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1. Hashbrowns
Something your mom made every morning, right before you left for school.
You'd wake up in the morning to darkness and the deep smell of something fried, and then you'd race down to the breakfast table. Your mom would laugh in that way she did, tinkling and light, saying something like Bruce, slow down, while she lifted the pan, still sizzling, and scooped the goldening fried potatoes onto your plate.
Just that, plain and simple, but you had always looked forward to it, part of a routine you'd fallen into, comfortingly repetitive and reliable. And without fail, it'd always be delicately crispy on the outside, while still remaining soft and tender on the insides, all starch and fullness, but not too greasy so it'd expand in your stomach pleasingly.
Alfred always hovered around nearby, waiting to swoop in and assist if she needed it, but she'd wave him off and say, you cook everything for us, Alfred, let me do this, and between bites of your hashbrowns, breaking the crispy layers between your teeth and feeling the fluffy insides against your tongue, you'd watch Alfred give you a smile, warm and tender, filling your memories of the kitchen with the warmth of laughter and rich buttery smells.
Notes:
Goes well with dark, early mornings and your mother smiling at you, a comforting presence.
2. Mulligatawny Stew
Something Alfred would make for you, starting from when he gained custody.
You'd have this on all the days it got worse, when the fresh heartbreak of grief ebbed in your heart and everything seemed to envelope you in your dark and empty bedroom. You refused to leave, so Alfred would leave the stew in a tray outside your doorstep, until you felt hungry enough to crawl out of bed and eat.
It was a rustic curried stew, tangy and creamy, thickened with fried onions, cayenne pepper and tumeric, and Alfred would make it all warm and hearty. You'd sit on the edge of your bed, spooning it slowly into your mouth, savouring it and watching the light from outside spill into your room. Trying your hardest to not think about anything else, but to just narrow in on the smooth flavours of the stew. Somehow Alfred always knew how to make it—with enough fenugreek for that biting sharp flavour to come through, but also with enough tender tomatoes and stewed chicken for a deep base; not that it would erase anything that had happened, that much you knew, but when you tasted the sweet julienned onions and thin layer of cream through your mouthfuls of it, you knew it was his way of comforting you, through food that tasted consistently good; of being there for you when he couldn't physically.
Notes:
A good remedy for grief. Always ask Alfred to make his version with tomatoes at the side. Best eaten around the table at the Mansion, watching Alfred busy himself in the kitchen, or in your own bed during rainy weather to defend against the chill.
3. Canapés and a single flute of champagne
Something you were all too used to having.
Except this time it was different. The situation was still the same, of course, another gala held at the Manor surrounded by other donors and members of the upper class, prattling on about another cause they ostensibly cared for, but you watched the smile on their faces tighten as they took in their surroundings. But the context was different. The deep bruising right below your jacket, flowering and yellowing as you talked, reminded you otherwise. Alfred hadn't approved of it—right up till the moment before the gala, when he looped the tie around your neck in an attempt to cover up the remnants of your nightly forays and told you that you'd be better off cancelling the event and resting at home, but somewhere between the brush of his fingers reminding you of your mother and the reminder that out there, Gotham was still a cesspool of grief and everything awful and that no amount of running away could solve anything, you set your jaw and looked away.
Honestly, you should've known better than to drink on an empty stomach, but with the reckless assurance you gave that yes, I already had something when in fact you had not, when in fact you'd spent the earlier half of the day hunched over your tables, trying to figure out how the hell you were supposed to nurse an injury while continuing to patrol, and feeling a deep ache of loneliness in your bones—well. You shouldn't have downed the champagne the way you did, nor should you have taken another, feeling the delicate crispy taste with notes of apple that you would have enjoyed any other day hit your stomach heavily.
It did help, though, when the reporter who interviewed you later (what was his name again? Charlie? Cleo?) handed you a Canapé, although you couldn't figure out why he'd feel the need to do that, but you took it gratefully anyway. The rich savouriness of the smoked salmon against the subtle zest of lemon and sour cream that slid down your throat was decently tasty enough to distract yourself from the dull ache between your ribs and to give presentable answers.
Notes:
Never drink alcohol on an empty stomach. Pair it with the smoked salmon Canapé to get that nuttiness of Brioche against the sweetness of champagne, and remember to always use an extra layer of dressing before a gala so you don't reopen your wounds as you lift it to your mouth. Also, keep an eye on that reporter. He seems to notice things other people don't.
