Tomato Juice
Title: Tomato Juice
Fandom: Batman
Rating: PG
Pairing: Gen
Summary: Bruce gets himself into a little squeeze with Alfred
Bruce eyed the tomatoes on the kitchen counter. Three of them. Red and plump. The most delicious-looking tomatoes he had ever seen.
Mom was out shopping. Dad was at the hospital, of course. And none of the servants were anywhere in sight, not even Alfred.
Bruce was all alone.
He grinned wickedly and rummaged around for the citrus reamer.
"I'm going to make some tomato juice," he told the empty kitchen.
He found the citrus reamer in a drawer full of spoons and spatulas. It looked like a weapon, like a fat knife with ridges. He had seen Alfred use it to make fresh orange juice, just how he liked it: lots of pulp. He had never seen it used on tomatoes, but Bruce knew the principles were the same. Drive in the reamer and let out the juices. It didn't take a detective to tell you that this tomato juice would be as wonderful as the freshly squeezed orange juice that he loved.
If you liked tomato juice, that is.
Dad loved it. He drank the stuff every morning with his poached eggs and half grapefruit, reading the paper while Bruce stole glances over the top of his schoolbook. Bruce had tried it once, wanting to seem mature in front of his parents. He smiled and drank the whole glass, but he thought it tasted awful. Like drinking cold soup. It coated his tongue and throat, more medicine than beverage. Bruce shuddered at the thought of it.
But he knew that Dad would love this fresh tomato juice more than anything he ever drank out of a bottle from the grocer. He would reach down and pick Bruce up with a laugh, would give him a great big bear hug and squeeze out all the pulpy goodness of Bruce's love.
Well, maybe Mom would hug Bruce like that. Dad would give him a warm smile and a firm pat on the shoulder. And that would be enough. That would be well worth the effort.
Bruce smiled and reached for the citrus reamer. He grabbed one of the tomatoes--the plumpest, juiciest looking one--and held it carefully over the glass. Then he pressed the reamer into the skin of the tomato, and began to twist into its flesh.
"Master Bruce?"
Bruce yelped in surprise. He knocked over the glass. The tomato slipped from his hand and rolled down the counter. And in the process, the tip of the reamer bit instead into his hand.
"Yes, Alfred?" said Bruce, without turning.
There was no way to explain using these tomatoes for juice, for Dad, when surely they were intended for a supper salad. Instead, Bruce stared at the wound on his palm. Not too deep, but a little blood was pooling.
Bruce could handle the pain. But not the embarrassment of being snuck up on. He would have to learn to pay more attention, no matter what he was doing. One day Bruce would be the one to sneak in unnoticed, to surprise unsuspecting kids while they were just trying to be a good son.
"And might I inquire as to your intentions toward those tomatoes?"
No use trying to hide it. The evidence was everywhere. Bruce turned around. Alfred's expression was stern, though his hands were resting politely at his sides. If it were Dad, that scowl would have been joined by a pair of crossed arms.
"I was attempting to make some tomato juice," said Bruce.
"And I don't imagine it would dissuade you to be reminded of the two bottles of tomato juice in the refrigerator."
"I'm well aware of the contents of the refrigerator, Alfred. I wanted to make some of my own. With these tomatoes."
"Then might I be expecting your company, when I am obliged to find a replacement for tonight's supper salad?"
"We can do without them!" Bruce's voice went shrill. He didn't like losing his temper, certainly not with Alfred, who was always kind even when he was reproaching you. But all he wanted was to make some fresh tomato juice for Dad. Was that so wrong?
"It is not for young masters of the house to decide what should go or not go into the nightly salad. You're still growing, and you need the nutrition."
"Look, just let me do this, all right? You're not my father!"
Alfred stiffened. He nodded and said, "Very well, master Bruce. Nevertheless, might I advise that you clean and dress that wound on your hand." Then he left the kitchen.
Bruce cringed. He didn't mean to be so cruel. Alfred was Dad's age, even a little older, and he had never had kids of his own, never even been married as far as Bruce knew. Bruce assumed it was a sore spot with Alfred, never being a father.
"I'm sorry, Alfred." But he was already gone.
Bruce turned back to the counter. Two tomatoes still together. One rolled away, off on its own. All alone, like Bruce himself.
And wounded, he saw now. The citrus reamer had bit into that one tomato, had torn out a little nick, before the tomato had slipped out of his hand and the reamer had cut his hand.
He realized he was still holding the reamer. The tip was bloody and stained with juice.
I'm all alone. This is what life feels like. Being alone.
He put the reamer on the counter and went in search of a bandage.
***
When he got back to the kitchen, he saw the tomatoes had been put back together.
I guess it's salad tonight for you three after all.
As Bruce got closer, he saw there was a note. It read:
"You'll need more than these to make a full glass of tomato juice. You might also find this recipe useful. I'll be back soon with more tomatoes, and some extra for dinner. Fondly, Alfred."
No, you're not my father, and you never will be. You're my best friend.
