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solarcelest · 3 years

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Easy as Pie

For Dick & Damian Week, day 6: "You're safe." This fic is a fluff-whump-angst-fluff sandwich. :)

**Warning: this fic contains heavily-implied/threatened rape/noncon and explicit child grooming behavior**

(this is a long one)

Read on Ao3

“You must be joking.”

Dick wore a grin that reached ear-to-ear, and Damian knew him well enough to recognize that it was genuine. “It’s the rules,” he said, without an ounce of apology. “We gotta wear them.”

Damian held his apron out like it was going to bite him. “I don’t even need an apron. I do not make messes in the kitchen.”

“What is it that Alfred said? ‘If you wish to use the kitchen again—'”

“That was one time. And I had stitches!”

Dick just hummed, clearly not buying it.

Damian looked away from his apron and frowned. Dick was stroking his beard, grown out for the novelty of it, the false sophistication a hard contrast with the “BIG CHEF” printed across the front of his pastel-green apron.

“What do you think?” Dick asked, wiggling his eyebrows.

“Tt. Green is not your color.”

Dick looked about as mock-upset as he could, but he spotted something over Damian’s shoulder and straightened. “I think we’re next.”

A woman, flipping through her clipboard, asked, “Richard and Damian Wayne?”

Dick’s smile took on more of that edge of fake. “That’s us! But you can call me Dick.” He added a wink to the last part, and Damian rolled his eyes.

“Just confirming a few details for the graphics department. You guys are siblings?”

“Yep,” Dick answered, popping the ‘p.’ “Our dad had a last-second business trip to attend, so the fam sent me, instead.”

The woman—Cindy, according to her security lanyard—nodded, jotting things down on the paper. “You have counter two, second from the left. Do you have any questions before we start filming?”

Damian held up his apron. “Could you burn this for me?”

She tilted her head, examining it. “Is there something wrong with it?”

“It’s horrendous.”

The corner of Cindy’s mouth twitched up. “It’ll look good on camera. You should wear it.”

Damian’s scrunched in defeat. “Very well.”

Dick did not hide his mischievous glee as Damian pulled the loop over his head and tied it into place. (The strings were too long, and he had to secure it in the front.) “It is not polite to gloat,” Damian mumbled, arms crossed over the “LIL CHEF” printed on his chest.

“Aw, Dami, it’s just for a little bit.”

Cindy raised a hand to her headphones and nodded. “Copy that. They’re ready for you!” She gave them a thumbs up. “Good luck!”

They watched her walk toward the next group, a mother and daughter who wore ridiculous matching chef’s hats. Damian recognized them from a popular reality television show.

Dick rested a hand on Damian’s shoulder, and in a jarringly serious whisper, asked, “You sure you’re okay with this?”

“Having second thoughts?”

Dick smiled down at him, but his eyes held a hint of concern. “Yeah.” At a look from Cindy, he started gently nudging Damian toward the soundstage. “And I’m not even the bait, this time.”

Damian shook the hand off his shoulder. “I’ll be fine. I’m not one of those naïve children.”

Stage crew peeked around the corner of the soundstage, ushering them to be faster. “I guess not,” Dick said, before his demeanor fell back into the traditional Wayne charisma.

The soundstage walls were bright pink, the floors checker tile like and old diner. The stage crew guided them to their station, a dreadful thing that matched the rest of the stage’s décor. While the crew gave Dick instructions—he was the responsible adult, after all—Damian explored. Two cabinets, one filled with pots and pans and the other with various bowls. Along the counter was a mixer, a blender, and a two-stove range. On the far end was a sink, and next to empty counter space was a large trash can.

Adequate enough for their task, given it was meant for baking novices.

“Isn’t this exciting?” Dick asked, with a meaningful nudge from his elbow.

Damian wiped the sneer off his face, but he did not smile.

