Kitchen Talk
by Smitty (smittywing@yahoo.com)

***


I was on the prowl. The thrill of the hunt pounded in my veins;
rang in my ears. There was no escape, not tonight. My eyes darted
through the shadows, scanned the crevices. I knew who was going to win
this one. There! A split second of glee and then I pounced!

Having successfully flushed out the month-old bag of Cheetos, I
turned my attention to the fridge, hoping I still had a rootbeer in
there, somewhere. I was in luck. There was one, rolled back against the wall
of the fridge. I heard the Star Spangled Banner playing on the television
and knew I had exactly 24 seconds to get to my homebase--for this purpose,
the couch--and not miss the first pitch.

I would have made it, too, if not for the doorbell. As it was, it
caught me with my shoulder tucked under the bottom shelf, and when I 
jumped, I knocked the entire shelf off it's braces. And, because it was 
the bottom shelf, it hit the shelf above it, which hit the shelf above it,
and all three of them clattered to the bottom. I shoved the door closed,
locking all of them inside, and silently prayed it wasn't Barbara or Donna or
someone who had shown up, because I'd want her to cook dinner, and well, it
would be ugly.

It wasn't Barbara. Or Donna. Or even Kory, who couldn't cook
her way out of a paper bag. It was worse. It was much, much worse.

"Master Dick, I trust you're well?"

"Uh...'course I am, Alfred. Um, why wouldn't I be?" I flashed my 
best grin at Alfred, hoping he'd, I don't know...just disappear or 
something. 

No such luck.

"You have what appears to be grape jelly on your shirt," he
informed me, drily. "I was afraid you might have finally met your
match."

"I--huh?" Sure enough, great big ol' blob of Welch's, right on the
front of my Gotham Knights shirt. Damn.

Now, don't get me wrong. I love Alfred. He's taken care of me
since I was nine years old. Me and Bruce, actually, since despite all
his resources and self-discipline, Bruce Wayne didn't know where we kept the
peanut butter. Alfred was the one who stitched me up when I got hurt
and set out fresh-baked cookies and cold milk when I got home from school. 
Alfred was the one who listened to my problems and made me come up
with my own solutions. Alfred ran more interference than Refrigerator 
Perry when things were bad between me and Bruce. All that being said, 
this visit could not bode well. Alfred doesn't visit for social
reasons, and I don't exactly share his cleanliness obsession.

"Well, um, c'mon in," I offered, stepping aside to let him in. I
didn't want to ask why he had come, partly because it would be rude, but mostly
because I didn't want to know.

"Excellent." He moved out of the doorframe and reappeared
holding two large grocery bags.

"Alfred," I protested, looking out the door. There were half a 
dozen more bags out there. "Geez!" I started piling them in my arms. 
"Alfred, there's only one of me here. I can't eat all this! And how
did you get all of these up here? You didn't carry them up yourself, did you?" 

Alfred was old when I met him. He must be approaching antique by now.

"Of course not," he replied, primly, as I staggered into the kitchen,
loaded down with bags. "Your lovely landlady offered her assistance."

I held back a groan. I'd be hearing about this from Clancy, for sure.

"She is a fascinating woman," Alfred continued. "And quite
attractive."

"Uh," I grunted, trying to fit all the bags on my counter. There was 
no way. Two of them went on the kitchen table, and the other three on 
the floor. I noted, sadly, that my Cheetos were already in the trash can.
"She spoke of you with quite a bit of interest," Alfred was saying
when I realized where his voice was coming from.

"NO!" I dove for the fridge, blocking it with my arms and legs 
spread-eagled. Alfred stared at me as if I had just done something odd. 

"Always put the freezer stuff away first," I said, innocently. "You
taught me that when I was nine." I shot him my most disarming smile.
"Please, Master Dick," he sighed. "You've been using that smile on
me since you were still in short pants and it has yet to achieve its
desired effect."

Defeated by mention of the short pants, I moved away from the
fridge. "Don't say I didn't warn you," I mumbled. 

