Chapter Text
(Takes place several months after the events of "Finding a New Family," at the Wayne Manor; Quinn comes to visit.)
“Dickie Bird!” Quinn scooped him up and spun him around, causing the boy to laugh. “I missed you so much.”
Dickie scrambled up onto her back with the grace of an eel swimming through rocks, tugging playfully at her braids. “Jument! Go! Snacks!”
“I understand enough to know there’s snacks somewhere,” Quinn chuckled, then took off down the hallway at a trot, expertly maneuvering around a couple people she assumed to be new maids. They ended up in the kitchen, where Jethro was seated by the kitchen island, watching a red-haired woman chop vegetables.
“Heya, Jethro Clampett!” Quinn said. “Is this your daughter or somethin’?”
“Brat,” Jethro grumbled. “I may've sowed some oats in my day, but nothing ever came from it. Where would you get that idea?”
“You're letting someone else cook in your kitchen.”
“Quinn,” Dickie said, tapping her head, “snacks! Shirley, want snacks!”
The red-haired woman smiled up at Dickie, and tossed a couple carrot sticks up at him. Quinn almost ducked as a reflex from things being thrown at her head, but Dickie's small hands shot forward and grabbed them. He then started crunching on them, and Quinn giggled.
“I gotta let ya down, Dickie Bird, you're so noisy.”
“Noisy, noisy!” Dickie cheered, then started chattering in a mixture of French and English as Quinn leaned over backwards and let him hop down.
“How do you do that without hurting your back?” Jethro muttered.
“Practice, old man. And you didn't exactly answer my question.”
Shirley smiled, wiped her hand on her apron, and leaned forward to shake Quinn's hand. “Shirley Gonzáles. I'm Jethro's apprentice, so to speak.”
Jethro muttered something in a discontented way, then glared at Quinn. “If you must know, Martha and Alfred ganged up on me and said I'm gettin’ too old to cook for this household by myself, so I gotta get some help. I told ‘em I don't want any fancy trained chef comin’ in here and kickin’ me to the curb. So they forced this harridan on me.”
Shirley rolled her eyes, and Quinn started smiling. “He means that Mrs. Wayne hired me, knowing I've gone to a vocational college, learned cooking techniques, and wasn't well-connected enough to work as a private chef. He just hates the fact that he didn't have to train me from the ground up.”
“Comin’ in here with your fancy blenders,” Jethro grumbled.
“Teaching you to make smoothies and chimichurri. Surely the end of the world is upon us.”
Quinn's smile spread further, and she leaned closer. “Ya know, Jethro is very techy about anyone in his kitchen. He barely lets Alfred in here, and he's higher ranking.”
“That Brit don't know cooking!” Jethro said loudly. “What even is a Yorkshire pudding? It's failed muffins!”
“I disagree entirely, but to each their own, I suppose,” Alfred said, coming into the kitchen.
“Alfred, tu m’as manqué,” Dickie said, throwing himself to hug the man.
“It’s only been a couple hours that I’ve been gone,” Alfred said, hugging him back. “Welcome back, Miss Quinn.”
“Hi, Alfie,” Quinn said, hugging him quickly. “You convinced Jethro to take an apprentice, huh? Not trying for that spot yourself?”
“I am a butler,” Alfred said, raising an eyebrow. “I’ll fight for use of the kitchen along with everyone else when I’m craving Yorkshire puddings, but I respect the man’s territory.”
“Until my next day off, and you’ll destroy my kitchen again,” Jethro muttered into his coffee cup.
“If you’ll recall, that was primarily Master Bruce and Danny,” Alfred said, his voice pausing briefly on his son’s name. “I was simply the unfortunate one who had volunteered to teach them. Not to mention that was almost twelve years ago.”
“Still smells like burned flour under the sink.”
“I highly doubt that. Now, Miss Quinn, as you’ve come to visit for the weekend, am I to assume you need a room, or will you be with your mother?”
Quinn smiled in a slightly strained manner, ruffling Dickie’s hair as he stole another carrot stick and asked Shirley if he could cut a carrot himself.
“If you don’t mind, Alfie, can I stay here?” she asked quietly.
“Certainly. Is there anything you need me to do?”
Quinn thunked her forehead against his shoulder. “Nah. Ma’s old enough to make her own dating mistakes again. If she doesn’t want to listen to me, that’s on her.”
“That’s a surprisingly distant conclusion to make,” Alfred said, raising an eyebrow again.
Quinn shrugged. “She’s been distant for a couple years now. I could psychoanalyze our relationship to hell and back, but I’ll save that for the nights I can’t sleep. I mostly wanted a break from school and stuff, and check up on Dickie. He’s making good progress.”
“He has his days, much like I assume we all do. Your suggestion of gymnastics classes has proved helpful. At first he acted like he wouldn’t learn anything, and acted like a show-off, but you were right, he is lonely. He’s made several friends and doing well in school.”
“Quinn!” Dickie said, hurling himself across the kitchen, and beamed up at her while pronouncing carefully, “Mr. Nicholson said I am very good at math. Maybe I will get to do Mathletes next year?”
Quinn scooped him up in a hug again, relishing in his playful squeals. “I’m so proud of you, Dickie Bird! You’re so smart!”