The counter for the bakers was set about waist-height for Dick, meaning it was chest-height on Damian. When the stage crew was content with the lighting, they began stacking wooden blocks for Damian to stand on—along the empty side of the counter, away from the oven and stoves, much to Damian’s displeasure. When they were satisfied that Damian could be seen, but still appeared short enough for his age, they reviewed the rules of the competition, told them to “hang tight,” and hustled to the mother-daughter duo next door.

For a forty-five-minute television special, this was ridiculous.

“You must be the Waynes!”

Dick stiffened almost imperceptibly as a man wearing a suit and expensive watch strolled toward them. Their mark. “And you’re Mister…?”

“Hanover.” The man took Dick’s hand and gave a firm shake. “David Hanover.”

Dick’s eyes widened; his (fake) smile grew. “Oh! Mr. Hanover! Thanks for inviting us to your show.”

“Please, just call me Dave.”

Dick laughed. “Okay, Dave. Really, thank you.” He looped an arm around Damian’s shoulder, pulling him in closer. “When our PR agent called, Damian here was so excited!”

Dave’s eyes swiveled to Damian, and he didn’t miss the way they ran down to the print on his apron and back up again. In an amused tone, Dave asked, “Really?” He leaned in, reaching out the shake Damian’s hand. “It’s very nice to meet you, young man.”

This was it.

Damian plastered on a less unpleasant expression, took the man’s hand, and shook it with a grip too weak to be taken seriously. “It is very nice to meet you, too. Thank you.”

Dave looked around at the other competitors before leaning in, using his grip on Damian’s hand to pull him even closer. “As host I’m not supposed to have favorites, but between you and me?” he shared, in a conspirator’s whisper, “I hope you win.”

Dave shifted away, but his touch lingered. Damian knew Dick noticed, because the arm around his shoulders squeezed a little tighter.

Dave winked down at Damian. “Good luck, champ!” And he returned to his place with the rest of the crew.

Damian fought the urge to sneer at his back. What a creep.

“He’s bold, doing that right in front of me,” Dick muttered, low enough only Damian would be able to hear it.

Damian straightened his posture. “He won’t get away with it this time,” he promised.

Dick crouched down. “Check out this oven,” he demanded, a little louder than necessary.

Damian followed suite only because Dick was glaring holes into Hanover’s back, and neither of them could afford to raise suspicion yet. “What about the oven?” he had to prompt.

“For my peace of mind,” Dick joked, eyes belaying how serious he was. “Remind me you know how to turn it on.”

Damian’s fingers went to his watch. It was Bat-tech of the more subtle variety: a button on the side turned it into a communication device with the Cave, and the face turned into a screen that could display any information that would help them in their case. But Dick was talking about the built-in signal. Damian pressed the third button twice in quick succession to activate it. A small light on Dick’s matching watch blinked red until Damian repeated the action, turning it off to preserve battery life.

Over Dick’s shoulder, Damian caught sight of the gap-toothed kid from the first booth watching. “I am old enough to operate an oven. You’re the one who taught me.”

Dick fake-laughed. “That’s what makes me nervous.”

“Two minutes to places!” the stage manager called.

Damian subtly adjusted his first button, which contained an audio and visual recording device. “We are both able to watch it; you have no reason to worry.”

“Two minutes to places!” the stage manager called.

Dick and Damian rose from their crouches, breaking past the barrier and relative safety of the counters. Dick gave Damian a long, hard look. “You sure you’re ready for this?”

“Tt.” Damian tightened his apron straps. “This competition will be a cake walk.”

It was not cake. They were ordered to create a pie. Inspired by Autumn.

“What kind of baking competition is this?” Damian wondered out loud. “A pie doesn’t even require proofing. It is child’s play.”

Dick hummed, already rummaging through the cabinets for some mixing bowls. “What about a pumpkin pie? Perfect for fall, right?”

Damian glared. “You must be joking. Everyone will do pumpkin. We have four hours, and I do not intend on wasting it baking baby food.”

Dick’s eyebrows rose in amusement. “Okay, then.” When he ducked down to retrieve another handful of tools, he tilted his head toward the camera hovering on the other side of their station. They were being filmed for television, after all. Their every move was being watched.