With a withering look, Alfred released the catch on the door, then
turned his attention to not getting creamed by my shelves. I quietly
rescued my Cheetos from the trash and retreated to the living room. I
looked at the television, already halfway into the game, and my sorry
bag of the Cheese That Goes Crunch, and realized I couldn't just stay in
here. It wouldn't be right, dammit. I sighed and heaved my lazy ass off the
couch, because I couldn't leave Alfred to face my renegade fridge on his
own.

I don't know why I worried. By the time I made it back into the
kitchen, Alfred had somehow managed to wrestle the shelves into their
proper places and load them up with all kinds of healthy stuff. 

"Milk. Does a body good," I commented, peering over Alfred's
shoulder.

"Yes. A pity you aren't able to digest it without chocolate chip
cookies."

"Nah, oatmeal raisin works, too," I told him. "Speaking of
cookies..." I looked in one of the other bags, hoping that maybe some
housewife had thrown some of those Oreos with the blue filling into
Alfred's cart, thinking it was hers. 

"No, Master Dick. I did not purchase anything claiming to be
baked by elves living in a hollow tree. If you want cookies, you will 
have to wait until they come out of the oven."

"There's cookies in the--?" I don't even know how to work the
oven. It hadn't been touched since I moved in. I reached for the door. 
"Ow!" 

Alfred silently passed over a potholder.

"Thanks," I muttered, using the fish-shaped glove to ease the door
down and sniff at what was baking away inside. "Aw right! 
Snickerdoodles!"

"They certainly won't be, if you don't close that door and allow
them to bake," Alfred reminded me.

"Right." I closed the door and tossed the potholder on the counter. 
"So, Al," I said, hoping to sound casual as I hopped up on the counter.

"Yes, Master Dick?" 

"Um..." I searched frantically for something to ask him. "So, you
met Clancy?" That probably was't the best question to ask.

"Ah, yes, dear Miss Bridget. Quite a lovely, girl, Master Dick, and
much more deserving of the attention you've since afforded her, is she
not?"

"Alfred..." I jumped off the counter to retrieve the Cheetos that
had somehow found their way back into the trash can. "I've taken Clancy
out. But things keep...you know...coming up." 

"Indeed."

"You know, Nightwing stuff."

"I understand completely."

"You know...stuff I couldn't help. Important stuff."

"Of course." Alfred was mixing something in a bowl, his
expression unchanging. 

"I felt really bad about it." He wasn't even doing anything, and I
was experiencing a guilt trip that rivaled Bruce's perpetual guilt
vacation. I put the Cheetos aside, hoping that might earn me a glance of 
approval, at the least.

"I have no doubt that you do." The contents of the bowl were
poured in a pan and exchanged with the cookies. "Do not touch them. 
You'll burn yourself."

I pulled my hand back. "Ok, Alfred, spill. What's your deal with 
Clancy?"

"I simply implied that Miss Bridget may be deserving of a bit more
attention," Alfred answered. "She is a lovely girl and I think she
would be a most suitable companion to distract yourself from the rigors of
your...hectic nightlife. Perhaps if Master Bruce would allow himself
such a distraction, he would be less..." Alfred trailed off, a funny look on
his face, and suddenly, I had a feeling I had a similar look on my own face.

"Yeah. I know what you mean." We were both quiet for a minute,
thinking of Bruce and remembering those precious few times when he
actually smiled freely. "But I'm not like him, Alfred. If I was like
him, well...maybe then we'd still be the Dynamic Duo, huh?"

"No, Master Dick," Alfred said, somewhat sadly. "It was becoming
too like him that ended the partnership." He turned then, and started
mixing something else, and I took the opportunity to grab a cookie.

"Ow!"

"I hate to say so, young sir..."

"Yeah, yeah, I know you told me so." I blew on my reddened
fingers and glared at the offending cookie, lying in three pieces on my
counter. I wondered if it would be safe to eat when it cooled, then
decided the counter probably wasn't the most sanitary of resting places, and
quickly pushed the cookie remains into the sink. "I like Clancy," I finally
said. "It's not that I don't."