4. A black coffee and an everything bagel
Something Superman handed to you, once.
It wasn't planned, not really. You'd already met the man (Kryptonian?) and you knew what he was capable of, so when you decided to do a stakeout somewhere out west of Gotham, nearer to the borders of Metropolis, and realised you might need more help than you estimated, you called for him. A spur-of-the-moment thing. (Or maybe you just wanted to see, if you could stand on the very edge of the roof overlapping the midnight sky and call for someone, if they would respond and make their way to you, reaching within the shadows.)
You were caught a little off guard when he finally landed, much more quietly than you'd expected. (You're not sure what you expected. It is the Man of Steel, after all, the sun in contrast to—to whatever it is that you are.)
“Hello,” he'd said. His red cape fluttered behind him, trailing with the dying wind. “Batman.”
“Superman.”
“What's all this about?” He looked at the warehouse spanning the entire courtyard.
“A major drug deal, I suspect. Between some Gothamites to Metropolitans.”
He frowned. It was dark, so you couldn't see him very well, but you could still make out minute details; the divot between his brows, that famous curl of hair framing his forehead. “Ah. Is that why you requested my assistance?”
You turned back to the warehouse. The air, stale with silence and immobility, was dry and quiet that night. There was no movement whatsoever, in the vicinity. “Yes. I was hoping you might know about potential drug dealers or gangs within Metropolis. Or at least provide some… physical help, with this.”
“Oh.” You could almost hear the cogs of his brains grinding and shifting. “Okay.” You heard that tinge of apprehension in his voice, which, you didn't blame him for, you almost felt proud of it; you'd spent the last half a year making it very clear to other superheroes and metahumans that they were not to step foot into Gotham without explicit permission. This would just mean that your threats were working.
“I'm planning to stake this place out for a while longer, just to observe the traffickers’ patterns for a bit, before we ambush them,” you told him. “They haven't seemed to do much for the past—” you glanced at your watch. “Twenty hours, so just give me a bit more time and—”
“Woah, wait,” Superman interrupted, and you closed your mouth with an almost amused air, because no one has really dared to interrupt you, not when you're out there as Batman. “You've been at this exact spot for almost a day?”
“...Yes.”
He frowned again, but this time it looks like it's out of concern. “Gosh, that cannot be good for you.”
You made a sound of irritation, hoping he'd take the hint and focus on the task at hand, but he pressed on. “When’s the last time you ate?”
“Irrelevant.”
“Nearly a day?”
You were hungry, but it's a small price to pay for doing this, you figured. Something has to give. “Yes, but—”
“You can have this,” he suddenly said, thrusting something into your hands. You looked down. It's… a cup of coffee and a paper bag of what seems to be a pastry of sorts. A bagel. You has no idea where he pulled it out from.
“I was supposed to get this for someone, but then you called, so I figured I'd check out what the issue was and then just get that person a fresh set later,” Superman explained, still holding the bag towards you. “So. You might as well take it. It's not good to go on an empty stomach, my ma used to say. Especially not for something as strenuous as this.”
You stared at him, then back at the bagel. You hoped your lips weren't quirking up into a smile; it's ridiculous, how concerned he is over someone he practically just met. Really living up to the idea of a super man.
“Okay. Thanks,” you decided to say instead. It felt almost foolish to hold a coffee cup in one hand and a bagel in the other in this suit, but with the expectant look Superman was giving you, you relented and took it. The grumble of your stomach was a factor, too.
It's—good. At least better than the food you're used to in Gotham. It's a black coffee, with a strong robust taste that's almost silky; not entirely bitter, there's a subtle hint of sweetness that made you suspect he put in some sugar, but it fits with the aroma of coffee beans. And the bagel—an everything bagel, Superman supplied helpfully (it's almost unnerving how closely he's watching you eat)—is delicious. It's a savoury bagel, topped with garlic and maybe poppy seeds and some onion, and a blend of spices that gives the doughy bread a strong umami taste.
You chewed slowly, still keeping an eye on any movement down by the pier. But even then you could spy Superman looking at you, and only when you'd finished the bagel did he relent.
“Thanks.” You repeated again. It felt stupid standing atop a building, waiting for a crime syndicate to reveal themselves with Superman as you picked at pieces of buttery pastry, but there you were. In all honesty, you were thankful for the snack. Truthfully, you do have a bad habit of starving yourself when you're anxious or hyperfocused, something Alfred has chided you over more than once.
