Fic: Are We Understood? , PG-13
Jan. 2nd, 2009 02:05 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
stinglikeabeeTitle: Are We Understood?
Claim: General DCU
Characters/Pairings: Damian Wayne, Alfred Pennyworth
Rating: PG-13 for naughty words
Summary: Alfred. Damian. Vegetables. The hard way.
Word count: 580
Prompt: Vegetable (T15, P030)
Disclaimer: DC ownsmy soul the characters
Notes: Wow, have I been neglecting the table 0____0 Anyways, this is inspired by my mother who is a constant source of quotes to my friends however many times I tell them it isn't funny. She's constantly saying things like 'chicken is a kind of potato' in order to get me to eat meat and it never works.
It had been more than a decade since the last time a young boy would challenge his words at the dinner table, and more still since young Master Bruce attempted the same.
Alfred pressed his lips together until they nearly disappeared from his features.
This would not do at all.
'Master Damian,' he began, but stopped when the scowling dervish with his fingers in the mashed potatoes appeared to have a sudden case of momentary deafness. Alfred snapped his fingers. The boy glanced up, annoyance flashing darkly in his eyes at being interrupted.
'WHAT.'
Not a question, nor a statement of fact. This young urchin had managed to condense years of learned self-preservationist instinct and raw rage into a single word, then hurled it in Alfred's face. It was as if the boy had been raised by wolves. Or Talia. Same difference.
'There's no excuse for being rude, young Damian.' And before the inevitable interruption, Alfred's words rang louder in the large dining hall. 'I mean to teach you manners, including the proper use of utensils at the dinner table.'
'Fuck you, old man.'
The little bugger then picked up a chicken leg and gnawed into the flesh, his taunting eyes boring into Alfred's all the while.
Alfred's back stiffened. He really was too old for this.
'How very mature of you,' he said, clearing the table and picking up the dinner plate. 'It looks like manners aren't the only thing you're lacking.'
Damian screwed up his face, looking like an infant at the moment before a loud screamfest. In this case, Alfred was sure he would shortly be witnessing a Damian-patented temper tantrum.
'I hate you.'
Alfred sighed. That he could work with.
'Gimme my plate back.' Damian held the drumstick in the direction of Alfred's neck. 'I'm not finished.'
'Indeed,' Alfred said. 'You haven't touched your vegetables.'
He watched as Damian's eyes moved to the unmolested side dish and made a disgusted noise.
'Full of vitamins and minerals, they are. It's what all your father's compatriots eat to stay strong and healthy.'
Damian chomped the bone to the marrow.
Time to try a different tactic. 'Finish that plate, young Master, and there might be dessert.'
'No.'
He tried smiling. 'Yes.'
'Gimme my plate.'
'The vegetables, Damian.'
The boy gnawed on the end of the chicken bone. 'Chicken is a kind of vegetable.'
That was the last straw. 'Eat the bloody vegetables and your father's reaction about the mess you made with his batarangs in the cave will be the last of your worries, you mouthy little blighter.'
Damian dropped the chicken bone, mouth open. Seeing his chance, Alfred swooped in to collect the splintered bone and push the plate towards the boy.
'Are we understood?'
Damian's eyes momentarily regained the toughness he so tried to project, but it quickly flamed out in the presence of Alfred's fierce tut-tutting.
'Yes,' the boy muttered, glaring at the perfectly tender late summer dish of succotash.
It was one thing to insult a person and misuse cutlery, but to tolerate such blatant falsehood?
Any rightminded person would not stand for it. As Alfred watched Damian shovel the vegetables into his mouth with a spoon, he made a mental note to discreetly inquire after the eating habits of Tim and Dick. Those two had better not pretend pizza was a vegetable either.
Claim: General DCU
Characters/Pairings: Damian Wayne, Alfred Pennyworth
Rating: PG-13 for naughty words
Summary: Alfred. Damian. Vegetables. The hard way.
Word count: 580
Prompt: Vegetable (T15, P030)
Disclaimer: DC owns
Notes: Wow, have I been neglecting the table 0____0 Anyways, this is inspired by my mother who is a constant source of quotes to my friends however many times I tell them it isn't funny. She's constantly saying things like 'chicken is a kind of potato' in order to get me to eat meat and it never works.
It had been more than a decade since the last time a young boy would challenge his words at the dinner table, and more still since young Master Bruce attempted the same.
Alfred pressed his lips together until they nearly disappeared from his features.
This would not do at all.
'Master Damian,' he began, but stopped when the scowling dervish with his fingers in the mashed potatoes appeared to have a sudden case of momentary deafness. Alfred snapped his fingers. The boy glanced up, annoyance flashing darkly in his eyes at being interrupted.
'WHAT.'
Not a question, nor a statement of fact. This young urchin had managed to condense years of learned self-preservationist instinct and raw rage into a single word, then hurled it in Alfred's face. It was as if the boy had been raised by wolves. Or Talia. Same difference.
'There's no excuse for being rude, young Damian.' And before the inevitable interruption, Alfred's words rang louder in the large dining hall. 'I mean to teach you manners, including the proper use of utensils at the dinner table.'
'Fuck you, old man.'
The little bugger then picked up a chicken leg and gnawed into the flesh, his taunting eyes boring into Alfred's all the while.
Alfred's back stiffened. He really was too old for this.
'How very mature of you,' he said, clearing the table and picking up the dinner plate. 'It looks like manners aren't the only thing you're lacking.'
Damian screwed up his face, looking like an infant at the moment before a loud screamfest. In this case, Alfred was sure he would shortly be witnessing a Damian-patented temper tantrum.
'I hate you.'
Alfred sighed. That he could work with.
'Gimme my plate back.' Damian held the drumstick in the direction of Alfred's neck. 'I'm not finished.'
'Indeed,' Alfred said. 'You haven't touched your vegetables.'
He watched as Damian's eyes moved to the unmolested side dish and made a disgusted noise.
'Full of vitamins and minerals, they are. It's what all your father's compatriots eat to stay strong and healthy.'
Damian chomped the bone to the marrow.
Time to try a different tactic. 'Finish that plate, young Master, and there might be dessert.'
'No.'
He tried smiling. 'Yes.'
'Gimme my plate.'
'The vegetables, Damian.'
The boy gnawed on the end of the chicken bone. 'Chicken is a kind of vegetable.'
That was the last straw. 'Eat the bloody vegetables and your father's reaction about the mess you made with his batarangs in the cave will be the last of your worries, you mouthy little blighter.'
Damian dropped the chicken bone, mouth open. Seeing his chance, Alfred swooped in to collect the splintered bone and push the plate towards the boy.
'Are we understood?'
Damian's eyes momentarily regained the toughness he so tried to project, but it quickly flamed out in the presence of Alfred's fierce tut-tutting.
'Yes,' the boy muttered, glaring at the perfectly tender late summer dish of succotash.
It was one thing to insult a person and misuse cutlery, but to tolerate such blatant falsehood?
Any rightminded person would not stand for it. As Alfred watched Damian shovel the vegetables into his mouth with a spoon, he made a mental note to discreetly inquire after the eating habits of Tim and Dick. Those two had better not pretend pizza was a vegetable either.
