Alexandera was tying the laces to her boots, getting ready for work. Gene was nursing a large mug of coffee, his second one of the morning. They had stayed up late into the night, listening to the full story of what had really been going on since she'd moved to Gotham, he'd forgone the drinks she'd offered. He was still angry with her, and that was his right, she thought. He cared, and he worried. He was always meant to be a family man.
"You'd think after Lexie and Levi I'd be used to this." Gene yawned before downing the rest of his cup, moving to pour a third.
"Staying up late with kids doesn't have the same punch learning you're friend is basically a criminal." Gene frowned, shaking his head.
"Kids are worse."
"I doubt tha-" A knock on her living room window rapped. Gene startled, staring at the window in surprise, coffee sloshed out of his cup to the carpet. He turned to her, confused. The Chef shook her head, standing, and pulled the cord, opening the blinds.
Damien sat crouched on the fire escape, dressed in his Robin Reds, hand raised in a wave, before his head sharply tilted towards Gene. Despite his mask, The Chef could feel his questioning look. She jerked a thumb towards Gene, then tapped her head. 'He knows.' Robin tilted his head. 'How?' The Chef rolled her eyes, pointed to herself, then to her mouth. 'I told him.' Damien pointed to her, his mouth, then his chest. 'You'll tell me.' The Chef nodded. He sat a moment thinking, then he got a smug little shit eating grin. Wiggling his fingers in a wave, he stood, took a step back until he rested on the guardrail of the fire escape... Then fell backwards.
Gene yelped, rushing towards the window, only to see a blur of red surge upwards and away. Robin's grappling hook. The Chef huffed, pulling her phone out to tell Damien off as Gene took a stuttering breath.
"You know what Gene," Alexandera said, sending her scolding text to Damien, then one to Alfred. She needed to get to the diner early and didn't have time to fill bitch out Damien. "You're right, kids are harder to deal with."
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Her kitchen was cramped and busy. Gene had set up in her lobby, a portable stove set out on a table as he taught a large crowd of her 'Patrons' the basics of cutting, cooking, sauces, and seasonings. Many were actually taking notes. The Chef had a smaller group that showed a higher aptitude in cooking with her, as she taught them her personal recipes, the kind she expected them to make when they got the new restaurant open and the food carts on the street.
Marcus had also nabbed a few, teaching them how to bake, Kyle getting in on the action, fingers clumped with dough. He mentioned something about a delivery service, and The Chef washed her hands of it. That was going to be his own little project.
Despite Gene's initial wariness the first morning, after finding out her little secret, but he'd easily pushed it aside at how eager her new boys and girls were to learn. Some even showed up with saved photos of dishes they'd seen, asking how to make it. He really thrived at the whole teaching thing. She chalked it up to fatherhood. All in all, the week was going well.
"Uhkti!" A voice carried over the sound of metal pans clanging and the dish pits water hose. The Chef looked back, and saw Damien, hands behind his back, hanging back and out of the beehive her cramped kitchen had become.
"Don't stop stirring, it'll burn on the bottom." She left as Paulie barked out 'Yes, Chef!', brow pinched as he vigorously stirred his sauce. She barked out 'BEHIND!' as she weaved her way around her crowded kitchen. Damien backed away from the corner, stepping outside.
They had fans going to combat the additional heat, stove and body alike. The diner was operating to-go only, a long line leading from the street to her backdoor of hungry customers grabbing random To-go plates and styrofoam cups of coffee and tea. Gary was using an old egg carton as a change til. At least she was still making an income. Her regulars greeted her, and a few greeted Damien as they passed, The Chef lazily raising her hand in response as she passed. Once they were a few feet away, The Chef struck, smacking Damien on the back of his head. He didn't even flinch, only lifted a hand to smooth his hair back down.
"Was that necessary?" Damien droled, frowning.
"Was giving Gene a heart attack?" The Chef bit back, glaring at Damien, crossing her arms. "I'm back barely a week, and you're acting up. I oughta ground you to dish pit."
"Dish pit?! For a childish prank?"
"While I'm happy your giving the whole being a kid thing a shot, it doesn't give you a right to be an ass, Brat." The Chef patted herself down for her flask. "You're going to go in and apologize, Gene was terrified, you're better than that." Damien pouted, fully pouted his lips as he glared at Alexandera. She raised a brow In challenge.
"I can always use help pulling gizzards from chickens. And boiling down fish bones and heads for stock." Damien broke, his shoulders slumping as he balled his fists.
"Very well. I shall rectify my mistake once Gene is finished with... Whatever endeavor you have pulled him in to." The Chef laughed, tugging Damien's sweater, dragging him close and into a hug. He stiffened, unused to affection and unused to her affection, hesitating before he returned the hug, awkwardly. "I apologize, Uhkti, for disappointing you." He muttered as his grip tightened.
"I'm only disappointed in your target. I'll tell you all about what's going on if you stop by my place tonight. Tell Al to bring a pack of cards, and anything he's willing to bet on losing." Damien didn't let go as he nodded.