He smiled back. It's different from the smile he gives on camera, you realised, not his usual closed mouth smile you've seen printed across headlines. It's jarring; you're not used to it. You watched his cape flutter in the air, your bitten fingernails curled around your cup, the steady patience in his eyes; you thought about the grounding weight of food in your stomach, and then you waited.
Notes:
The place down by the Daily Planet sells the best bagels. Always buy two; Alfred really likes the cream cheese ones. Complement them with a cup of hot Earl Grey to bring out the earthiness of the pastry and the sweetness of the cheese.
5. Chilli Dogs
Something—the very first thing—you had with Jason.
He had glared at you under the yellowing fluorescent lights of the diner the entire time, looking sickly and so small in the booth that you eventually slid out of the place and brought him to another spot, some cliff overlooking Blüdhaven where the air wasn't so suffocating and the boy didn't look like he was on the verge of cussing you out or vomiting, whichever came first.
You slid the chilli dog along the hood of the Batmobile, like it was a peace offering. In a way, it is—for grabbing him by his collar, almost ready to fight him until you realised he was a kid, hadn't fully lost the baby fat from his cheeks and was so young, and then for dragging him along with you to the nearest fast food place.
The air was freezing, slicing against your cheekbone as he stared at the food, almost offensive against the cold metal of the car.
“It's yours,” you told him, nudging it closer. When he still continued staring at it, you realised he might be apprehensive of receiving food from some stranger off the streets, so you took a bite of your own.
“It's fine. See?”
Only when he saw you swallow the piece did he reach out for his, and then attacked it more viciously than you'd ever seen anybody with food. He crammed gigantic bites into his mouth, less swallowing and more inhaling the bun.
You didn't try to talk then—you took a few more bites, and watched as Jason polished off his and reached out for more. For fast food, it was decent. Not that you ate much of it, given Alfred's cooking, but it was tasty; there was a thick, slow-cooked beef sauce with chilli con carne draped over the entire bun, that softened the bread to a fluffy consistency, and the sausage itself was tender, infused with spices and had a bounce to it, giving it a good mouth feel. Whatever it was, Jason was hungry enough to finish three of them, his hair falling over an eye in his haste to quickly fill his stomach.
(You tried your best to not think of the obvious—that he looked like you. He looked like you when the murder happened, like you when you stood at their graves, Alfred behind you, wondering what came next. You didn't know what to do, only that you didn't want the boy to experience what you had, an all-consuming loneliness and grief and confusion.)
He didn't attempt to talk to you, either, not when he climbed into the car and pretended to not be nodding off, nor when you arrived at the Batcave. But when he saw Alfred, and very hesitantly took up the offer of a shower and a place to stay, if only temporarily, you felt the sting of remnant chilli against your tongue, and you saw the little stain around the edge of Jason's mouth, matching you, and for a while it felt like things might be okay again.
Notes:
When Jason looks at you and you get that twinge in your heart, caught somewhere between immense care and worry that you're secretly fucking it all up—don’t. Keep him fed, and safe, and happy. He likes his chilli dogs with a bit of mustard on the side.
6. Orange chicken
Something Clark got for you, the day of the funeral.
You had already known, by then, of course. Deciding to keep tabs on all known heroes, vigilantes and metaheroes turned out to be a smart decision, and also meant that sooner or later, you were going to figure out who Clark Kent really was. And after that it wasn't too hard for him to deduce who you were, either.
He'd stopped by the Manor after. Alfred must have let him in. It was raining, and you could hear the pattering of droplets from his boots, tracking muddy water all the way. He was presumably still in his work clothes; it was more plausible to believe reporter Clark Kent was visiting you than Superman showing up at Bruce Wayne's house for no good reason. (Some part of you hates that even now, your brain still works overtime, analysing every detail to keep your identity and cover intact. Another part of you says that this calculating, decisive self of yours is what killed Jason. You brace for the fresh wave of grief that slams into you.)
“Sorry,” he'd said automatically. You didn't look him in the eye, instead opting to stare at the Batcomputer. You had files open, physical ones strewn across the floor and your lap, and digital ones with their windows across your screen. Copies and copies of records, past cases, unsolved files, anything you could get your hands on. Trying your best to think what you could have done differently, what contingency plans you should have created given the role of Robin, and Jason, and you've come to the conclusion that maybe you've really just fucked it up by yourself, ruined something that could have been great, that was great.