Bruce smiled and got to work.
Fandom: Batman
Rating: PG
Pairing: Gen
Summary: Bruce gets himself into a little squeeze with Alfred
Bruce eyed the tomatoes on the kitchen counter. Three of them. Red and plump. The most delicious-looking tomatoes he had ever seen.
Mom was out shopping. Dad was at the hospital, of course. And none of the servants were anywhere in sight, not even Alfred.
Bruce was all alone.
He grinned wickedly and rummaged around for the citrus reamer.
"I'm going to make some tomato juice," he told the empty kitchen.
He found the citrus reamer in a drawer full of spoons and spatulas. It looked like a weapon, like a fat knife with ridges. He had seen Alfred use it to make fresh orange juice, just how he liked it: lots of pulp. He had never seen it used on tomatoes, but Bruce knew the principles were the same. Drive in the reamer and let out the juices. It didn't take a detective to tell you that this tomato juice would be as wonderful as the freshly squeezed orange juice that he loved.
If you liked tomato juice, that is.
Dad loved it. He drank the stuff every morning with his poached eggs and half grapefruit, reading the paper while Bruce stole glances over the top of his schoolbook. Bruce had tried it once, wanting to seem mature in front of his parents. He smiled and drank the whole glass, but he thought it tasted awful. Like drinking cold soup. It coated his tongue and throat, more medicine than beverage. Bruce shuddered at the thought of it.
But he knew that Dad would love this fresh tomato juice more than anything he ever drank out of a bottle from the grocer. He would reach down and pick Bruce up with a laugh, would give him a great big bear hug and squeeze out all the pulpy goodness of Bruce's love.
Well, maybe Mom would hug Bruce like that. Dad would give him a warm smile and a firm pat on the shoulder. And that would be enough. That would be well worth the effort.
Bruce smiled and reached for the citrus reamer. He grabbed one of the tomatoes--the plumpest, juiciest looking one--and held it carefully over the glass. Then he pressed the reamer into the skin of the tomato, and began to twist into its flesh.
"Master Bruce?"
Bruce yelped in surprise. He knocked over the glass. The tomato slipped from his hand and rolled down the counter. And in the process, the tip of the reamer bit instead into his hand.
"Yes, Alfred?" said Bruce, without turning.
There was no way to explain using these tomatoes for juice, for Dad, when surely they were intended for a supper salad. Instead, Bruce stared at the wound on his palm. Not too deep, but a little blood was pooling.
Bruce could handle the pain. But not the embarrassment of being snuck up on. He would have to learn to pay more attention, no matter what he was doing. One day Bruce would be the one to sneak in unnoticed, to surprise unsuspecting kids while they were just trying to be a good son.
"And might I inquire as to your intentions toward those tomatoes?"
No use trying to hide it. The evidence was everywhere. Bruce turned around. Alfred's expression was stern, though his hands were resting politely at his sides. If it were Dad, that scowl would have been joined by a pair of crossed arms.
"I was attempting to make some tomato juice," said Bruce.
"And I don't imagine it would dissuade you to be reminded of the two bottles of tomato juice in the refrigerator."
"I'm well aware of the contents of the refrigerator, Alfred. I wanted to make some of my own. With these tomatoes."
"Then might I be expecting your company, when I am obliged to find a replacement for tonight's supper salad?"
"We can do without them!" Bruce's voice went shrill. He didn't like losing his temper, certainly not with Alfred, who was always kind even when he was reproaching you. But all he wanted was to make some fresh tomato juice for Dad. Was that so wrong?
"It is not for young masters of the house to decide what should go or not go into the nightly salad. You're still growing, and you need the nutrition."
"Look, just let me do this, all right? You're not my father!"
Alfred stiffened. He nodded and said, "Very well, master Bruce. Nevertheless, might I advise that you clean and dress that wound on your hand." Then he left the kitchen.
Bruce cringed. He didn't mean to be so cruel. Alfred was Dad's age, even a little older, and he had never had kids of his own, never even been married as far as Bruce knew. Bruce assumed it was a sore spot with Alfred, never being a father.
"I'm sorry, Alfred." But he was already gone.
Bruce turned back to the counter. Two tomatoes still together. One rolled away, off on its own. All alone, like Bruce himself.
And wounded, he saw now. The citrus reamer had bit into that one tomato, had torn out a little nick, before the tomato had slipped out of his hand and the reamer had cut his hand.
He realized he was still holding the reamer. The tip was bloody and stained with juice.
I'm all alone. This is what life feels like. Being alone.
He put the reamer on the counter and went in search of a bandage.
***
When he got back to the kitchen, he saw the tomatoes had been put back together.
I guess it's salad tonight for you three after all.
As Bruce got closer, he saw there was a note. It read:
"You'll need more than these to make a full glass of tomato juice. You might also find this recipe useful. I'll be back soon with more tomatoes, and some extra for dinner. Fondly, Alfred."
No, you're not my father, and you never will be. You're my best friend.
Bruce smiled and got to work.