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Green leaves dot the flower bed resting on the off white windowsill in Pennyworth's kitchen. Although the Manor is under Father's name, Pennyworth is holding the reins that keep the house together. Pennyworth feeds them because heaven knows that none of his charges knows how to cook, with Father staying up all night through the sheer force of will, Cassandra not having the means or time to learn, Richard believing that cereal is sufficient for every square meal of the day with Brown enthusiastically agreeing with him, Todd thinking that fast food is a suitable substitute for a home cooked meal, Drake surviving on a mixture of energy drinks and coffee, and Thomas having yet to show his supposed skill in the area.
So it's suffice to say that this is Pennyworth's kitchen.
His movements are slightly stilted as he spins around the kitchen, stainless steel pots and pans banging, preparing breakfast for a family who thrives in the night. Damian watches him carefully as he sips on Atai bil Na’na’. A labored breath when he lifts the lid off the skillet. A stifled moan of pain when he bends down to get the yogurt from the bottom drawer in the refrigerator. A disgruntled grimace when the bacon oil pops, leaving a scant burn on his skin.
Damian gently places his tea cup in the saucer.
This cannot continue.
It seems as if Pennyworth must be coming down with a cold. But Damian knows that he cannot convince him to rest because if there is one trait Agent A, the Bat, and the birds share, it's obstinance. He wants to ease Pennyworth's duties but he does not know how to cook. Mama transformed into Mother before he could learn how to make his grandmother’s beloved mapo tofu, not to mention other recipes.
Pennyworth is not a shoddy servant so much as a comrade in arms living in a foreign country, regardless of the number of years he has been stationed in America, and an almost pseudo-grandfather. He stares at his rapidly cooling tea, trying to perceive an idea from the tea leaves.
Tea...
Pennyworth likes drinking tea. It was the subject of many conversations between him and Pennyworth, discussing the similarities and differences between drab British teas that originate from across the pond and savory Arabian teas that populate the Arabic topography.
Damian nodded, short and swift.
That's it.
He will make Pennyworth tea.
At the snap of his fingers, vines burst forth from the botanical garden situated on the ledge of the kitchen window. Flowers bloomed gracefully on the edge of the stalks rushing to meet Damian's awaiting palms. As Damian gently cupped the fragrant Bergamot fruit, he could feel Alfred's questioning gaze directed at him.
With how often he and Pennyworth discuss the process of formulating tea, it's a surprise that he has not figured out what Damian is preparing.
Plucking the fruit from the stem, he peels back the waxy skin to reveal a fibrous capsule similar to the interior of a lime.
No matter.
There is no need for the pulp of the fruit, just the rind. He begins to scrape the waxy exterior of the bergamot orange, oil droplets catching the rim of the saucer which is still located on the table. To remedy this fact, he places his cup on a coaster. As he steadily scraps the rind, oil starts to fill the shallow basin of the saucer.
After that task is completed, he reaches for the second stem and observes their leaves. C. sinensis var. assamica, otherwise known as Assam tea leaves, is a flowering shrub named after the region it originates from. Damian only wants the freshest leaves for Pennyworth.
He deserves nothing short of perfection.
Catering to their unusual antics all day everyday has taken a toll on the man. He extracts the few crisp leaves from the plant and places them delicately on the rim of the saucer. It is a balancing act to make sure the leaves do not enter the Bergamot oil, the viscous liquid does not spill, and that none of the ingredients touch the table.
Entering the kitchen, he whisks the kettle out of its foxhole and begins to fill the pot with water from the tap. As he places the kettle on the stove, Pennyworth tries to corner him, words already forming on his tongue but Damian does not have time for this.
He needs to crush the tea leaves.
Sidestepping Pennyworth with a small cutting board under his arm, he reminds himself that this small misunderstanding will clear itself once Pennyworth receives the tea.
It doesn’t stop the growing hollow feeling in his chest when Pennyworth's disenchanted gaze is aimed at him.
He crushes the tea leaves with a single minded focus that would scare most of his classmates at school. Only when he looks up that he remembers that the vines are still present, blocking the sunlight from entering the dining room and more likely, impeding Pennyworth's breakfast preparation.
Snapping his fingers, the vines disappear and Pennyworth's shrubbery returns to normal.
That must be the reason why Pennyworth shows him such a dejected gaze. He thinks that Damian is purposely ravaging his garden. That he wants to thwart the morning meal. That he desires to make his life more difficult. Damian blinks back tears as his fingernails dig into his palms. A small sniffle escapes before he can smother it.
That's fine.
That's okay.
That's great.
But—
He thought Pennyworth knew him better.
That the mornings filled with the sounds of pots and pans banging and Damian's sipping is a shared silence with warmth tinging its edges. That their discussions about tea is his way of welcoming him to the family. That the early morning hours are their time.
Damian should know better by now to assume.
The tea kettle whistles, startling Damian out of his wallowing self-pity session. He rushes into the kitchen, balancing the cutting board and saucer in his arms. After he places those items on the counter, he removes the kettle from the stove and pours the boiling hot water into a teacup.
**
The butler watches on the side, his back against the cabinets, when it finally dawns on him what Damian is doing.
He sees the boy drop fresh Assam tea leaves in the dainty teacup and a touch of Bergamot oil to the mixture. Damian must have gotten the ingredients from the plants he uprooted. Glancing back at his flower bed, he sees that all the blooms are restored back to normal. Alfred drops his head into his hands, overcome with gratitude for the boy. Damian is making his prized tea for him, who is overwhelmed with exhaustion from seeing his charges battling crime every night in varying bat and bird themed costumes.
He is so grateful for his grandson and his thoughtfulness.
**
He adds a dash of honey, just the way Pennyworth likes it, and hands the tea over to the steward.
Pennyworth smiles, a small thing that smooths the lines on his face. "Thank you, Master Damian."
A pained smile forms on Damian’s lips. "You’re welcome, Pennyworth."