You hadn't gotten used to the quiet yet. Alfred hadn't said much either, slipping in and out of the house to tend to the garden, or to run errands. You don't know. You hadn't really talked to anyone, about anything. You're not sure where to even start.
You kept all your frames of Jason away in your drawer, the ones beside your bed. When the pain of it all ebbed away he'd get a place on the mantle, beside your parents, but till then, you didn't want to wake up and see him and get reminded of it. Of him. (Like Jason's just something you can keep away, tuck away for yourself, you thought. Horribly selfish, but you don't have a choice.)
“Bruce? I've got dinner,” Clark started, moving towards your table. There's the rustle of a plastic bag, and the ambiguous smell of food. He'd hung around during the funeral, tucked away in the shadows enough that no one questioned why a reporter was there, but close enough that you could feel the sympathy ebbing off him in waves. After, when it started pouring, he'd disappeared. You hadn't bothered asking.
He pried the takeout boxes open and slid one towards you.
“I know you have a policy of not eating in the cave, but… Alfred said you weren't coming out.” It's orange chicken, you realised; there's the tangy sweet smell of lemon sauce filling the room, and the steaming glistening look of fried chicken.
Clark's voice was quiet, a stark contrast to the sharp sound of lightning and thunder outside. “You… you should eat. At least get something in your stomach. You can get back to whatever it is you're doing, later.”
You could see the barely disguised concern on Clark's face. You thought about the fact that he took leave from the Daily Planet to come down here. Thunder slammed against the window pane.
“Okay.” You relented, and grabbed a pair of chopsticks. You poked at the meat, still warm with a umami, lemony smell. The meat was tender, with a crispy battered shell, and the light, tangy, vinegar-sweet sauce covering it topped the sourness of lemon. There was a packet of rice too, still fluffy and hot, so you had it with the chicken. For what it's worth, it's substantial and filling. You still didn't have a regular habit of eating—when Jason died, between trying to formulate an answer as Batman, and scrambling to come up with an excuse as Bruce Wayne, you hadn't had a chance to sit down and eat properly, resigning to sips of mineral water from the plastic bottles at the back of the car or bites of whatever protein bar you could find. It also didn't help that most of what you ate was promptly thrown up, your nails digging red crescents into your thighs. But this—this was fine. Okay. Maybe.
Clark had his own packet, but he watched you eat first before he dug in.
He’d only seen Jason a few times before, then. You could count them on one hand. A small part of you felt selfishly, ignorantly angry that he could show up, that all those other people could show up and feel sad about Jason when they hardly knew him. But you knew it was fair to be so harsh on them. Or on Clark. He was grieving with you, that traitorous part of your brain said.
You turned back to stare at your computer. Clark continued eating silently. It was gratifying that he didn't try to fill the silence with words. Any thought of entertaining more questions about Jason made your breath catch in your throat, stuck and trapped.
You hadn't cried yet. You did not know why. So you sat in silence, chewing your food and decidedly not making eye contact with Clark, instead turning back to your computer.
When he was done, he packed up, and looked around the room.
“Bruce. I'm going to make a move.”
You didn't reply.
“If you ever need anything, or anyone, just… let me know. I'll be here for you.”
At that, you looked back at him. There was this overwhelmingly open expression on his face, worried and sad but also grounding. Determined, maybe. His fingers were curled around the plastic bag he'd brought, leaving with the remainders of your makeshift dinner. He fidgeted with it. He really did wear his heart on his sleeve. You didn't know how to feel about it. You settled for a nod.
Later, you could hear him linger outside the door, hear the murmur of whispers between him and Alfred when they thought you couldn't hear. There's a muffled sound like the collision of bodies, like they were hugging. Finally you hear Alfred shuffle around and show him the way out. You looked at the pair of orange stained chopsticks left on your table, and though everything still felt incredibly fucked-up beyond repair, you felt like maybe you could breathe easier.
Notes:
Clark will show up at the Manor a few more times, with Chinese takeout, to check in on you. Invite him in, and let Alfred make him tea. Clark doesn't need you to remind him to get the orange chicken with less spice, so that the crisp citrus-savoury flavour comes out stronger and sits better in your stomach, and so that you don't throw up every other meal. Thank him for that, everytime.
