Too much talking.
Not enough liquor.
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The Chef slept more deeply than any previous drunken slumber. It was the insistent nudging of her leg that woke her.
"You need a shower before breakfast, wake up." It was Crane's voice, clinical and smooth.
"Fuck shower, soft bed." The Chef mumbled softly into her blankets, sheets slightly falling into her mouth, until they were pulled away sharply. The snap of fabric jolting her more awake.
"As much as I'd prefer you to rest, you need to eat to keep your strength up." Alexandera flipped him off, rolling her body to the side of her mattress. Sleep made her forget her wound, as shoulder met hard ground quickly. She thanked herself for never bothering to get a box spring, the fall significantly shorter comparatively. Groaning in pain, The Chef felt Jonathon's hands on her, as he gently lifted her up and held her steady when she wobbled slightly as she stood. He eyed her closely, the knot on her forehead, held together by butterfly bandages, the black eyes, still swollen and caked with sleep, split lips, dried with thirst and abuse, her clothes from the past few weeks, stiff with blood and sweat, the bloodied gauze on her shoulder. "You look like death warmed over, Miss Fox."
Alexandera grinned smarmily, pushing him lightly.
"You would know, with your tenant." With that mention of the specter, she felt that familiar chill. Yet instead of a general cold chill across her body, it felt closer, as if a spindly hand was petting her damaged shoulder. The Chef couldn't help the sign of relief, the cold soothed her pain. "Thanks, Spooks." Crane's icy blue eyes widened in surprise, he knew she couldn't see him, but she felt him, really felt him. In his eyes he saw the gangly, dark, torn figure softly stroking the wound.
"You're full of surprises, Miss Fox." Crane finally stepped aside as The Chef yawned, making her way to her overflowing closet.
"I think we've past the point of calling me Miss Fox, Jekyll. I'm standing in my titty sling." As if to emphasize her point, she made a show of snapping the straps of her dirty sports bra, before squatting down and rummaging through the pile of clothes. "Hey Spooks, you gonna pick my shirt again?" Crane watched in no small amount of wonder as his personal demon began sliding some clothes hanging in her closet to the side, one by one, with his long claws. The taut leather like skin flexing as he grabbed a shirt. To anyone else it would look as if the shirt was merely floating, before the fabric was dropped on The Chef's head, a string of curses muffled by the shirt. Crane couldn't help but notice how The Scarecrow's yellow eyes glowed just a little brighter orange.
"Alright, I'm gonna shower, tell Spooks here he's banned from the bathroom while I'm in it."
"I can hear you, Bitch." The Scarecrow, annoyed at her unintentionally slight, tugged at a wild strand of hair from the knotted rats nest it was, causing The Chef to flinch, swatting at his hand, but only feeling cold air.
"I swear, salt the windows and doors, burn some sage..." The Chef grumbled as she stalked out the room, clothes held in her arms. Once Crane heard the the shower faucet squeaking to life, he sighed, facing his other half.
"Must you act like a child who doesn't know how to deal with a crush?"
"Johnny-Boy, just because your just as emotionally constipated as her, doesn't mean I can't have my fun."
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Jervis was miffed. He had hoped to make Alice a scrumptious breakfast and a spot of tea for her, but was pushed out of the kitchen by Edward, the Green Man saying he was shite in the kitchen. It was true, which was why he was miffed, and not, say... smad. So, to pass Time, Jervis set about cleaning and organizing the living room. It was still as messy as ever, His Alice not being the tidiest, but it was simple work to put things in their place. So engrossed in where he was going to put Alice's laptop, he never heard the shuffle behind him. The laptop was taken from his grip.
"I'll take that, we're watching Harry Potter today." And there was his Alice, bruised and swollen, but still so beautiful. So wonderful. A frabjous glee filled his body, his grin wider than The Cheshire Cat. She stood in over-sized black sweats and a green tank top with a snake, but her small, half-cocked grin made her a vision in his eyes.
"Alice..." The laptop she was holding was knocked gently against his arm.
"Jervis, I'll shave my head." The vitriol wasn't there, like all the other times. Jervis noted with a small amount of glee, she almost sounded... happy. With a roll of her eyes, she placed the laptop back on stained and chipped coffee table. "The password is tuberfucked. I'm getting some juice." And she wandered off, leaving Jervis to his unasked task.