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Damien didn't bother knocking when he waltzed through her front door, a blanket covered long object in his arms, Alfred his usual softly smiling self, carrying a briefcase in his hand. Gene cocked his head at the intrusion, greeting them before turning to Alexandera.
"You leave the door unlocked? In Gotham?"
"Mr. Jones, you're better off squeezing water out of a stone." Alfred said, placing his briefcase on the coffee table. Alexandera had to move her feet as he did.
"Uhkti never locks her door." Damien unwrapped his bundle, revealing a sword in a plain black sheath. "She has no sense of self preservation."
"I feel attacked." The Chef feigned affront, holding a hand to her chest. "Besides, who'd be dumb enough to rob me nowadays?" She refused to meet any eyes in the room.
"Mr. Jones," Damien tugged his neat vest down, straighting the nonexistent wrinkles, before he clasped his hands behind his back. "I apologize for my misbehavior this morning. It was an ill-thought jest on my part, I did not mean to worry you. I shall refrain from such uncomely actions in the future." Gene seemed at a loss at Damien's all too formal speech and serious expression.
"Umm... Just... Don't do it again?" Gene hedged, eyes briefly flickering to Alfred, The Chef, then back to Damien. "Honestly, after the initial scare, it was pretty... Impressive?" Damien puffed his chest at the compliment, Alfred placed a hand on Damien's shoulder.
"Thank you, I am quite impressive." Ah, there's the kids ego. "I hope you understand the gravity of the secret you now hold, Mr. Jones." Gene swallowed audibly.
"I'm not- I won't say anything!" Gene rasped, hand running over the side of his hair. "I dont want The Justice League knocking on my door."
"Don't threaten my only normal friend, Brat." The Chef wedged her hand into the crease of the couch cushions, wiggling a bit before pulling a random bottle from her secret stache. Vodka. Oh this was going to be a night.
"I am not threatening him." Damien said, all too innocently.
"I'm feeling threatened." Gene muttered under his breath, pushing himself up. "Alfred, you can take my spot on the couch, I'll take the floor."
"Thank you, sir, I appreciate it. Miss Fox, would you care to deal?" Alfred primly sat on her ratty couch next to Alexandera, offering a deck of cards from his pocket. Damien took her other side.
"Sure. What did you bring to bet?" The Chef took a small sip of vodka, clear liquor wasn't her greatest party ally. Alfred opened his leather briefcase, pulling a small tray out, filled with coloured chips.
"I brought poker chips, for the friendly games. As for the more serious bets," he reached in, and Alexandera whistled while Gene 'ooh'ed, both cooks ogling the beautiful metal. "A knife set I obtained many years ago, when I served in Her Majesty's military."
"And I brought my old training Katana." Damien added . "I have no use for it anymore, since Father insists on nonlethal methods." Gene chocked on his breath.
"Care to explain non-lethal?"
"Uhkti did not tell you everything?" Damien glanced at Alexandera.
"I just told him you're Robin. The rest is all you, Kid. Ain't my story to tell." The Chef shrugged, dealing in everyone. "Surprised he's not scolding me for letting a child gamble. We're playing poker, starting bet is ten."
"I mean, I can't say anything, my brother and I used to hustle dice in middle school." Gene admitted, grabbing his cards.
"We had a betting pool for cricket when I was young man." Alfred added, checking his hand.
"I can't imagine you young, Al. Or at least, without the mustache." The Chef refrained from frowning. Already a shit hand.
"I was quite the dapper chap, as the ladies would often say."
"Heh. Prince Albert." Alfred gave a dry look to The Chef at her insinuation.
"You shall never know, Miss Fox. This isn't strip poker, now is it?"
Damien cocked his head.
"Is that a penis innuendo?" Gene wheezed, laughing so hard he dropped a card.
"Can we go back to the lethal question?! I feel more comfortable with the lethal question!"
"Look at that, Afro Samurai, you're already assimilating to Gotham." Damien raised the bet, and Alfred matched. The Chef tapped out, not wanting to push her luck too early. "Violence is easier to deal with than sex any day."
"They are often on in the same, in some circles." Alfred chimed, Gene looked wholly uncomfortable.
"Can we not... In front of the kid?" Damien scoffed
"I am hardly a child, Mr. Jones. I turn 15 next week." Damien placed his hand down.
"Still three years away from age of majority. And even then I'd still rather not discuss this until you're thirty."
"Oh my God, Crotch Goblin is never gonna have a dating life." Gene laid his hand down. Two pairs. "I'll let you borrow Smokebomb for a shovel talk if you give me your granny's recipe for skillet pineapple upside down cake."
"Excuse me, I do not consent to being used as a bartering offer.."
"Like hell I'd give you Gram's Cake recipe. She'd haunt me!" Damien and Gene exclaimed in unison. Alfred laid his cards down. Royal Flush. The Chef began to shuffle the cards again.
"Master Damien tells me you had quite the crowd today at your establishment." The Butler said, his face never changing as he looked at his cards.