Dick rose back up and laid the bowls out. “Okay, kiddo, then what did you have in mind?”

Damian glanced at the camera. Swallowed. “I would like to do something with apples. Like what Pennyworth makes.”

Dick nodded, agreeing easily. “Sounds like a plan. Maybe the pantry will inspire us for the rest.”

Damian followed him to the walk-in fridge and pantry. There were more cameras buried in the shelves here, to capture those images of everyone’s frantic races to the first to the ingredients. The other teams had been in and out already, made evident by a few capsized baskets of fruit and withered towers of canned goods. Damian didn’t understand the rush; there was plenty of food, and they had plenty of time.

“What’s in pie crust again?” Dick asked, scanning the shelves. “Butter, flour. Sugar?” He stooped down, examining a cylinder of vegetable shortening. “This stuff?”

Damian went straight to the spices. His eyes landed on the ginger. “Gingersnaps.”

“What?” Dick stood up, four pounds of butter in hand, and smiled. “Ooh, for a gingersnap crust?”

Damian nodded, cinnamon and ginger already in hand. “The spice of the ginger will contrast nicely with the sweetness of the. . . “ he trailed off, eyes catching a camera. “I believe they would pair well.”

Dick’s grin was a little more genuine now. “Do you know how to make gingersnaps?”

“Tt. I can figure it out.”

“Well, then, lead the way.”

They arrived back to their stations with their loot, and spread it out on the counters. Damian passed a knife and a bag of fruit to Dick immediately. “Start cutting the apples.”

“What?”

“I was not under the impression I would be allowed to use the knives.”

Dick touched the back of his hand to his forehead dramatically. “Using my own age against me!”

Damian tutted, pouring a scoop of flour into the countertop automatic mixing bowl. “You will have to assist me with the oven, too.” He sprinkled a generous amount of cinnamon and ginger into the bowl, as well.

“You’ll have to add something to make it rise,” Dick piped in, already slicing through his second apple.

Damian added a scoop of baking soda. It would probably not hurt.

Satisfied with his concoction, he flipped the mixer on. Immediately, everything around him went white, and he let out an undignified squawk.

“D-Damian!” Dick laughed.

Damian blinked a few times. One of the wandering cameramen was hustling over to catch his reaction, and the girl in the ridiculous chef’s hat giggled. She overmixed her crust at the same time; it served her right.

Damian’s dry mix was all over the counter, all over the floor. All over the stupid apron. And himself.

Dick brushed some of the flour out of Damian’s hair. “I think you turned the mixer up too high.”

Ignoring the heat rushing to his cheeks, Damian brushed off his apron with a huff, sending a cloud of spicy flour onto the floor.

When he looked up again, Dave was off to the side, giving him a big thumbs-up. Though every instinct cringed at the idea, Damian smiled at him in return.

“Don’t look at the camera!” A woman shouted from somewhere else, and Damian returned his attention to the dish he was making.

He and Richard made a pretty good team, even out of costume. At the two-hour mark, Damian was still rolling out the crust for the pie’s lattice, and he was beginning to understand why they were given so much time. He felt pressure under the gazes of the dozens of studio workers. But Richard was relaxed as ever in front of the audience. He laughed at the little messes they made, and even played some of them up for the cameras. Damian kept brushing more flour and sugar out of his hair, until he realized it may have been sprinkled there “accidentally.” (Sure enough, their station had at least two more cameras trained on them than the others did.)

With ninety minutes left, they loaded the gingersnap-crust apple pie into the oven.

Seventy minutes later, Dick pulled out a perfectly-browned, beautiful pie. A heavenly smell followed it out of the oven. Dick popped the oven door shut with his hip and pumped one arm into the air, without bothering to remove the pastel oven mitt first. “We did it!”

Damian inspected the pie. It had several flaws; mainly places the lattice had warped as it baked. “Tt. We haven’t finished y—” He was cut off as he was pulled into a hug.

“Don’t be ridiculous; it’s perfect!” Dick laughed. Then, lower, leaning closer to Damian’s ear, “He’s been watching you this whole time.”