"Why do I sense the word 'however' being the next thing to exit
your mouth?" Alfred asked.

"I don't know, because I was going to say 'but,'" I replied. "And I
was saying, I do like Clancy, and if I was just a Bludhaven cop, a
regular joe, I'd probably ask her out and follow her around like a puppy dog
until she married me." I watched Alfred toss what appeared to be raw chicken
in his bowl and rub the mixure into it, as I contemplated what it would
be like to be a regular guy. "But things aren't that easy."

"Perhaps you are simply making them more difficult that they
actually are." The chicken joined whatever was in the oven. "I don't
remember you having so many problems finding time to be with Miss
Gordon," he said, mildly. 

"But I was in love with Barbara," I protested.

"Ah." With that, Alfred left the kitchen.

Ah? What did he mean by that? Ah? I hopped off the counter,
snagging a snickerdoodle as I went and followed Alfred into the living
room, where he had already turned off the television and was sweeping my
magazines and newspapers together.

"Whaddaya mean by ah?" I asked around a double mouthful of
cookie. 

"Please, Master Dick." Alfred straightened from picking up a tie
and my jacket from the arm of the sofa. "Have the few short years since
you left stately Wayne Manor stripped you of all the manners I spent so 
many years trying to impress upon you?"

"Sorry, Alfred," I said, after I had swallowed several times. "Guess
I'm not used to having anyone around."

"I daresay your association with young Master Harper and young
Master West assisted in that lapse." 

"Aw, now, c'mon, Alfred," I protested, following him as he headed
back to the bedroom, scooping up clothes and other debris as he went. 
"You can't blame Roy and Wally for everything I do wrong. I mean, hey,"
I offered, grinning in fond remembrance, "Donna won the Titans belching
contest four years straight."

"Really, Master Dick. Blaming your lack of couth on the ever-proper Miss Troy. 
It's a wonder Miss Clancy even bothers to associate
with you." 

"Hey, now, that's not fair!" I protested. "I'm not a complete loser." 

Or are you, Grayson? After all, Bridget Clancy was beautiful, smart,
Had that adorable accent, and was crazy for me. And what did Dick Grayson,
Boy Blunder do? I told her there was someone else, someone better than
her. What was I thinking? Except for the occasional conversation with 
Oracle, I hadn't even seen Babs since the night we escaped from Pettit 
and the rest of what was formerly Gotham's finest. And I hadn't even 
tried. 

"I am a loser," I groaned, dropping back on my bed, as Alfred deposited his
armful of clothes in the hamper.

"I hardly think so, Master Dick," Alfred said, mildly, pulling the
pillows off the bed. "You possess a great number of excellent
qualities. Unfortunately, you have been a bit reluctant in exhibiting them, of 
late."

"Thanks, Alfred," I said to the ceiling.

"Not at all," he continued. "Now Upsy-Daisy. I simply cannot 
understand how your bed is still unmade at quarter past six."

Only Alfred could get away with a saying like Upsy-Daisy. I
scooted far enough down on the bed for him to pull the covers up, and
found myself sitting on a book. It was a detective novel I'd been
reading before going to sleep the night before.

"Oh, really, Master Dick!"

"It's a good book," I protested, automatically. "There's not even
any--oh."

Alfred wasn't talking about the book at all. Instead, he was
brandishing, at arm's length, a slightly mashed package he'd pulled out
from under the bed.

"My Mallomars..." I protested, weakly.

"And what's this?"

"Um..." 

"Haven't I thrown these away three times already?"

"Only twice, I think." I watched sadly as my Mallomars and the
bag of Cheetos once more were escorted to the kitchen. I reshelved the
detective novel and touched the frame of one of the nearby pictures. It
was the one of me and Clancy at the my police academy graduation. And right
next to it was the one of me and Babs, at the beach.

