It was my mother’s. She gave it to me the day I left Krypton. I had just watched little Kal-El get launched into space. Her world was falling apart around her and even in the middle of that she looked at me and smiled and said as long as I had this I would never be alone. She’d be with me in my dreams.
The thing is, Bruce can cook, despite what the kids would like you to think. He isn’t a gourmand, but he’s definitely better functioning in that aspect than most single men who for one reason or another grew up never thinking they would have to cook.
Except Bruce knew he would have to cook one day (Bruce had a concept of mortality: Alfred would, eventually, die. And leave Bruce alone. And it would be terrible, and he would need to cook for himself while also sobbing and watching his world fall apart. Ergo: chase down that particular panic attack with the initiation of cooking lessons.) and the socio-economic reality of sexism and entitlement that left men largely helpless and nonfunctional without a woman (whose life expectancy and happiness were statistically rapidly lowered as the man’s rapidly increased) came later.
…but the bottom line was, Bruce could cook, and sometimes, it was even nice.
But Alfred, who follows his role as Butler like a pre-Lutheran Catholic, would never give permission to be served his ward’s cooking, and perhaps once it was a defense mechanism.
Now, it’s just a little strange when Bruce wakes up before Alfred (who must sleep sometime) and decides to just scramble some eggs, and Alfred refuses to have any when Bruce offers them.
Dick did not get the cooking lessons Bruce did, but he managed okay with reading the instructions, as long as he remembers to read instructions. He doesn’t actually believe there are people who can’t cook. He’s never really met someone who cannot cook. He just assumes there are people who know about cookbooks, and people who don’t even want to try.
He’s pretty sure he’s right.
Anyway, Dick knows about cookbooks, he just doesn’t use them so often when a bowl of cereal or some heavy caloric fast-food is easier. But sometimes it’s a quiet night in Blüdhaven and he just gets that itch for chocolate cake.
And he’ll buy the pre-mixed cake mixes! Which Alfred says ‘isn’t really cooking’ but… it’s just not cooking from scratch, and Dick doesn’t feel like melting a lot of baking chocolate in the microwave (also illegal in Alfred’s opinion) and going out and buying flour and baking soda and… yeah. He’d rather pick up two chocolate cake mixes, some eggs, corn oil, and a bunch of powdered sugar and milk (because he will do homemade buttercream, as one of the few times the extra effort is indisputably worth it).
…and then he realizes he can’t make a triple-decker chocolate cake with raspberries and chocolate buttercream icing and like. Eat all of it entirely on his own?
He’s eating egg noodles for dinner and drives back to the batcave just to get rid of some of this cake. He figures he can stick an ‘eat me’ sign on it and Bruce or Tim or Damian will do the rest. But coming in, Dick spots Alfred first, and–
…Alfred refuses the slice, thank you Master Grayson, but it will just be too rich for him.
(Dick isn’t sure if that’s a joke or not.)
Jason didn’t start cooking until he was long gone, which shouldn’t have been as strange a thing to say as it was, but– “long gone” was definitively an euphemism in the Wayne household.
He certainly didn’t cook at the house.
Timothy mostly made smoothies.
Alfred had explained that one could not, in fact, get the total nutritional count of a meal out of a smoothie, due to the disruption of the stability of the food, but Tim just lifted up his brusselsprout-banana-kale-mango-oat-and-protein-powder smoothie and asked Alfred if he wanted a sip.
Alfred did not.
Damian has never dipped strawberries in chocolate before.
He is meticulous. Exact. He holds each strawberry by all of its leaves, never once letting them dip into residue, and he spins the strawberry just like that until it is covered on all side by chocolate–an even spread on all sides.
Then, he holds the strawberry above the chocolate, watching it drip until the outer shell hardens enough that it will not become flat upon being laid down.
Then he cuts off the stems, leaving the entire berry edible, with no refuse to deal with upon consumption.
The whole time, his other hand stirs the pot of dark chocolate, not wanting it to fully solidify, but wanting the temperature low enough to allow it to truly stick to the berry.
…and before eating any, he presents them to Alfred. Stoically. On a tray, each berry on its individual small dish, each cored and presented uniformly; all facing the same direction.
Alfred is reading the morning news with a small cup of coffee when it happens.
He doesn’t look surprised, but this hadn’t been planned, certainly.
He looks at Damian.
Damian looks back at him.