Damian couldn’t help the way he stiffened. Hanover typically went after his targets between the filming of the baking and the judging.

His reaction didn’t go unnoticed; Dick pulled him a little closer in kind. “You don’t have to do this. We can find another way.”

Damian scanned the crowd skirting the soundstage. Sure enough, Hanover was already staring back, an easy smile on his face.

“I’m ready,” Damian insisted.

Dick squeezed his shoulders—through the oven mitts—reassuringly. “Okay, okay.” Then his grin took on a mischievous edge. He pulled his oven mitt off with his teeth and set it aside.

He licked the pad of his thumb, and, to Damian’s horror, began scrubbing at Damian’s cheek. “Got a little flour left; no biggie,” Dick said.

Damian’s ears burned. He glanced into the camera lens hovering barely two feet away, pointed right at him. (“Don’t look at the camera!” an increasingly frustrated studio worker yelled.) “Stop,” Damian definitely did not whine.

“It’s what brothers are for.”

When it came time for the baking to be finished, a few of the showrunners went around and encouraged everyone to look busy for the final shots. And the final call itself took nearly ten minutes of shooting and re-shooting everyone’s faked scramble to add finishing touches to their dishes.

“And. . . time!” one of the hosts shouted. “Put your utensils down! The judges will come around and taste your dishes in one hour.”

Damian’s palms began to sweat. He wiped them off on his apron, smearing flour and sugar everywhere as he went. He watched from the corner of his eye as Cindy walked toward them and was intercepted by Hanover. He talked to her in low tones a moment, she nodded, and changed direction.

Not without casting a worried glance toward Damian, first.

Hanover clapped a hand over Damian’s shoulder. “Wow, kid!” He exaggerated an inhale through his nose. “That smells great!”

Damian fought to keep his face straight. “It will taste delicious.”

Hanover laughed. “Of course, it will!”

Dick only showed his worry in the tension around his eyes. “Come here, Damian,” he beckoned, signaling with his hands, “you’ve got something in your hair. We should get you cleaned up before the interview.”

The hand on his shoulder squeezed slightly when Damian started to pull away. Damian flexed his fingers into a loose fist and released it quickly, but he could tell from the flick of Dick’s eyes that the older boy caught the movement.

“Oh, he is a mess, isn’t he?” Hanover chuckled. “I can take him back to the makeup artists; they’ll be able to help him.”

“Are you sure?” Dick asked, in a clever way that sounded like he was asking Hanover.

Damian ducked his chin once, then cut his eyes over to Cindy.

“Absolutely!” Hanover replied. He was already pushing Damian away from Dick. “We’ll be back in a jiffy. Why don’t you go ahead and help yourself to the refreshments!”

“Thank you!” Dick called back. Damian watched from the edge of his periphery as Dick casually drifted toward the refreshments table, hovering near where Cindy was talking to one of the camera crew.

“This way, kid,” Hanover directed.

He took him out the door of the studio, in the opposite direction of the makeup rooms.

“Mr. Hanover,” Damian asked. “Are you sure we’re going the right way?”

Hanover’s grip had shifted lower, tightening around Damian’s upper arm. “I just need to grab something from my office on the way.”

“I don’t want to be late.”

“It won’t take long,” Hanover replied, obviously distracted. “I have something for you, too.”

Damian’s nose twitched up in disgust, but he smothered the reaction. “What is it?”

“You’ll see.”

They walked another two minutes down some empty hallways before they reached an office with Hanover’s nameplate over the door. “It’s right in here,” Hanover said. He more or less pushed Damian inside ahead of himself, shutting the door behind them.

Damian tensed at the sound of the lock sliding shut.

Hanover didn’t move, staying in his place between the door and Damian’s back. “Are you nervous?”

“Not really,” Damian answered. He started to lean away from Hanover. “It’s just a baking competition.”

Hanover laughed. His other hand lowered over Damian’s opposite shoulder and pulled back, pinning Damian against his front. “You’ve got spunk, kid, I’ll give you that.”

