Sweets for the... nevermind.
When: Wednesday, August 17, 2:00 PM
Where: Damien's house
Who: Damien Wayne and Clarice Ferguson
What: Delivery on a promise
Rating: Possible PG for Damien's rude mouth? ^_~
( Clarice wasn't sure whether she wanted to accept his offer of a job, assuming she'd done well enough that he still wanted to offer it. But she did want him to like the pastries. )
Where: Damien's house
Who: Damien Wayne and Clarice Ferguson
What: Delivery on a promise
Rating: Possible PG for Damien's rude mouth? ^_~
( Clarice wasn't sure whether she wanted to accept his offer of a job, assuming she'd done well enough that he still wanted to offer it. But she did want him to like the pastries. )
The boy was covered with scars. Not just little ones: huge, awful, nightmare-inducing scars that screamed of pain. There was one enormous one crossing his chest that sent chills through her, and when he turned, the one down his spine was worse.
Everything Clarice had thought she'd figured out about him went out the window. Wealthy, indulgent parents, not much socialization, an advanced education - and repeated injury and mutilation? She couldn't make it all add up.
The boxes gave a little crumpling sound as her fingers tightened on them, which called her back to reality. She hastened to follow him, finding her voice. "Oh, I-I'm sorry, I should have called - I j-just meant to leave these?" The stammer in her voice had nothing to do with his brusque greeting, and everything to do with trying not to ask what happened to you???.
Now that she was alert for it, she couldn't help but notice the limp, and from there the red bloodstain on the white gi was obvious. And that was fair game to ask about. "Are you okay?" she asked, her voice gaining strength. "Your leg--you're hurt."
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Before he did, however, he limped over to the refrigerator and rummaged for an ice pack, balancing it over the injury on his thigh. Pinched features visibly relaxed. "I trust you had no trouble procuring proper ingredients?" That was the first thing one looked for in a chef anyway, if she did that there was a chance they'd at least be edible.
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The recipe. Right. Taking a seat as she was bidden, Clarice took a deep breath and pushed the boxes over to him. "A little bit," she admitted. "The semolina - you were right, it wasn't easy to get the right kind. And I had to try a couple of different kinds of oils." Should she be telling him this, or should she be pretending it had all been easy? But he'd said she would have to go to some trouble and expense. It was hard to get for a reason, after all. And Clarice was a failure at bravado, anyway.
"Here." Now she dug in her pocket and placed the remainder of his money, neatly folded, on the table. "Thank you. It didn't cost as much as all that." How could it possibly? He'd given her hundreds of dollars. Even with the cost of getting it right, it wouldn't have come to that much.
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"Keep it, it's pocket change." Damien shrugged as the money was put on the table. Lithe fingers picked a single pastry from the box of hadef, held it to nose, licked it, then took a tentative bite.
A long, quiet moment later, he looked at her, blinked once and asked:
"How much is your first semester likely to cost?" Not the answer she was likely expecting, at least as far as wording went, but it was all the answer he should have needed to give.
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With every nerve on edge the way it hadn't been on account of pastry since the first time Bethanne had let her put a batch of her own cupcakes in the display case to sell, Clarice was not ready for the question when it came. She blinked right back at him. "What? Um, oh - I don't know?"
Untrue. She'd already made her first payments, she knew how much it cost. She hadn't set out to lie, she just hadn't expected that question! Belatedly, her mind started to work. Why was he asking that? Because he intended to help pay for it, as he'd offered back at the diner? Which meant...
"It's... all right, then?" she ventured, a shy, hopeful smile nudging at the corners of her mouth.
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"Mother's chef made the best but you are using his recipe." He added, unable help a small, wry smile.
'Secret League of Assassins intelligence--the chef's hadef recipe. My mother would kill me right now.' The smile only widened, though it carried the ghost of a sneer. Reaching over into a small pile of bills and receipts he extracted a leatherbound checkbook. He scribbled an amount, careful to keep it concealed until it was ripped out and handed over.
"Think of it as an investment. My business instincts are rarely wrong." Even if Ferguson was a woman, if he looked at it as a transaction, that at least made it...tolerable.
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Clarice felt a smile come unbidden to her own face in response. She had his measure well enough by now to realize that what she had just gotten from Damien Wayne was the equivalent of high praise from anyone else. And she took it as such, right up until he handed her the check.
She took one look at it and set it down so fast it might have burned her.
"Wait, wait, we haven't even talked about - anything. What is it that you want to hire me for? I mean--" She blushed. "--making these things, I know. Only... how much? And, and how often? This--" She gestured at the check, though she avoided touching it. "It's - it's a lot of money. I know you don't think so, but it's more than a semester's tuition!"
This was more words than Clarice generally ever strung together at once, and certainly more forceful. She gestured anxiously, clearly unsure what to do with her hands except that she knew she didn't want to touch that check.