7. Homemade chicken stew
Something Clark made, the first time he stayed over.
You woke up in your own bed in a panic, sweat drenching the sheets that were twisted around you, your heart jackrabbiting about your ribs like they were going to burst. Everything was too silent, but also too loud, and everything felt wrong. Your skin was too heated, your hip flexors kept twinging every time you shifted, and your forehead was coated with clammy sweat. You couldn't remember what happened the day before, or what time it was, for that matter.
And there was the sound of someone going about downstairs. It wasn't Alfred—he moved around like a swan, gliding quietly. This was—someone new. Loud. Careless. In your kitchen.
It took you five minutes to convince your muscles to move, and even then you had to drag yourself downstairs slowly, muscles burning and aflame, gripping the slick banister as you walked. It was all dark—the curtains were drawn, which was weird because Alfred hardly did that, certainly not during the day which you were sure of because of the faint glowing pinpricks of light escaping the heavy fabrics.
You finally made it to the kitchen. There was a large figure in the corner, by the sinks, the water running. It turned around.
“Bruce?” Clark said, very hesitantly like he wasn't sure if you'd stand there and stare at him or take a swing. “What are you doing out of bed?”
You squinted. His face was a blurry mess; everything seemed to be spinning and the light was piercing through your pupils, right into your retinas—
“Wait, sorry,” Clark moved to flick the lights off. “Photosensitivity. My bad. You weren't supposed to be in the kitchen.”
The stabbing pain subsided, but that didn't mean you felt any less like shit.
“Clark? What's going on? Where's Alfred?” You asked blearily, taking a seat by the counter. It was… nice, and cold. You pressed a hand down on it, feeling it spread throughout you.
Clark went back to the sink. “Alfred had some errands to run. I promised him I'd stay and cook up something for lunch for you, and he agreed.” He gathered something in his hands, and moved to the bubbling pot, which you'd just noticed, and tossed it in. The water gurgled happily for a bit, then simmered down. You blinked.
“What—what happened, before? Yesterday, or, when?” There's a sharp pain in your left ribcage every time you inhaled, or spoke, and it was only made worse by this acrid, sour feeling in your stomach like there was a black hole.
“You passed out yesterday, after the mission. Remember?” Clark stirred the pot, slowly, watching your face very carefully. He was in what looked like casual attire, a dark green (or maybe blue. You couldn't tell) shirt and jeans, and looked completely at home in your kitchen, holding a wooden spoon and leaning on his hip against the marbled table. “The entire League was worried about you. You haven't been eating, Alfred told me. You're probably having some kind of acid reflux or stomach ulcers now.” There was the exhale of gas as he extinguished the flame.
“You've been resting for a few hours, give or take,” Clark continued. He summoned a bowl out of nowhere, and was now scooping food into it. It smelt… surprisingly good. One of the few dishes your stomach hadn't repelled insistently at in the past few days, even lettimg out a cautious grumble. “So I thought I'd make something heartier for you, to recover quicker.” With that, he placed the bowl in front of you, complete with a spoon.
It looked like a stew of sorts. A chicken stew, you realised, as you lifted the spoon and prodded at the meat. It was so tender that it fell apart the minute you touched it, steaming and succulent and seemingly marinated. There was a simmering chicken broth surrounding it, piping hot and filled with ingredients—vegetables and roots like boiled potatoes, carrots, mushrooms, radishes and soft lotus root. All things that Alfred often stocked up on, seeing as how he liked to use them as “recovery foods”. And you were pleasantly surprised when you lifted it to your mouth; it was more soup than stew, with a strong umami taste only slightly distracted by the sweetness from the carrots. The chicken fell right off the bone, too, with a herbal taste that made you suspect that Clark used more herbs and spices than the stew let on. It tasted—good. Really good.
Clark was watching you anxiously, so when you looked up at him and gave an approving nod, he'd breathed a smile of relief. You continued with the stew—it was warm, and silky, and went down easily, and before you knew it, you'd finished it. Alfred would have been proud, you think. Clark sat and talked while you ate, watching intently, until you finished the entire bowl, sipping the broth quietly as he went on about mundane things, about a new article he'd been tasked to write, or progress on reports by the League members, and you listened, watching his eyelashes flutter every time he blinked.