Damian held his breath.

After a long, tense beat, Hanover’s arms slid down Damian’s arms, to his front. Bony, polished fingers fiddled with the knot of his apron ties. “We should go ahead and get this off,” the man murmured.

“I can do it.”

“Nonsense.” Hanover swatted Damian’s hands away. “Let me help.” He deftly untied the laces and let the apron fall loose. Then his hands reversed their paths up Damian’s arms, to rest by his neck.

“So you’re less likely to get more flour in your hair,” Hanover offered, as explanation.

Damian didn’t move as the loop of the apron was lifted over his head. His eyes followed it as Hanover dropped the fabric to the floor.

“Don’t I need that for the interview?” Damian asked, pitching his voice to a neutral tone.

“Don’t worry about the interview,” Hanover replied. He leaned down until his chin brushed Damian’s hair as he spoke. “And don’t worry about the competition. I’ve got a treat for you.”

Damian glanced down at his first button. There was a spot of flour on it, so the image would be slightly obscured, but the audio would be clear enough. “What kind of treat?”

To his surprise, the larger man nudged him out of the way so he could get behind his own desk. As he rummaged through a drawer, Damian crossed his arms behind his back, pretending to look around the mostly-bare office. He double-clicked the button on his watch.

Hanover stood up with a bowl. “I keep a bowl of candy for all of the kids on the show.” He winked. “I’m letting you have first pick, though.”

“Since I’m your favorite?”

“You know it.” Hanover dramatically slapped his forehead. “How rude of me; your feet must be so tired. Why don’t you have a seat?”

Damian made a show of looking around, but he had noticed the moment he entered that the office had no chairs besides the one Hanover helped himself to, now. “Where should I sit?”

“Here, you can sit on my desk,” Hanover said, patting a cleared space on the wood.

Damian swallowed. He was explicitly told that, if things were to escalate too quickly, he was allowed to defend himself. But he wasn’t stupid; he knew the risks of displaying his training. Damian had already promised himself he wouldn’t do anything to jeopardize his identity or his family.

“I don’t want to get it dirty,” he lied.

Dick would be arriving any moment now, anyway.

“It’s okay, I can clean it off later.” When Damian still didn’t move, Hanover’s face grew harder around the edges. “Come on, kid. Sit.”

Damian forced himself to obey. The way he bit his lip uncertainly was not all acting. He carefully hoisted himself up, gingerly sitting in the allotted space in front of Hanover. He didn’t miss the second look-over Hanover gave him, his smile slowly turning into a leer.

“Good boy.” Hanover scooted his chair in, boxing in Damian’s legs with his elbows and propping the bowl in Damian’s lap. “Choose your treat.”

Damian swallowed again, tearing his eyes away from Hanover’s hungry gaze to look down into the bowl.

They were all lollipops.

“It’s Cindy, right?”

The woman jumped a little, whirling around to face Dick. Something in her eyes flashed before she dropped her gaze to the floor. “Yes. Can I help you with something?”

“I think our interview is coming up, but I can’t find Damian anywhere.”

“Sorry, I’ve been really busy, haven’t seen any of the kids since we finished filming the baking.” She turned her body, already preparing to escape his questions. “Try the bathrooms.”

Dick had watched her eyes follow Dave and Damian out of the room. She way lying. “I’ve already looked there, but—”

He cut himself off when his watch vibrated. His stomach dropped.

“What’s wrong?” Cindy asked, her face scrunching in legitimate concern. “Are you alright?”

Dick looked down at his watch in stony silence. The little red dot blinked, and with a click of his button, an arrow pointed him toward Damian’s distress signal. “I have to go.”

Cindy’s eyes widened. “Wait—”

Dick did a chassearound her and went straight for the door he had seen Damian leave through.

“Wait! You can’t go back there!” Cindy yelled after him.

Dick picked up momentum into a full sprint when he reached the long, clear hallways. He pulled an earpiece from his pocket and inserted it, pressing a dot on the side that connected straight to Damian’s camera and mic.