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Edward had made it a small mission of his to become a better cook. Since that first risotto encounter with The Chef, his embarrassment that she knew more than him, he had been brushing up on his skills. Surprisingly, it was quite relaxing. Repetitive, predictable, much like a jigsaw. Every piece coming together just how they were supposed to. He had just lidded the pan when The Chef walked in, Edward turning to face her.
"I can sizzle like bacon, I am made with an egg. I have plenty of backbone, but lack a good leg. I peel layers like an onion, but can remain whole. I can be long like a flagpole, yet fit in a hole." She was silent, and Edward for a moment thought she might answer his riddle.
"You said a bunch of food things, and now all I can think about is breakfast, please tell me that's what that is behind you." The Chef eyed the stove like a wolf as Edward sighed.
"Yes, its shakshouka. I was commenting on your apparel." The Chef looked impressed Edward noticed with great pride, before looking down at her shirt.
"Oh, yeah I'm a Slytherin." Alexandera shuffled over to her fridge, opening the door and pulling a half empty bottle of cranberry juice out, drinking it straight from the bottle.
"What if we wanted juice?" The Chef didn't stop drinking, shrugging as she chugged. "I'm not surprised you're a Slytherin. I'm a Ravenclaw, myself." Edward's lip curled as The Chef polished off the bottle, burping loudly. He could hear Jervis In the living room give a faint 'oh my!' at the sound.
"Yeah, no surprise there. Is it ready?" She gestured to the food.
"Almost. Go sit, I'll plate your food." The Chef gave him a very hard look. "It will not be drugged, you have my word."
"Bruh, you're a wanted criminal, does your word really mean much?" It wasn't asked in malice, but Edward felt a little insulted.
"Alexandera, you are probably the only one we would make promises to, and actually make an effort to keep it. Go sit." The Chef walked past him, the fridge closing on its own, her stopping to place a hand on his shoulder.
"Thanks, Puzzles. It smells good." And she left. Edward noted that was the first time she had ever touched him gently, or sober.
It was a soft touch. Edward smiled as he checked the yolks of the eggs.
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It was quiet in The Chef's home. Arm in sling and sprawled on the couch, Alexandera allowed herself to languish in the doting of the three other in her home. Edward had brought in pain killers, of which the Chef took half of a pill, not fully trusting The Riddler to uphold his loose promise of not drugging her. He was in the kitchen, cleaning the dishes left over from the breakfast he made, saying he would be prepping lunch. The Chef had texted Damien when he'd be able to drop in. Jonathon was sat on the floor next to her, watching the movie with her, and handing The Chef her drink from time to time from the coffee table. Jervis was bustling about, organizing things in odd groupings, blue things with blue, anything with foxes with anything else with foxes, and so on, leaving the table a mess of cups, movies, shirts, and the odd plush animal. Jonathon had giving her an amused smirk when she grumbled softly her previously hidden penchant for the soft toys.
"Is it because of your name?" Jonathon had asked, noticing for the first time the little fox face inside her mug. The Chef shifted on the couch, avoiding eye contact, running her hand through her messy hair, the side longer than before and shaggy. Jonathon knew she was slightly stressed, having watched her mannerisms for some time.
"Y'all probably know I was adopted." over the din of the television, Edward called out from the kitchen.
"I pulled up your records. Your last family adopted you fully, giving you the name." The Chef rolled her eyes.
"I'm not the least bit surprised..." The Chef gave a heavy sigh. "I... I only had a few people I stayed with. I had a penchant for running away, I really thought I could take care of myself. A lot of the people that took my in were what you expect. They just wanted money. Greg and Beth, they... They were good people." The sound of water running from the kitchen stopped. Jervis had stopped his soft humming. Jonathon watched The Chef as she stared unseeing at the ceiling.
"They specifically wanted an older kid, and I was a year and a half away from being bagged out. You know a trash bag of your shit and a handshake, before being kicked out the door. My social worker was pushing me to live with them, but I just thought they wanted another check. The first thing they did, was buy me a book. A journal. They thought it would help, they promised never to read it. I set it on fire in the bathroom. When they walked in on me hunched over the little fire, Beth laughed, and said 'How enlightening!'." Alexandera gave a breathy laugh. "I thought she was crazy. Greg... He found this cookbook I had gotten when I was a kid one Christmas, and just... They bought brand new pots and pans, cooking utensils, ingredients I'd never heard of, and we cooked together." The Scarecrow hovered above, The Chef unknowingly making eye contact with the Specter, tears gathering in the corner of her eyes.