"'Ah, Spring,'" quoted Alfred, behind me. "'When a young man's
fancy turns to thoughts of love.' An enviable position, to be sure." 

"You ever been in love, Alfred?" I asked, curiously.

"Every man has been, at one time or another," Alfred said, gently.

"I never knew that."

"Well, I certainly wasn't born a gentleman's gentleman," he
admonished me, mildly. "I had other...ventures to occupy my time until
my father died and I was called to replace him at Wayne Manor."

"But you never got to get married, or have a family..."

"Now that's where you are mistaken, Master Dick. I do have a
family. A very close, very loving family."

"You do?" I blurted out, unaware that Alfred had any sort of life
outside Wayne Manor. "Where are you hiding them? Why don't you live
with them?"

For my efforts, I was rewarded a withering look. "I was referring,"
Afred informed me, drily, "to raising Master Bruce. And you. For a
bit, Master Jason." A shadow cast over his face, as we both remembered the
troubled boy who took my place as Robin for much too short a time. 
"And, of course," he continued, after a moment, "Master Tim."

"And Babs," I added. "You can't forget Babs."

"I would never dream of forgetting Miss Barbara." Alfred sounded
scandalized that I had even conceived the notion. Brandishing his
feather duster at my pictures, he went on. "When you first came to Wayne Manor,
I felt I had two boys. With Master Bruce treating you like a...well, I
don't know what, but it was quite obvious he did not have the faintest idea
what to do with you, and then had that atrocious habit of calling you
'chum.' I thought I was starting over again, but I soon realized that Master 
Bruce was the parent, this time. I was so proud to think of you as my grandson. 
Imagine my delight when I realized my job was nothing but to spoil you!" 
Alfred smiled fondly at the pictures on the wall. "But now you've grown
up, and Master Tim doesn't need or want the attention I was able to give
you."

"Do you think I'll ever have a family, Alfred?" I asked, wondering 
how much Bruce was paying Alfred, and if I could possibly have enough 
money to lure him away to Bludhaven.

"I certainly hope so," Alfred sighed. "I'd simply adore the chance
to see another little boy demolish four batches of chocolate chip
pancakes in one sitting." His wistful tone suddenly vanished, and was replaced
by the matter-of-fact inflections I was used to. "Of course, that means
you'll either have to find an orphan to adopt, or stop making moon eyes at those
pictures and start paying more attention to the ladies in them. And I
hear good, trainable orphans are somewhat scarce these days."

"Is that a hint, Alfred?" I asked, a smile creeping over my face.

"Take it as you will, Master Dick," Alfred replied, primly. "I need
to tend to dinner."

"Are you staying?"

"No, no. I must be going. I promised Miss Bridget I would give
her a cooking lesson." 

"You're going to teach Clancy to cook?" I wondered what she 
wanted to learn. Eggs rolls and sushi? Cabbage and corned beef? 
"What's the lesson plan for today?"

Alfred stopped in his tracks to the kitchen and turned to face me. 
"We are beginning with grilled cheese," he said, hesistantly. "I do
hope
that won't tax her skills."

"Grilled cheese?" I echoed.

"And Master Dick, go on now and change your shirt, before that
jelly sets. It's getting quite late."

"Oh, right. On my way." I turned back to my room and set about
changing out of my jelly-decorated top and sweatpants and into pair of
jeans and a pullover sweater.

"Have a good evening, Master Dick," Alfred called from the living 
room.

"Hey, wait!" I called back. "Don't leave yet." I tied my shoes
quickly and jogged out of the room, but Alfred was already gone. Well, damn, I 
thought, looking around my now-spotless apartment. Turning to go in the kitchen, 
I spotted a small white card perched on the table next to the phone. 

"What's this?" I wondered, aloud, picking up and card. I smiled when I saw the 
number etched on the card. I may never be able to understand how Alfred manages 
to do all he does, I mused as I punched in the phone number, but I'll always 
know that he does them out of love for his family. 

"Hello? Gotham Florists? Yes. I'd like to order some flowers."

The End