“Good choice. Here; I’ll help you unwrap it.”

Dick’s vision went red around the edges, and he pressed faster, his feet slapping the ground hard enough to sting.

“How does it taste?”

He followed the guiding arrow around several corners before it dinged, signaling that he was close. He forced himself to slow down, even out his breath. There would be no hiding his anger, though, when he spotted the door with the “David Hanover” plaque.

He didn’t knock; he turned the doorknob and pushed. “Damian?”

The door didn’t budge. Locked.

“Richard?”

“We’ll be out in just a moment, Mr. Wayne. He’s still changing,” Dave called, voice pitched to soothe.

Dick grit his teeth. “I’m coming in.”

“There’s really no need—”

Dick’s first heavy kick to the door cut the man off. The door was cheap, and it only needed one more to splinter the pine at the hinges. The entire thing slammed backward to the ground.

“Shit!” Hanover straightened in his seat, holding his hands up in surrender. In his right hand was a half-eaten lollipop.

His fly was open.

Dick didn’t say anything. In two easy strides, he reached over the desk and punched Hanover across the jaw.

The momentum threw Hanover sideways out of his chair, and he grunted in pain. “You just assaulted me!” he moaned. “I’m pressing charges!”

Dick lunged in to go for another hit, but Damian’s hand on his arm stopped him. “Richard? I’m okay.”

Dick took several deep breaths—his breathing had gotten harsh again—as he checked Damian over. (He had learned better than to take the kid’s word for it.) He didn’t find any obvious injuries, but Damian’s apron was missing and the top three buttons of his shirt were undone.

Catching him staring, Damian hastily corrected them. His fingers quivered.

“I’m sorry I didn’t get here sooner,” Dick whispered, stooping to collect Damian’s apron where it had been discarded by the (shattered) door.

“Tt,” Damian replied, but the sound lacked his usual force. “I can take care of myself.”

“We were just having a chat,” Hanover started to say. “Isn’t that right, Damian?”

Damian was silent, eyes averted as he finger-combed his hair back into place.

Hanover misinterpreted the silence for resignation. “We were just talking about what a great baker he is. I really think he’s going to win, especially after the chat we had.”

Damian’s expression turned darker. “I have the evidence we need,” he muttered. “Let’s go.”

Hanover’s eyes widened over his bloodied nose. “Evidence of what? I-I give candy to all of the kids!”

Dick clenched his jaw to constrain his rage. He stepped between Damian and Hanover, blocking the latter’s view of the former’s crumbling resolve.

“You can ask anyone!” Hanover yelled at their retreating backs.

When they were well out of earshot of the panicking man (he would be stopped by the studio’s security before he made it off-site), Dick pulled Damian to a stop with a gentle touch to his elbow. “Are you okay?”

“Tt.” Tellingly, Damian didn’t make eye contact.

Dick didn’t hesitate to pull him into a tight hug. “You’re safe now,” Dick promised. “I’ve got you.”

Damian shuddered silently into Dick’s shoulder.

“It’s incredible, really,” one of the judges was recorded saying. “Shocking, that someone so young would do it.”

“I think it’s admirable,” another judge had said.

“Definitely brave,” the third had nodded.

Damian shifted the pie-shaped trophy in his lap. It was cheap plastic; with only a moderate amount of force he would be able to snap the grated lattice work off the hollow pan. It was fitting; the end of the competition had felt hollow after the earlier events of the evening.

The studio had scrambled to find a replacement host so they could film the end of the episode, but they had scarcely gotten through filming the judge’s criticisms before the police had arrived and shut everything down. The entire cast and crew were held at the studio overnight and into the late morning, so the detectives could collect statements.

David Hanover and Cindy Eckelson were led out in handcuffs.

The third judge, a woman with hair the color of pink cotton candy, had dropped the trophy in Damian’s lap on her way out. “Your pie was delicious,” was all she said.