“Thank you,” you'd told him afterwards. He'd insisted that you get some more rest after lunch, despite your protests of your growing pile of work, and marched you right back to bed in that funny, almost-demanding Clark Kent way of his. He looked a bit startled, but then he'd smiled, slow and soft, and said it wasn't an issue, and he'd always be there for you, Bruce. For what it's worth, despite feeling like shit and the throbbing between your ribcage still persisting, you felt ever-so slightly better, like having a good soup and a friend over actually helped.
Notes:
Clark makes really decent meals. Remember to ask him for the recipe. Alfred really liked the stew too. Also, later Alfred will tell you how Clark was the one who carried you back to the Manor, and made sure you were asleep in your own bed. Remember to thank him. You find you have a lot of things to thank Clark Kent for.
8. Pepperoni pizza
Something from one of the first few times the Justice League ate together.
Not a regular occurrence, you told yourself. Just this once, and only because everyone was exhausted after the recent battle (fifth-dimensional intergalactic fight involving one very confused, very angry celestial being) and needed to replenish their energy, and so that was how the Justice League ended up hosting their very first pizza party.
Barry was still excitedly speeding around, grabbing slices off the table and leaving a trail of pepperoni and grease behind him. Diana and Hal were seated together already, heads bent, seemingly discussing something. Arthur and J’onn were also seemingly in the middle of a heated discussion, hands flying and pizza forgotten. You had to dodge a few pointed fingers thrown towards each other before you claimed a seat beside Clark, who had already been eating.
“Hey, B,” he said cheerily.
“Hn.” You shuffled over in your seat, scraping noisily across the floor.
Clark had gotten injured during the fight just now, but he'd already gone to the Watchtower’s medbay’s solar pools so there were no traces of whatever gashes or bruises he'd collected whatsoever.
He sits beside you now, taking another bite of pizza. You knew he was hungry; he'd told you before that every time he fully healed under the Sun, his appetite would roar back to life. You watched him shoot you a grin, canines catching on his bottom lip.
Somewhere in the distance, Arthur made a noise of irritation. A fork clattered to the ground.
“I got you some,” Clark told you, very clearly ignoring whatever was going on in the back. “You didn't get anything, so I thought,” you looked at the paper plate he'd pushed before you, greasy and warm with slices of pizza. “Well.” He shrugged, sincere and genuine as always. “You should eat.”
Ever since the League was formed and you'd started seeing Clark on a more daily basis, he'd taken it upon himself to look out for you. You didn't know where the sentiment came from, it wasn't like you were particularly shitty at doing it yourself (Alfred would argue otherwise) but Clark—just seemed to want to do it. He seemed to want to do a lot of things—to help the people of Metropolis, to work hard as Clark Kent, to encourage those in the League and to work alongside them, and to—not help per se, but just, maybe, hang around you. You weren't blind, you could feel it, you knew the rest of the League could feel it too, the number of times Clark had come to your defense, or the way he liked to talk to you when others looked like they might shit their pants if they dared to. But also, you saw the things they wouldn't have had a chance to notice—the way Clark Kent, the reporter, would show up to the Wayne galas, eyes roving the crowd to find yours, the way he'd push food into your hand when he sensed you weren't eating.
You're really not sure what to do with this information, so you purposefully avoided his eyes and sank your teeth into a slice.
The pizza was from the same place Dick loved. You'd had it with him often enough by then to know what it tasted like; he'd always insist on swinging by the place after late-night patrols and you let him, watching him grin through a mouthful of cheese in the passengers seat, pleased as a bird. The pizza reminded you of exactly that—dark nights in Gotham, the air thick and cold, ghosting over your scarred fingers, Dick giggling at you from the side, his pre-pubescent voice still pitchy; the first bite, warm with melty mozzarella and fresh basil, then the startling tang of tomato sauce against greasy but juicy pepperoni, burning against the leather of your glove, clotting the Batmobile with the smell; the crunch against crispy crust and it's flakiness. You'd get a slice; Dick would get two, three if he was especially hungry that day.
You have two now, though, with what Clark had piled on your plate. He watched you the entire time as you chewed slowly, thinking and waiting, occasionally taking bites of his own. He didn't try to talk, which you appreciated. The two of you sat together and ate in silence, listening to the rest of the League go about bickering, or laughing, or talking and you watched the way the curl on Clark's forehead shifted as he ate, thought about the way he smiled through a slice the way Dick did, feeling pleasantly full and surprisingly happy for once.