Not a word is spoken between them. Not until Alfred slowly raises his hand, plucking the smallest berry’s plate, holding it by the rim like a tea saucer, and plucking up the small berry with a careful daintiness.
It fits in his mouth without having to bite. For a moment he considers carefully, chewing.
He sets the plate back down on the tray.
“Excellent work, Master Damian. Truly a mastery of the art.”
A/N: yep, I’m picking these back up again!! I had like 20 left to do ;A; forgive me for the wait!!
When a knock resounds at his door at two in the morning, Sasuke doesn’t expect it to be her.
“Sakura,” he acknowledges, trying to keep the surprise from seeping into his tone. He frowns. “It’s late. What are you doing here?”
But she doesn’t seem to hear him. “Is it true?” she asks instead, her tone particularly challenging, like she is trying to demand him. Her eyes seem glossy, he can’t help but to note then, like she is trying not to cry. “Is it true, Sasuke-kun?” she asks again, holding a harder edge.
His frown deepens at that, and Sasuke simply looks at her for a moment, puzzlement weighing in; what exactly is she talking about, and why does it make her so upset? Growing evermore concerned, he tries to reach out with a comforting touch, only to flinch near instantly when she moves to slap his hand away, a broken grimace slipping to her lips. She is devastated by this, he realizes with a painful thudding of his heart.
The sensation worsens when she presses, her voice so small, so tight, desperate to be wrong, “Did you really get drafted for the war?”
Sasuke falters, gaze dropping. The news can’t have traveled so quickly, he knows, exhaling a slow sigh. That meant Naruto was the one who told her.
Tch, that idiot, he thought, jaw and fist both clenching. He should have waited before telling her—he should have let me do it.
Still, Sasuke can’t bring himself to lie to her—never could, never wanted to—and so he says nothing in return, only managing a small nod.
The sound she makes tears his heart to shreds, compelling him to look at her again, throat growing tight at the sight of her tightened fists and anguished, misty eyes. She looks like she’s watching her world fall apart, and he can hardly bear to see it.
Unable to muster words of comfort, he simply ushers her inside instead, drawing her away from the cold to at the very least preserve her health if he couldn’t preserve her heart. And, as he turns and closes the door, he feels a pair of too-familiar arms wrap around him tightly, the softest sound of heartbreak sagged against his back. He doesn’t waste a moment to relent, turning in the tight embrace to wrap his own arms around her smaller form, pulling her firmly against him.
He knows Sakura appreciates this by the way she hugs him closer, face burying closely against his chest. The movement alone has his eyes slipping shut, fighting against the tight knot forming thickly in his throat.
“Have you told your parents yet?” he hears her ask, after a moment, her wistful voice muffled in his shirt.
Sasuke sighs, so quietly. “No, not yet,” he answers. “I wanted to wait a while. Itachi’s death is still fresh on them… and I know they wouldn’t handle the news well. Especially my mother.”
She hugs him even closer at that, and he sighs again, arms tightening around her just as well. For a while, they simply hold each other, and he relishes in her warmth, her scent. It occurs to him that someday—sooner than he’ll want—he might not be able to feel her like this ever again.
No, he whispers to himself, eyes darkening. His fingers clench her clothes. He can’t allow himself to have such thoughts.
(but, he soon finds, he isn’t the only one who does)
“Sasuke-kun… I’m scared,” Sakura whimpers, shaking lightly as she holds him. The dampness of his shirt tells him she’s crying. “I don’t want you to go…”
“I know,” he whispers back, moving to slip a hand into her hair. He strokes the locks gently. “I know.”
She takes him by surprise by breaking from him in the next moment, nimble fingers gripping at his collar tightly, pulling him down to her level. He almost makes a sound of surprise before he feels her lips on his, moving with warm, fervid affection, causing his brows to furrow from the intensity of it all; but he doesn’t waste a moment to respond, tangling his fingers in her soft pink locks, the arm around her waist pulling her tightly against him.
(a bit heated, for a first kiss, but he doesn’t wonder why—at a time like this, spent in possible borrowed time, passion was never one easy to be controlled.)
They don’t allow themselves to break too far apart as they pull away, foreheads pressing gently as their puffing heated breaths mingled together gracefully.