"I lived with them for three years, I took their name. Then they died on the way back from Metropolis. We had taken separate cars, I had bought my first car, and wanted to use it, you know. They crashed, and I didn't. They left everything to me. I sold almost all of it, used that money to pay for their funeral in Canada, and the rest was just gone. Booze, mostly. I told them both different dates to my birthday, I don't really know when it is, and the birth certificate is just a guess. They gave me a fox plush every year I was with them on those three days, three birthdays a year, three cakes. They were just so good..." Jonathon marveled as a tear slipped down to her ear, The Chef wiping it away with a huff.
"I was problematic, and mouthy, and rude, and angry, and just... awful to those happy idiots. I loved them. I regret never getting a photo with them. I have never liked having my photo taken."
"Alice..." Jervis hung over the back of the couch, grasping her hand, and rubbing his cheek against the back of it affectionately. "They would be proud of you." The Chef snorted harshly.
"Yeah, they would of, bunch of happy do gooders." Alexandera sniffed, pulling her hand away from The Hatters grasp to wipe at the remaining tears, laughing. "I knew you drugged me, Puzzles." Edward leaned against the doorway to the kitchen, fiddling with his cane that had been left to the side.
"Sorry to say, but that must be the pain talking."
"Yeah, just the pain. Jekyll, mind turning it up, Harry is about to meet sexy Sirius."
Jonathon did so, finally understanding what her fear was, and knowing she was already conquering it.
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Damien was nervous. In the trunk was a large suitcase, within was his life. His Robin outfit, his katana, a gift from his grandfather, his old uniform from when he was officially an assassin. He had made a promise, and he intended to keep it. It wasn't as if there was a need for secrecy on his end, she knew. Maybe not all of it, but that's what made him nervous.
"You can always omit the less savory details, Master Damien." Alfred, ever observant, had been gently coaxing Damien into calming down.
"No." And that's all Damien could muster as they pulled in front of her apartment. The afternoon sun shining on the moss covered bricks. Making there way inside and up the stairs, Damien gripped the handle to the suitcase tightly, grounding himself. When Alfred knocked, The Chef responded with a lazy 'It's open.'
"That's not very safe, Miss Fox." Alfred waltzed in, holding the door open for Damien, before gently closing it. "I hope you are well, may I check your injuries? I have experience in medicine." Damien stood in the doorway, taking in the visible damage his Ukhti had, a deep well of guilt swelling in his stomach.
"Sure go for it, Al. You would have experience, with Bruce getting into fights nightly, huh?"
"Low blow, but accurate none the less." Alfred wasn't insulted, he knew she was snippy from a place of caring.
"No a low blow is letting a kid fight, letting a kid be a damn target. Batman's in all black, Damien's running around in green and yellow spandex, real fucking stealthy."
"Please do not talk about me as if I am not here, Lady Chef." Damien stepped closer, setting the suitcase on the table, opening it.
"Don't Lady Chef me, Damien. You're a fucking child, regardless of how mature you are, you're not allowed to be running around playing hero."
"Not allowed?"
"Damn fucking right, as far as I'm concerned your my brat now, and I ain't gonna let some billionaire with a furry fetish and a penchant for pain get my baby brother killed. He lost one Robin already, and he almost lost another one." Alfred halted his inspection of her gunshot wound.
"You know about Jason?" The Chef clicked her teeth shut, rant suddenly silent.
"It was... brought to my attention. Jason, huh?" Alexandera eyed The Butler down, before looking to Damien. "You're gonna catch flies if your mouth hangs like that."
"You called me brother." The Chef's ears turned pink.
"Well, I ain't maternal enough to be your mom."
"My mother is not maternal, either." Damien pulled out a few items few items, taking a deep breathe. "My mother's name is Talia..."
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"Miss Fox, you will reopen your wound." For being old, Alfred had a strong grip.
"Fucking try me !" The Chef was making a concerted effort to break out of the man's hold, but was still too weak from her captivity, flailing wildly. "Kid's been fucked over by everyone who was supposed to do him right!"
"Ukhti, please. I wanted this life."