Notes:
Pizza is best eaten with friends or family. Dick and Clark taught you that.
9. Homemade beef stew and apple pie
Something you had the first time you ate over at the Kent’s.
You'd already met the Kents before, but that was your first time actually going over to Smallville to sit down and have a proper meal together. Clark wanted you to see the farm and his hometown and his family, and Alfred was really pleased with that fact, so you'd relented and gone ahead. It was on the way back from another month-long operation and you figured it'd be good for Clark anyway, so sure, why not? And Mrs Kent had insisted that you bring Dick and Tim along, because the more the merrier, so you did.
“It’s always lovely to meet a friend of Clark's, really,” Mrs Kent (Martha, dear, she insisted) told you as she set a pot down. There's the warm light of the setting sun through the windows, catching on the metal and casting a homely glow on everyone around the dining table. There was a very domestic, lived-in feel to the entire place; Dick and Tim had very enthusiastically explored it, and spent a good amount of time going around in the orchards, much to the Kents’ amusement.
“Lord knows he doesn't bring them around enough!” She huffed. Across from her, Clark gave a good natured laugh. He's never angry, never irritated. Always patient.
Martha wiped her hands, before claiming a seat beside Dick. “Please, dig in!”
There was a beef stew, thick and piping hot and awfully aromatic, before you; you can smell the richness of garlic and rosemary in it. And it tasted as good as it looks, as you heaped a spoonful into your mouth—deeply flavoured, slightly earthy and savoury, with chunks of slow-cooked beef that was really incredibly tender and juicy, and with baby potatoes and carrots added that gave the stew a sweeter, more balanced taste while remaining soft enough to sink your teeth into. And there was—
“Is there wine in this?”
“Yes! I added a bit of red wine for a lighter colour and for extra flavour,” Martha said, spooning some more into your already-full plate.
“It's really good!” Tim piped up. Beside him, Dick made a noise of approval through a mouthful. Martha laughed.
Clark hadn't dug in yet, instead watching you take a careful bite into a steaming carrot (that was so incredibly soft from being boiled that it melted on your tongue, savoury-sweet), until you looked up at him, startled, and he smiled, slow and—delighted.
“The stew’s an old recipe. Ma has practically perfected it,” he told you.
Martha nodded. “Good food is important for the soul.”
Now you knew why Clark prioritised eating so much. You could practically imagine him, around this table as a kid, all dimples and smiles, digging into meals as a family and making sure everyone was fed and full and happy. This was—not exactly your family, but it was a good semblance of one; watching Martha chat with Tim about the gardens and harvests in the seasons, or Dick stealing a piece of beef off Clark's plate and Clark, who had definitely seen him and was allowing him to, gave an exasperated sigh before glancing back at you and breaking into an elated grin. Happy—that was what you were.
Later on, when Martha brought out an apple pie that she'd made (honestly, the woman is a talented cook), it was equally incredible too—a beautifully golden crust that was flaky and buttery, along with a balanced amount of applesauce and cranberries that gave it a sour, sugary kick, so the whole thing just melted in your mouth in a delightful combination of pastry and sweets; and with Clark beside you, also digging in, his eyes crinkled with joy and his elbow bumping into yours, you felt—at home. Very much so.
Notes:
Later, when you're getting ready to leave, and Dick and Tim are already half passed-out in the backseat and you're still standing on the porch, Clark will pass you a tupperware with some leftover pie for Alfred to try, and he'll look at you with that way of his, the warm glow of the house illuminating him, and he'll hug you. It is very, very important that you look back at him, taste the tart sweetness of apples on your tongue and hug him back.
10. Christmas turkey (and hashbrowns)
Something from a Christmas party you hosted in the Manor.
Just something small, you assured Alfred, although he insisted that he was more than happy to help prepare something grander. Really, though, it was the kids’ idea; Dick convinced Stephanie, who then told Damian about it, and then all of them were simultaneously hounding you for it, so you gave in. And then Tim offhandedly mentioned that he'd have liked to celebrate it with Uncle Clark, so then Dick thought it'd be good to go ahead and invite Clark over.
