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Though many of his friends tease him for his likely inability to perform well in the kitchen, Bruce is relatively self-sufficient. He’s traveled the world without his money, gotten a taste for exotic cuisines, and honed his cooking skills to create dishes that are better than just tolerable.
On the other hand, Hal is not a good cook. He lives the ultimate bachelor life of takeout and ingredients-only meals. Aside from working the grill when he has the chance to cook at his brother Jim’s house on holidays, he doesn’t have the opportunity to cook for himself often, especially when he’s off in the Interceptor eating canned cheese sandwiches.
That’s why Bruce stares at the man with open concern and slight trepidation as the pilot moves about his tiny kitchen,
“Hal, what are you making?”
“Pasta! Thought we could do something romantic ,” he purrs the word, “for once.”
Bruce scoffs. For once, indeed. Hal has just gotten back from a months-long mission in a neighboring sector. Still, he’s not sure that warrants subjecting his tastebuds to whatever well-intentioned monstrosity the pilot may make. Especially as Bruce sees black lumps of charcoal or something else sitting in a cast-iron pan, the smell of something burning and smoke filling the air.
Whatever Hal is making didn’t initially start as charcoal.
What’s worse is when the man pulls the pan away from the electric, not gas, stove, Bruce sees a small flame start on the stovetop.
“Hal–!”
“Ah, shit,” Hal says in a tone that is much too casual for the situation before blowing the flame out, promptly coughing and blowing away the new plumage of smoke. “Sorry. I don’t know why that keeps happening.”
Bruce’s brows raise in unmitigated surprise before he clears his throat and schools his expression back into something more neutral. “This is a repeat occurrence?”
“Aw, don’t worry about it, Spooky. I’m just a little rusty, is all.”
Bruce looks at the boiling pot of pasta that’s begun to bubble over, water splashing onto the stove and filling their vision with steam.
“Hal.”
“Oops.” The pilot haphazardly pulls the still-boiling-over pot towards himself, not helping Bruce’s anxiety about the situation at all.
“Sweetheart,” Bruce gently starts, looking at the kitchen mess. “Let’s just eat out.”
“What?” Hal seems genuinely upset. “You said you liked my cooking last time. I want to do something romantic for us.”
Well… Bruce has shot himself in the foot with that one. He didn’t want to ruin his chances with Hal the last time the man cooked, earlier in their relationship,
Bruce stares at the mess in the kitchen—the boiling-over pasta, the charred remnants in the pan, the smoke still lingering in the air—and he sighs, feeling torn between wanting to salvage the situation and not wanting to hurt Hal’s feelings. He’s already set the precedent that he liked Hal’s cooking once, and now, here they are.
“Hal,” Bruce starts carefully, trying to balance honesty and tact, “I appreciate the effort. Really. But...”
Hal frowns, looking genuinely disappointed. “You don’t like it? C’mon, Bruce, it’s not that bad.”
Bruce glances back at the kitchen chaos. “It’s not just that. I don’t want you to feel like you have to cook to make things special.”
“I just wanted to do something nice for us,” Hal mutters, running a hand through his hair, clearly frustrated with himself. “You’re always the one taking care of things.”
“And I appreciate that,” Bruce says, stepping closer and placing a hand on Hal’s shoulder. His voice softens, becoming more sincere. “But we don’t need any grand gestures. I’m happy just being with you. We can make a meal together if you want, or… we can order something and relax. The important part is that we’re together.”
“...I already spent all the time on groceries, and I’ve been cooking for half an hour now. I mean, I know it looks like a mess, but I really want to eat this with you.”
Bruce pauses, taking in Hal's expression—the sincerity behind his words, the effort he’s put into this, despite the less-than-ideal results. The kitchen is a disaster, but Hal’s intention shines through clearly. Bruce knows that Hal rarely does anything halfway, even if it’s messy. And right now, this is important to him.
Bruce sighs inwardly, softening. “Alright,” he finally says, his voice gentler. “We’ll eat it together.”
Hal’s face lights up, his frustration melting into relief. “Really? You don’t mind?”
“I wouldn’t miss it,” Bruce replies, though his lips quirk into a faint smile. “But maybe next time, we can cook together.”
“Deal,” Hal grins, looking proud of himself. “Now, let me just... uh... fix up the pasta.”
Bruce glances at the smoldering pan again but keeps his thoughts to himself. For now, he’ll let Hal have this moment, even if it means enduring a culinary misadventure. Because, at the end of the day, it’s not really about the food—it’s about what Hal’s trying to show him.
…Even when Hal adds spice after spice to the overcooked pasta.
The apartment smells like smoke, but Hal's singular scented candle between them is trying its best to overpower it. Rose petals are on the dining room table, and Hal's attempt at a romantic evening is worth the slight trepidation Bruce feels as he holds up some pasta to his mouth, Hal looking at him excitedly.
The Gothamite takes his first bite and gives Hal a strained smile.
He’s not sure what flavor this is, but it’s not one that a human tongue often experiences.
Bruce coughs as he feels a clump of powdered spice in his throat. “Wow.” He blinks, taken aback by the confusing lack of flavor.
“How is it?” Hal fearlessly takes a bite and smiles to himself. “Huh. I think it turned out pretty good.”
Bruce gives him a wordless smile, nodding as he pushes the pasta around on his plate. He takes a moment, swallowing the questionable bite of pasta and weighing his next words carefully. Looking over at Hal, who’s clearly proud of his creation, Bruce can't bring himself to dampen that enthusiasm entirely. Still, his taste buds are screaming for mercy.
“It’s… unique,” Bruce manages, his voice steady but vague.
Hal grins, looking like he’s about to claim a victory. “See? I knew you’d like it! I tried to go for something a little bold. You always like things that are different, right?”
Bruce nods slowly, still poking at the pasta with his fork. “Definitely bold.” He coughs again, feeling the burn of another undissolved clump of spice hit the back of his throat. “Very… memorable.”
The Californian chuckles, clearly oblivious to the culinary disaster he’s created. “I knew it! And here you were, doubting me the whole time.”
Bruce tries not to let his discomfort show too much, setting his fork down gently. “It’s impressive,” he says with sincerity, though not for the reasons Hal might think. “You put a lot of effort into this.”
Hal’s face softens at the compliment, the pride in his eyes turning into something more affectionate. “Well, you’re worth it.”
Bruce’s heart tugs at that, and any thoughts of criticism fade entirely. The pasta may be a catastrophe, but the sentiment behind it is clear—and that’s something Bruce wouldn’t trade for anything. He meets Hal’s gaze and offers him a small, genuine smile.
“I appreciate that, Hal,” Bruce says, reaching out to gently squeeze his hand. “Next time, though… let’s do it together. I think we could make something really great.”
Hal grins, squeezing his hand back. “Yeah, alright, Spooky. I’ll let you be the head chef next time.”
Bruce nods, inwardly relieved. “Deal.”
And as they sit there, rose petals on the table, the air still thick with smoke, Bruce finds that— despite everything— it’s one of the more meaningful meals he’s shared.