"If it's an investment, then what are the arrangements for paying it back?" And didn't that involve the prospect of her developing her own business as a baker? That wasn't something she'd really ever considered. Oh, maybe occasionally, when she was looking at the college courses and trying to decide what to take. But she'd always known she wasn't that good. She might as well try to pursue a career as an Olympic gymnast.
Then again, whispered a tiny little voice that hadn't even existed before Canada, you did make him smile.
"And what happens if I never can?" she went on, pushing aside that voice and the dangerous hopes it offered.
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"I did offer you a position as a part time dessert chef--unless I request something specific you would be expected to coordinate an appropriate dessert, several nights a week, to compliment dinner, which will be arranged by a full time chef, once I find one adequate enough for my needs." He refused to entertain the idea of addressing how much money she would be paid. Full time workers at some of the best restaurants in the world made about that much in a night--so what if it was more than she'd ever see in her life, in one place.
"In spite my better judgement, you seem the type to always pay back your debts, if you choose to think of my patronage that way, Ferguson...the other way to think of it is I recognize opportunity, and cannot bear to see it wasted." Damien drew the word out for emphasis before taking another square of baklava and popping it into his mouth.
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But her protests just seemed to make him more impatient. It seemed as if he'd made the decision to hire her back at the diner, and from that point on had only become increasingly annoyed at her for protesting the inevitable.
But she couldn't let him browbeat her into it, could she? It would have been the easiest way, just agree now, shut up, and take the check - but then she was back to worrying about what would happen if she couldn't manage everything.
Well... then... she'd have to quit. And he'd probably be mad at her, but if he could see that she wasn't able to fulfill his requirements, he'd have to accept it. She'd feel awfully guilty if that happened, though.
She'd been sitting quiet for quite some time, not needing to voice any more of her doubts aloud because she already had and she knew what his responses would be. Ultimately it wasn't even really a question of whether she could handle the job or not. It was whether she had the guts to say no and mean it. And she didn't. So she would just have to make it work.
"...I'll do my best, then." She pulled her eyes up to his face, and once again found herself surprised by how young he was. Rather, how young he looked - there was so little 'child' in his behavior, as far as Clarice could see so far. "Will you please make me a list? Of- of some desserts that you like, I mean, besides these? And - if there's anything you don't like, or can't eat?"
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"Part time means you'll be able to work mostly at your leisure, as long as you have contact with the cook once I hire him you may work from wherever is convenient, be it here or the bakery. As long as it's on a plate on the table after dinner that's all that really matters." Though he'd never had a direct hand in the running of what passed for the al Ghul...household, Damien had always been observant, which was why he could carry out the organizing of his current living situation so smoothly.
It was more than simply demanding something until he received it--there were time tables, schedules, shifts; daily duties to assign and attend to. If it was one thing that always bothered him about living with Father it was that there wasn't more personal help around the tower and the manor.
'Leaving all of that up to Pennyworth alone is downright cruel.' Maybe if the man was less distracted by everything else his cooking would improve.
"I've never been very fond of anything with meringue--so no pies or cookies--and as far as I know I'm not allergic to anything."
'Mother never would have tolerated such a common genetic imperfection.' He slid the list over, almost everything on it some sort of exotic treat or car more common chocolate based dessert. At the very top with four stars by it was Death by Chocolate--Cake--he'd always liked the name.
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"Are there specific nights you'd like..?" It would be convenient if she could arrange it around her other commitments, but she could probably also shuffle those commitments to accommodate him. At least eventually she could. She probably wouldn't be able to participate in the college's gymnastic team if her time was taken up with two part-time jobs, not unless she wanted to seriously neglect poor Safina, but she would have to see. She probably wouldn't have been good enough to qualify for the team anyway.
And she knew what Troy would have had to say about that thought. But Troy hadn't been here in a long time, and wouldn't be coming to support her at the tryouts this time. She might be able to imagine he was there in spirit, if she tried.
Here or there, that was another question. A dessert made here would be perfectly fresh and hot or chilled when it was served. But the bakery had all of Bethanne's specialty ovens available. If she used those, she'd have to insist on paying something, but she knew Bethanne wouldn't let it be much, and Damien was fixing to pay her way too much anyway. And she wouldn't be under his eye while she worked.
But if she worked here, she would have much more opportunity to get to know him. Was that what she wanted? Would he get sick of having her around? Did he get lonely living here alone?
Damien passed over the list and she looked it over. Somehow she wasn't surprised by it. It suited him: mostly to the taste of a cultured, intelligent, slightly snobbish adult, but with a broad wink to a young boy. Death By Chocolate, in perfectly crafted calligraphy. Clarice resolved to make that one soon.
"Thank you. I think I've made most of these before." She read it over again, and then slipped out of her chair, holding the envelope in both hands. The check was still on the counter. She knew she should pick it up. "I should go, so you can take care of your leg. Sorry, for not calling first."
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