"No, you were RAISED TO THINK THAT! YOU SHOULD BE JACKING IT TO PORN AT NIGHT, NOT FUCKING FLYING AROUND, PUNCHING DOUCHBAGS!" Damien rubbed his eyes in embarrassment.
"How crude." It took a few more minutes before The Chef hung limply in The Butlers hold.
"I'll bring you some pain relievers." Alfred set her down back on the couch, unaffected by the tantrum thrown. Her phone started to ring. Alexandera answered it, Marcus on the line.
"Neighbors heard you yelling."
"It's nothing, Marcus, just ready to strangle the brat." The Chef thought for a moment, glaring at Damien. "Did you ask my neighbors to listen out for me?"
"Boss, you're a certified trouble magnet, do you blame me?"
"Fair enough." And she hung up without a goodbye, slamming her phone on the cushion. "Damien, you can't do this anymore, you need a life."
"I have a life, this is my life. I am making a difference."
"No, you're not. If you were anywhere else you would be making a difference, but this is Gotham. There are Russian prisons that look like resorts compared to this fucked up city." The Chef ran her hand through her hair. "Kid, you're gonna get hurt one day, and it's not gonna be something you walk away from. You can have all the fucked up training in the world, but someone's gonna get you one day. And I'm not going to anymore funerals unless it's my own."
"Ukhti, I understand your fears, but I have a responsibility, one that cannot be trusted to just anyone. It is my duty to help the innocent."
"Help the innocent, huh? What about me? You know who my friends are."
"You are an innocent."
"No I'm not, I'm guilty by association, if the cops ever found out its straight to Blackgate."
"You fail to understand, I am not my father. The only reason I do not kill the worst of the criminals here in Gotham is because of his ridiculous belief that people can change. He is trying to save the city, I am saving it's people, and you are an innocent. A severely misguided one, but one who has done what she can to survive. You will never be caught, so long as I am around." Damien treaded closer, before sitting next to the Chef. "You are the one thing keeping a peace in Gotham, that is a good thing. I am not so blinded by ideals to not know there are shades of grey in this life."
"I'm grey?"
"A light grey. Though I am sure if things had been different in your life, you would be much darker." The Chef huffed, thinking to herself as she chewed on her nail, mumbling to herself about whiskey.
"You're gonna come here every morning after your patrol to let me know your alive. I'm up early anyway cause the diner."
"Of course."
"And if you get hurt, really fucking hurt, not only are you gonna be completely healed before you go out being an idiot, I get to punch your father next time I see him."
"I will ensure I record that for posterity sake." Alfred walked back in, a mug steaming in one hand, a bottle of pills in the other.
"What, not gonna kick my ass for punching your boss?" Alfred gave a smile.
"Miss Fox, I do not agree with everything Bruce does, even if it's done with the best intentions." Alfred poured a few pills into The Chef's greedy hands.
"I'm still mad at you all."
"I will do my best to be in your good graces again."
"Just... Just stay alive?" The Chef growled, leaning back into the couch. "What the hell do you say to shit like this? Have fun storming the castle! You think they're gonna make it? It would take a miracle." Damien cocked his head to the side, confused by her sudden odd accent.
"What was that?"
"She was quoting a movie, Master Damien." Alexandera shot up, grabbing the Wayne's shoulder.
"You've never seen The Princess Bride? Wait no, baby assassin, never had a childhood. Fuck, Al, help me find the DVD." Damien sat wathcing his Ukhti tear into her stack of movies on the floor, Alfred stacking them again neatly as she triumphantly held the movie aloft. She took the news better than Damien had hoped. She was still treating him as she always did, with a few new ground rules in play. That was fine.
He just needed to make sure she never met his parents.
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"She didn't say anything, Boss."
"Really?"
"Saw it myself, Rogues questioned her, but never said anything that could lead back to you."
"Go." Red Hood sat with his back to the door, only knowing the goon had left once he heard the latch click. The Hood in his hands cracked, and discolored slightly from The Chef's blood. "Hmm, loyalty."
The Little Chef was going to be so much fun..
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Can y'all guess what The Chef's fear is? I've been dropping hints for chapters now! First one to get it, and explain why you think it is, I'll write you or an OC as a character! Also Don't forget this story has its own Tumblr! I've been answering lots of questions!
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Stay safe, the world would be bleaker without you.