Which was how you ended up with your entire family, plus Clark, around the dinner table. Jason was helping Alfred carry dishes out from the kitchen, while Dick and Tim returned from the video game competition, still arguing about who technically won the last round. Across the table, Damian and Stephanie rolled their eyes at them. Opposite you, Clark broke out into a grin, watching the chaos unfold around him. Sometimes you'd forget that Clark wasn't used to having this many teenagers hanging around him, but he still tried very hard; when Jason returned and you spent many nights pacing around your room trying to figure out how and why and what you were going to do, Clark stayed with you, and when Jason did come back, he was one of the first to talk to him; Clark, who laughed and fist-bumped Dick, who remembered details of cases Tim would tell him, who talked to Stephanie and tried to get along with Damian. Clark, who, as dinner started, said that he brought a little something too and pulled out a tupperware.
“Hashbrowns?” Damian raised an eyebrow. “Those are breakfast foods.”
“Yeah, I know,” Clark shrugged. “But breakfast for dinner has always been a thing around my house so I thought I'd contribute something small.”
It was a surprisingly uneventful and normal (as normal could get around here) dinner, even if there was some flinging of mashed potatoes around that Alfred shut down immediately. The roast turkey, to his credit, is really good—there’s a sauce made of a tangy mixture of herb, orange, maple and chilli draped over browning and crispy skin, and he'd cooked it well enough that the meat wasn't dry but juicy and tender instead. And then, out of curiosity, you try it with Clark's hashbrowns, crispy and warm and with the hint of garlic and it's good, really good Stephanie said through a mouthful until Alfred reminded her to not talk with her mouth full.
The hashbrowns almost reminded you of your mom. Of early mornings and warm plates. It tasted slightly differently, of course, but, still. You knew Alfred felt it too, because you watched him break into a very tiny smile as he took a bite of it.
Later when the kids had all opened their presents up and you were up to your neck with wrapping paper in the living room, smiling at them as you moved to toss some paper away, Clark caught up to you in the hallway.
“Thanks for inviting me, Bruce,” he said. There was a piece of wrapping paper, decorated with smiling Santas, caught by static on his pant leg. You briefly debated telling him.
“Of course. And thank you for bringing something over, too. It was nice,” you said instead. He beamed back at you. It was ridiculous, how big his smile could get when he was pleased.
“You have this weird thing for watching people eat, don't you,” you said, propping a hip against the wall. There was a shout from the living room, meaning either someone received something they really wanted or they were now actively trying to kill each other.
Clark shrugged. “I mean, you're not wrong, but it's not weird, it's just—Ma and Pa were the same. They always made sure I was fed and happy, and so I learned that that was what I could do for people—for the people I love.” The sound of wind whistled against the window pane beside the two of you, impatient and free. You waited.
“And you always miss out on meals, B. You're always too busy, working, or you're punishing yourself for something that really wasn't your fault,” Clark continued. “And even if it was, there's healthier ways to manage that.”
You shifted your weight, gripped the remaining wrapping paper in your hands. “Yeah. I know.”
Suddenly Clark looked tall; not that he wasn't already taller than you, but now he nearly blotted out the remaining warm light spilling from the living room, his red flannel slightly oversized and his expression gentle. He was still watching you, blue eyes tracking your face and you weren't sure what you might find if you looked back at him so you cast your eyes upwards.
Oh.
“What?” He looked up too. “Oh.”
A criminalising piece of mistletoe, dangling from the ceiling.
“Alfred,” you muttered. “Or Jason. They've watched too many Christmas hallmark movies.”
He didn't look at it anymore, instead glancing at you. He did that a lot, you realised. Always looking, always searching for you. “We don’t have to, if you don't want to,” he offered, laughing a bit at the ridiculousness of it, and yeah you understood, it was so clichéd and overly traditional—“It's just a tradition, anyway.”
But then when you thought about the fact that Clark was always there for you; always with a hand on your shoulder, something to say, or nothing to say when he knew it wasn't words you needed but silence instead, when he came over to meet your family or to check in on you, when he argued with you whenever you were about to make some stupid reckless decision; and his little habits with food, always making some for you, getting you something to eat, watching you eat so that he could relax knowing you were nourished, his ways that reminded you of your mom, of Alfred, of Jason and of everyone that had ever shaped you—
“Clark, you lovely, ridiculous, handsome man. May I kiss you?”
He broke into a familiar grin, bright and patient, and moved forward to meet you, soft and wonderful.
Notes:
Christmas dinner, you've come to realise, goes well paired with your family laughing together, white wine and a kiss under the mistletoe. Also, Clark reminds you that you two have a lunch appointment together. It's in your shared Google Calendar.