“Tomorrow,” Sakura says, when she’s finally caught enough of herself to think, “Tomorrow—I’m gonna sign up. If you’re out there, I need to be there too. They need doctors and—”
He pushes her away before he even knows what he’s doing, hands gripping her shoulders in tight hold. “Are you out of your mind?” he hisses, wide dark eyes settling on her harshly. He doesn’t want to think about what it would be like going out there, knowing she was fighting for her life too. Knowing she could be killed at any moment, and he would never even be aware. He grits his teeth fiercely. “You can’t throw your life away like that, Sakura, you know the chances of coming back aren’t—”
“I am not sitting here waiting for you to come back!” she yells in retort, shoving him backwards. Her eyes well up again, and Sasuke swallows at the sight, coming apart at her apparent grief. “I won’t do it. I can’t.”
He can see it in her eyes that she’s made up her mind, that he has no choice in the matter anymore; he can see that nothing he will say will ever make a difference, that she is sure of her decision. Sakura is coming with him.
His jaw tightens, and his eyes slip shut for a moment. He hates the idea, hates the thought, but there is nothing he can do—so he accepts, if grudgingly, and relents the fight.
“You and I—we’re coming back alive, you hear me?” Sasuke says, reaching back for her. His voice is rough, bidding, leaving no room for an alternative. He presses his forehead firmly against her own, and cups her face. “We’re coming back.”
Sakura’s only response is a fervent nod, before she kisses him again, crying. “Yes,” she breathes against his mouth, gripping him harder. “Yes.”
Peter Parker loved you. He loved how you smiled and laughed, and how when you spoke of what you were passionate about your eyes lit up brighter than tree in Rockefeller Center, and he loved that you loved him wholeheartedly. He wanted nothing but to protect you.
Yet somehow there you were, in the clutches of the Green Goblin. Eyes wide with fear and tear marks running down your cheeks.
“Y/N!” He called out desperately as the Goblin held you at his side by your hair. While he’s standing on a rusted gutter, the Goblin is standing on his hoverboard with you chained to his side.
“Spiderman!” He loved how you always put him first, how even when you were being held hostage by a supervillain you didn’t even think to call out his real name, giving away his secret identity. Even if it didn’t really matter because this particular villain did know who he really was.
“Yes!” The goblin called, “Spiderman! Have you come to save her Spiderman?” His high pitched voice echoed off the walls of the warehouse.
Peter doesn’t answer, instead he squares his shoulders, “Let her go Goblin.” The goblin uses his long, green index finger to tap away on his chin,
“Hmm, how about no. How about I kill her!” The Goblin laughs, like what he’s saying is the funniest joke to ever be uttered, “How about I make you watch your world fall apart, just like you made me do!” Though neither you or the Goblin can tell Peter’s face falls from the stoic look he’d previously had to a sad one.
“Harry,” Peter whispered brokenly, “I’m sorry, for everything, I am. But please, let Y/N go. She doesn’t have anything to do with this,” Peter tried to reason. The Goblins lips form a thin a line and he sucks in a deep breath.
“You killed my dad. You took him from me!” The Goblin thundered, causing you to wince at the volume.
“I d-” Peter sucked in a breath, releasing now was not the time to try to get this point across, “I’m sorry. I am. So please, let Y/N go.”
“Fine.” The Goblin, simultaneously, pushed you off his hoverboard and shot familiar looking harpoons at Peter. Peter jumped off the platform, he shot one web at another gutter and then another one at you.
“Oh thank god,” you whisper as you hang from the web, unable to catch your breath.
“I’m-alive,” you squeak as Peter starts to pull you up.
“Nutuh,” The Goblin tisked from his hoverboard, he shot his harpoons again; he shot it at the webbing that was attached to you. This time. Unlike when he’d shot at Peter, he managed to hit his target, severing the webbing.
Your eyes widen as you feel yourself start to fall.
“NO!” You hear Peter scream right before you hit the concrete ground.
“Buh-bye Spiderman,” the Goblin yells right before everything goes black.
Peter doesn’t go after Harry, instead he goes to you and your broken form. Your bones are visibly broken, your neck is contorted into an unnatural way and for the first time in all his time as a hero, Peter Parker pukes. His eyes become glassy as he gathers you in his arms.
“Y/N,” he sobs, taking off his mask, “Pl-don-wake up.” You don’t, he knows you won’t, but that doesn’t stop the fact that he still hopes that the impossible will happen and you’ll make a sound.
“Wake up,” he tried again. “Wakeupwakeup WAKE UP!” Instead your head lulls to the side and Peter lets out a choked sob, unable to take an actual breath of air.