit that 2: --” he checked his watch, “51 a.m. is moreso late at night than early in the morning?”
“Tomatoes, to-mah-toes.”
“Which I see are absent from your small food truck.”
“Bruce…what kind of cake or breakfast sandwich even has tomatoes?”
Alfred Pennyworth was nigh unshakeable when it came to unforeseen events. (I doubt you need an explanation as to why this fortitude came about).
Though, he was…a little perplexed to walk into kitchen 2-E to see the open concept dining room table dressed with flowers and nicely placed plates, and to hear the small hum of a sous vide whirring.
“Good morning, Alfred!” Tim said with a smile, as soon as he caught a glance of the older man.
Alfred took in the scene, of Tim at the electric stove top, using a Hawkwoman themed spatula to flip a small brown patty over in lightly sizzling oil, while a small tub of water held what appeared to be a few brown eggs gently floating around like jellyfish with a sous vide machine, and some English muffins cooling on a tray to the side. Bruce was sitting at the table, still in his robe, scrolling and tapping intermittently on his tablet.
“Well, hello Timothy,” Alfred said softly, his sharp, yet undeniably seasoned mind attempt to fully grasp what was happening. “I wasn’t expecting to see you this morning, much less making…” Alfred took a whiff, and looked closer at all the kitchen stations running, “An Eggs Benedict, with a crabcake?”
Tim nodded with a warm smile. “Happy birthday, Alfie.”
Bruce watched quietly at Alfred’s expression. Alfred, for all his sternness and stoniness, certainly had a bashful quality that very few people ever saw. Bruce wasn’t sure any of his sons could point it out. His cheeks stayed colorless, but the twitch of his slightly agape mouth, the flicker of his lashes, it definitely let Bruce know that Alfred had not expected anything good today. Much less for Tim to do…all of this.
(For a moment, Bruce allowed himself to wallow in the fact that not only does he routinely fail as a father, but he was quite adept in failing to be a dutiful, caring son many times as well).
“I…thank you, Master Tim. I hadn’t realized I’d mentioned my birthdate before.”
There was the mischievous smile on Tim from earlier. “I’m supposed to be a detective, aren’t I?”
The gleam in Alfred’s eyes told Bruce they had the same thought: that they were blessed to have to deal with this smug little shit.
“I see. Well, if I may, would you allow me the pleasure to check on just how much better you are at poaching eggs than I?”
Tim chuckled with a bright nod, and Alfred got to work on the eggs.
In a matter of minutes, plating was underway, but not before Tim sprinkled some kind of…odd purple flakes, on top of the crab cake.
“What might that be,” Alfred asked, while Bruce tried to bite his tongue about a slightly rude fish-food comment.
“It’s dulse!” Tim said with glee. “My Dad mentioned a fish house in Carrickfergus farmed their own dulse to use as a spice for a lot of their seafood, and he kept raving about it, so I tried it on my crabcake recipe, and thought it was pretty good. Mom and Dad both loved it, too.”
Bruce felt it important to set a phone reminder to tell Alfred that this recipe was the first recipe Tim had learned, for the sake of cooking for his mother. Alfred always said the emotions behind a dish were a big part of its final outcome. Love is the secret ingredient and whatnot.
“Well, we shall see.”
Breakfast finished, and at 5:01 A.M., was very nice. Bruce didn’t have exactly a lot of…detailed insight on the dish, but Alfred certainly enjoyed it. He asked Tim question after question about technique and ingredients, which Tim answered in like glee. Bruce knew part of it was genuine curiosity, and part of it was using attention from an adult as a reward, to thank Tim for his consideration.
“Well,” Tim started with a large smile, “I’m glad you liked it. You can keep the leftover buttermilk I put in the fridge. I definitely didn’t need as much as I thought. I was partially worried I’d screw up the sponge cakes.”
Alfred cocked his head in curiosity. “…Sponge cakes?”
“Huh? Oh! Yeah, I made you a cake! It’s in the fridge, now.”
Alfred’s stoneface probably didn’t reveal to Tim how touched he was the way it did to Bruce. “It’s a sponge cake?”
“It’s a Pistachio Battenberg!”
Well. Hmm. Bruce did not know what that was, but Alfred looked quite astounded.
“You…made a Battenberg cake?”
“Yep! I know that like, you usually just use a traditional marzipan, but I remember on your lunch break you always get the mixed nuts that have a lot more pistachios in them, so I tried my hand at a pistachio marzipan. And the one pink sponge is normal almond, but the green segments are pistachio sponge cake, too!”
Despite not knowing why exactly Tim needed to explain his decisions, he himself was touched on Alfred’s behalf that he’d been so attentive to Alfred’s tastes that he noted which nuts were most prominent in Alfred’s snacks. Alfred seemed very much well touched himself.
“That’s extraordinarily kind of you, master Timothy,” said Alfred, with…probably the warmest voice Bruce had heard from the man in the past 10 months since…since. “Thank you very kindly.”
After refusing to take “no” for an answer in helping clean up, Alfred offered to drive Tim to his test which Tim agreed to. And since the test wasn’t until 1:00 P.M., Bruce was able to bully Tim into getting a few hours of sleep beforehand.
He was also able to, miraculously, bully Alfred into having a slice of cake in the daytime before dinner. Upon actually seeing the cake, Bruce understood the purpose of the fabled pear jam and listened as Alfred pondered aloud if Tim’s choice to substitute pear jam over apricot was warranted. (“I’m telling you; the apricot and pistachios just clash too much; the pear jam works way better”). It was…oddly cathartic to hear Alfred’s investigative thought processes. Perhaps Gray Ghost was not the only inspiration behind Bruce’s detective mind (though he must admit there’s something somewhat amusing that Alfred is using keener observational and problem-solving intelligence on Tim’s flavor profiling than any case Bruce has ever asked his opinion for).
And, as he watched Alfred’s slightly warm cheeks, and possibly misty eyes lightly cut into and enjoy his second slice of cake before dinner, Bruce concluded that he was right, after everything.
No number of unwarranted acts of kindness from Tim towards Bruce himself could melt his iron walls into loving the boy.
Yet he deeply underestimated just how much more effective random acts of love towards Alfred would be at causing love to well up in his previously bankrupt heart for this new young boy who forced himself into his life.
Smug little shit, indeed.