"Oh! I'm expanding. A lot of my regulars were interested in joining up, so I figured why the hell not." Another shit hand. "I've got the popularity, the backing, and the capital to actually pull it off. Gene's helping out with a crash course."
"I'm very happy for you, Miss Chef. Let me know if you require assistance." Alfred turned his gaze to Gene. "How has your teaching experience been so far, Mr. Jones?" Gene chuckled, launching into a tale from the day.
"Uhkti, Are you busy this Saturday?" Alexandera coked her head in thought.
"Well I was gonna check up on a few things, and some people, but it's not exactly urgent." In the sense that there was no Rogue attacks, yet. "Why?" Damien shifted slightly in his seat.
"My extracurricular team has made it to regionals, and our semifinals are this Saturday." Alexandera felt her brow pinch, surprised and somewhat disbelieving that he was even apart of something so normal, let alone school related. "I was hoping you would accept my invitation to the event."
"Kid, did you join the wrestling team? Because that's a little unfair."
"Master Damien is apart of the FFA." Alfred interjected.
"Future Farmers of America?" Gene had abandoned his story. Damien nodded. The game forgotten for a moment.
"We have been caring for animals, and submitted one to be judged." Damien smirked. "My teams heffer is quite impressive."
"Heffer. As in cow?" Damien nodded, and The Chef remembered Alfred's comment from earlier in the week. Damien liked animals. She had been assuming things like scorpions and snakes. "You've been raising a cow?"
"She is very sweet." Damien stated, pulling his phone from his pocket, scrolling until he brought a photo up. "I would like to introduce you to her." It was a fluffy, shaggy thing.
"It looks like a rusty mop." The Chef intoned, grabbing his phone for a closer look.
"That is highly uncalled for, Uhkti! She is a Highland breed. Their coat is needed for colder and wet weather." He sounded wounded by comment. "She is perfectly suited to Gotham's weather." Damien fiercely defended. The Chef passed the phone over to Gene, who immediately began cooing at the picture.
"Oh that's so cute!" His voice pitched in tone to sickly sweet babytalk.
"Thank you, Mr. Jones." Damien didn't bother getting his phone. "The competition is being held in the civic center at eleven in the morning. Refreshments will be available for purchase." As he spoke, his eyes widened, a watery glisten shining. He was giving her a puppy pout, and God dammit it was effective. Gross.
"Alright, alright, cover your shame, Brat." The Chef shoved her hand over his face, covering his pleading look. "I'll go! Stop with the face!"
"Master Damien, I don't think you need to resort to such manipulative tactics to get Miss Fox to attend." Alfred sounded to amused for the scolding to hold and bite.
"I wanted to ensure her agreement." Damien was grinning behind her hand, leaning back the more she pushed.
"It's like Thanksgiving all over again." The Chef lamented, groaning. She was soft. She'd turned soft. How?!
"Will someone tell me that story?" Gene laughed, standing. "Anyone want drinks?"
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Poker had not gone in The Chef's favor. Alfred had the most ridiculous luck she'd ever seen. Only losing three hands all night. He left with Damien's sword, the knives he brought, Five of Alexandera's unopened bottles of whiskey and tequila, and Gene's "good" pair of underwear which he had bet as a joke. By the end of it, Alfred looked more smug than Damien, even though his retained his poker face, which was just his usual serene smile, the whole night.
No, The Chef wasn't salty.
... Maybe a little.
Gene was currently lying on her couch, phone still wedged between his face and pillow from where he fell asleep talking to Noriko and the kids. Alexandera plugged in the charger as she passed, not bothering to move the phone as drool gathered on the screen. It was one in the morning, and she couldn't sleep. Sliding the living room window open, she climbed onto the fire escape, a glass of scotch in hand, settling down on the uncomfortable metal grate below as she watched the streets.
It seemed like a busy night. Sirens raged in the distance, the faint pops of gunfire echoing. And despite the malicious implications of the noise, Alexandera was unbothered. The ice in her glass clinked as she slowly sipped on the scotch, relaxing and unwinding from her losing streak.
"Hey, neighbor." A familiar, tired voice called from next to her. Looking to her right, Todd was sitting on his window sill, hunched down a bit to fit under the glass, one foot outside, the other hidden inside. "Sounds like you had a fun night!"
"If you call getting my ass handed to me by a possibly hundred years old butler at cards fun, yeah. It was fun." Alexandera snarked, scoffing out a laugh. "Why are up so damn late?"
"Ive been shuffling around plans I have, and my brainstorming is killing my sleep schedule." Lamented Todd. "I didn't know you had a butler." Todd cocked his head to the side.
"I fucking wish. Never have to fold laundry again." The Chef sipped again at her scotch. "Not that I fold it now, anyway. Alfred is a friend. A good guy, probably one of the few left in Gotham, really." Todd's face seemed to age ten years in a fraction of a second.
"Tell me about him? I'd like to hear about the nicest man in Gotham."
"Sure thing, Boy Scout." The Chef obliged. She started with how nice his kitchen knives were.