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Alfred is used to cooking with children.
It’s true what they say about the kitchen being the heart of the house. He’s certainly found it to be.
Dick always brought life and mess in equal measure when he was there, darting around the room in a ball of cheer and bright smiles that almost disguised the way ingredients tended to disappear in his wake.
For all his exasperation, Alfred could never find it in him to truly mind.
Jason was a pleasure to have in the kitchen.
When Bruce had shown a distinct lack of skills in the kitchen, and Dick had little interest, Alfred had resigned himself that his carefully developed recipes and the knowledge he had accumulated through years of practice would likely die with him.
But Jason took joy in learning, and teaching him was a joy.
Had he chosen to pursue his culinary talents, Alfred had little doubt that he would have been top of the line.
Though of course, perhaps that is simply the faith held by all grandfathers in the excellence of their grandchildren.
It is not like he will ever be proven wrong.
Cooking with Cassandra is like cooking with a ghost.
It’s taken getting used to. His experience with children has made him very gifted at listening to them talk about the many things they’re passionate about, at asking the right questions to get their eyes to light up as they share their thoughts on the books they’re reading or the projects they’re working on.
It has not prepared him for the tiny, silent presence that now likes to lurk in the cabinets under the counter while he works.
He has come to recognize it as an expression of trust that he even knows she is there.
“It is a great pity that oatmeal is so often maligned as being bland,” he informs the shadow on top of the highest cabinets. He’s pleased to see she’s getting bolder. If he looks closely, he can almost see the outline of dark hair peeking over the edge where she’s flattened herself. “With the right ingredients, as I expect you can smell by now, it can be quite flavorful. But the real trick is neither the fruit nor the honey,” he stirs in a handful of dried cherries, “it is a pinch of salt. That is what will take it from good to excellent.”
He has no way of knowing how much of what he says she understands, if any at all. Even Bruce isn’t sure how much English she speaks, or even if she speaks at all.
To the best of Alfred’s knowledge, she has yet to say a single word.
He talks anyway. She must not mind the ramblings of an old man too much, or she wouldn’t keep coming back.
“In small amounts, salt draws out other flavors in the dish, even sweetness.” He stirs, the honey and brown sugar scent blending with the crisp smell of apples and the perfume of cooking fruit. “It is why a pinch in a pot of hot chocolate will make it taste richer, not salty.”
He reaches for the pile of diced apple on the cutting board, and finds…significantly less than there was a few minutes earlier.
Casting a glance upwards, the shadow is still right where it was the last time he looked. How she managed to slip that much out from under his nose from her current position is a mystery he may never solve.
He can feel her eyes on him, and he knows, somehow, that this is a test.
Letting his amusement at her impressive skill show on his face, he reaches for a fresh apple, chopping it skillfully as he lets the pot simmer. Once, it was habit to have more ingredients laid out than strictly needed, measured out down to an art by how much he could anticipate being stolen by tiny, skillful hands. It is a habit he will need to get back into, evidently.
“Take care not to spoil your appetite, Ms. Cassandra,” he says mildly. “Apples, while delicious, are not the highest in nutritional value on their own.”
Above, he hears the faintest brush of shifting limbs, followed by quiet mouse-like crunching as she enjoys her prize.
He understands that, whatever the test may have been, he is honored to have passed.
…
Cassandra has tucked herself into the cabinet under the center counter this time. Unsurprising, as today he’s baking.
Alfred knows it means she’s begun to feel safer as the weeks have passed, that she’s given up the high defensible perches of the upper cabinets in favor of easy access to snacks while he works.
Even more tellingly, the cabinet is fully open. It warms his heart as it always does, the sight of her dark eyes watching him openly rather than hiding away in the shadows. One leg dangles out casually to scuff against the floor as she nibbles on the bag of chocolate chips she’s plucked off the counter while he was retrieving the baking sheet.
He bends down slightly to raise an eyebrow at her, and receives a sharp-toothed grin in return. “Ms. Cassandra, I fear if you don’t return those, our cookies will not meet the definition of chocolate chip cookies,” he says, extending a patient hand and waiting.
She sticks her hand back in, grabbing a last handful before thrusting the bag at him with a gleeful expression. He’s unable to hold back a smile as he accepts it. “Thank you.”
While Dick and Jason seemed to enjoy trying to be sneaky as they stole food from under his nose, she seems to take absolute joy in being caught.
He suspects it is not a luxury she ever had in her previous life.
After adding an indulgent amount of chocolate chips to the batter, he dishes it out in careful blobs on the baking sheet. Scarcely has the last portion gone on the sheet when a small hand appears from under the edge, searching the counter blindly.
This is why he has long since perfected an eggless cookie dough recipe.
He nudges the batter-covered spoon into her searching fingers, where it promptly disappears with a pleased sound.
He cleans up while the cookies bake, gets started on prepping for dinner while they cool on the counter, safely out of easy reach where they won’t burn any curious hands.
Finally, judging them safe to eat, he sets one on a small plate and turns to the open cupboard.
She’s curled onto her side on the shelf, her head pillowed on one arm, and she blinks at him just a tiny bit slower than normal, drowsy in the warm comfort of the kitchen.
He kneels, ignoring the way his knees pop, and smiles as he offers the plate out to her. She brightens instantly, shifting into a more comfortable position as she accepts it. “You may have some more after dinner,” he tells her, and straightens up, returning to his cutting board.
Beneath the counter, in the softest little voice he’s ever heard, he hears:
“Thank you.”
The warmth that fills his chest feels like it could light up the kitchen all by itself.
Stepping back so he can once more meet her inscrutable dark eyes, he smiles. “You are most welcome, Ms. Cassandra,” he says, and he knows she can hear the sincerity and fondness in his voice by the way she beams, the radiant smile turning her from a tiny wraith to something fairy-like in her joy, and he knows in that moment that he would do nearly anything to make her smile like that.
As he sets back to making dinner, the sound of the cookies disappearing coming from the cabinet, he thinks of how lucky he is to have the chance.