“Is there any way we can come back to the station later? We really need to go home.” Dick was standing a few yards away, talking to the officer watching the door. “I can even give you an address and phone number. I think Damian needs to sleep.”

Damian scoffed quietly down into his trophy, but didn’t complain. He was well-practiced in being awake and alert for days on end, but he could admit he could use the rest right now. He scratched at a dry patch of cinnamon on his wrist. He could use a shower, too.

The officer in question gave him one pity-filled look before nodding. “We’ll take down your contact information. Are you sure he doesn’t need to see a medic?”

Dick stiffened at the suggestion. “I talked to him, I’m sure it didn’t get that far.”

“If you’re sure.” She stepped back, gesturing to the door.

Dick let out a long breath of relief. “Thanks.”

Damian stiffened as he approached him. “Ready to go, kiddo?”

“Don’t call me that,” Damian muttered. “I am ready.” He joined Dick at the door, but the officer stopped them before they could leave.

“We’ll need to wait for your escort to arrive.”

“That really won’t be necessary.”

She winced apologetically. “I’m afraid it will be.” And when she swung open the door, they understood why.

Reporters lined the streets. Their cameras flashed, their mics pressed in. One bold reporter held up his badge and tried to walk straight into the studio, but the officer pressed him back.

“Somebody leaked to the press?” Dick asked, his frown deep.

“We will figure out who did it; your privacy is important to us,” the officer replied, sounding a little like it was a rehearsed phrase. Her posture straightened as she spotted something across the crowd. “Here they are. Just keep your heads down and don’t answer any questions.”

Another two officers were coaxing the crowd apart, making way for the familiar vehicle and the driver behind the wheel. When Alfred pulled up next to the door, Damian was more than happy to climb into the back seat and shut out the outside world.

Dick joined him in the back, gripping Damian’s hand as though he were afraid of it being ripped away. “Hey, Alfred,” he sighed.

“Master Richard. Master Damian,” Alfred nodded back to them. “How are you?”

All eyes swiveled to Damian, who shrugged. “I am fine.”

Based on the twitch of Dick’s expression, Damian’s statement was not a believable one. It was further proven by Dick’s next words. “We’re never doing anything like that again. Screw the mission, I’m not letting you put yourself in danger like that.”

“I did what I had to do,” Damian muttered. Well past ready to change the mood, he added, “Besides, you would not be able to stop me.”

Dick opened his mouth, ready to argue, but when he saw Damian’s expression his own relaxed. The corners of his lips rose slightly. “You’re not wrong.”

Alfred nodded to the trophy in Damian’s lap. “Did you win the competition?”

“Sort of? They never got that far. But one of the judges gave it to Damian, afterward.”

“And with what sweet treat did you win?”

“We had to make pie,” Damian said. “I decided to add gingersnaps to the crust of a basic apple pie. It was nothing especially formidable.”

Alfred hummed. “I look forward to trying a piece.”

Both Dick and Damian froze, realizing at the same time what had happened. “We never got to try any,” Damian admitted. “And they did not let us bring any with us.”

“A grievous overlook, I must say,” Alfred said.

“Don’t worry, Alfred,” Dick started. He squeezed Damian’s hand in his own. “We can make another when we get home.” He looked down at Damian. “At least, if you want to?”

Damian thought back to the baking, to the mischief his older brother had caused and the wonderful smell of the pie in the oven. He would never use such a word out loud, but he allowed himself to privately admit that it had been. . . fun.

“That would be acceptable,” he agreed.

After a day of catching up on lost sleep, fielding interviews, and making police statements, Dick and Damian found themselves in a familiar rhythm in the kitchen. Damian was happy to be allowed to control the oven this time, and Dick was more than happy to continue to make a mess, ‘accidentally’ dropping apple slices and raw pie dough to the floor for Titus and Alfred the cat to pilfer.

The pie came out even better than the last: a symmetrical lattice, crust browned to a crisp-but-not-crunchy shell, the warm apple-cinnamon-ginger steam filling the manor’s kitchen with the smell of home.

The trials of the days prior were forgotten in hours of banter and pastry.

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