#Alfred surived Thomas and Bruce but he's too old for a thrird time

[dcxdpdabbles]

DCxDP fanfic idea: Cooking Teacher

Damian Wayne does not do failure. He always mastered whatever skill he put his mind to, regardless of the number of hours he invested in the work. His ability to mimic others ' voices, movement, and behaviors was so sharp that even without instruction, he was able to clean and effectively accomplish mastery of whatever struck his fancy.

It was a testament to his parents' genes that he was able to prove their mixing had produced the perfect offspring.

That was, until Drake bet him fifty dollars that if it was anything like Bruce, no amount of training, good genes, or instruction would ever help him in the kitchen. Father did not help this insult when all he did was nod and shrug his shoulders.

"The Waynes are cursed," Father said, waving a fork around. "Whenever one of us steps into a kitchen, disaster follows. Cooking is just... not a thing for us. But, we can sing"

As if being compared to a songbird was a good thing. Damain vowed to prove them both wrong. And thus he ventured into one of the Wayne Manor extra kitchens, clutching a bag of groceries and a simple cookbook.

He followed the instructions to the letter. He studied various videos and cooking blogs. He used only the freshest ingredients. Really, there was no chance for it to go wrong.

And yet, when Damian pulled out the vegetarian lasagna from the stove, it resembled a soiled baby diaper. He attempted to take a taste, assuring himself it only looked bad, but the second the food made contact with his taste buds, his entire body shuddered in disgust. Damian had to stick his head under the running water of the sink to wash out the vile taste.

It was infuriating that out of all the skills in the world, something as simple as cooking was evading him.

Not about to give up, he tried again the following day. And again, and again, and again, until three months of failed attempts forced him to seek out professional help.

Alfred straight up refused to lend a hand, not after the many years he attempted to teach Damian's grandfather and father. Apparently, the only times Alfred had gotten workers' compensation were when he stood with a blood-related Wayne in the kitchen.

Damain wanted to call him a coward for that, except when he went into the kitchen to confront the bully, the stove exploded and nearly burned the old man's face off. Damian barely even glanced at the dials. He had no idea how it was able to set off like that.

Well, no matter, there were plenty of cooking instructors in this city. They may not be as great as Alfred- for that man made even dirt taste delicious- there had to be someone out there who could teach him to make one decent meal.

___________________________________________________________

Danny Fenotn is short on cash. That tends to happen when your evil godfather somehow rips your ghost half out of you and flings your human side to an unknown parallel world.

Gotham City was large and dangerous in a way Danny had never known. Without Phantom, he had no skills he could use to make a profit, and without a form of identification, he couldn't even sign himself up for school or aid programs.

He had wound up on the streets, dodging police and other street rats as best he could, but he was not doing too well for himself. days turned into weeks, which turned into months, and he was still unsure how he even survived that time.

Just as he was starting to actively dream of a shower and a roof over his head, word began to spread that a wealthy individual was willing to pay top dollar and even provide lodging for anyone willing to teach him how to cook.

Danny wasn't the best chief around, but he was desperate, so he washed up in a park sink and scurried across the city to the mansion of a house.

Danny followed a giant group of people, all dressed better, looking better, and smelling better than he did. Many were wearing chef outfits, giving him disgusted glances, but he grew accustomed to the casual hatred over the past few weeks.

They were told to wait in the hallway, sitting on some chairs with a number. The kid who wanted cooking lessons would call them in one by one and give them an interview, alongside asking them to cook something simple to prove their worth.

Danny was number twenty-two out of fifty candidates. A few people left when candidate number five ran out of the room screaming, with half his clothes on fire. More got up from their chairs and excused themselves when three different parametric teams were called in to rush out number eleven, number fifteen, and number seventeen.

What really cleared the room, however, was the screams that came from number twenty's mouth as though they were ripped off her limbs from behind closed doors. In a stampede of movement, the hallway was cleared, leaving only Danny sitting awkwardly on his chair.

"Number twenty-two?" A tall, dignified butler questioned from the door, seemingly surprised that someone was still there.

"Um, yeah?" Danny scrambled to his feet, aware his appearance was less than presentable. He felt like he just dragged himself out of a garbage can, even after trying his best to tidy himself up.

"This way, young man."

Danny is led into a kitchen —or a kitchen that has survived an ill-fated war. There was food splattered against the walls, smoke was burning on three stoves, some tiles were missing on the ground, and the furniture was turned over.

Sitting at the only untouched surface area was a young boy of twelve years old, and Danny nearly winces at how close in age they are. He doubts he will be able to teach the kid anything he doesn't already know.

"Good evening," The boy says, holding up a clipboard.

"Oh, uh, hi?" Danny replies. The kid raises a brow, clicks his red pen open, and scribbles something down. Danny feels himself break into a cold sweat.

"We shall start the interview." The butler cuts in, taking a graceful seat next to the boy and picking up his own pen. "Please answer to the best of your abilities."

Danny fumbles his way through the interview, muttering excuses when they ask for any of his past information, and by the time the food test comes around, he can tell they aren't going to consider him. He decided to teach the kid a simple recipe just so he could leave quickly, and by the time Danny had taught the kid a simple chicken soup recipe, he was all but ready to run.

Until the kid's fist closed in his dirt-stained shirt - it was no longer purely white, now it had a gross, brownish hue to it - keeping him in place.

"You are hired." The boy says, staring up at him with wide, joyful eyes while clutching his bowl of soup like it was the last lifeboat in a sinking ship. "The curse does not harm you."

Well.....Danny didn't like that, but he really had no other choice, did he?

[lbjeff]

Now Bruce knows about Danny. He wants to try cooking in the kitchen without anything accidents too.

But Damian refuses to share

Damian: No, father! This one is mine! Don’t even think about it

The other Bat kids found it funny at first. Until they taste Danny’s wonderful fudged for the first time. And they want more. But Damian refuses to share his “personal-made”, “fvcking-delicious” and “taste like heaven” meal that Danny made for him

While the Bats fighting for food at the dining room, Danny is staying with Alfred in room behind the kitchen

Danny: That what I made based on your recipe and some random things. What do you think Alfred?

Alfred: I has to say you sure have talent! But I afraid the masters have enough food for dinner tonight so you could bring it to young master Damian tomorrow

Danny: Great! And I guess we could have a late tea break now. I made cookies

Alfred: …. *secretly wiped his tears* I so proud

Alfred, talking to himself: I have to make sure trap him here for the rest of his life. Not anyone could break the curse of the Wayne’s kitchen

DCxDP fanfic idea: Cooking Teacher

Damian Wayne does not do failure. He always mastered whatever skill he put his mind to, regardless of the number of hours he invested in the work. His ability to mimic others ' voices, movement, and behaviors was so sharp that even without instruction, he was able to clean and effectively accomplish mastery of whatever struck his fancy.

It was a testament to his parents' genes that he was able to prove their mixing had produced the perfect offspring.

That was, until Drake bet him fifty dollars that if it was anything like Bruce, no amount of training, good genes, or instruction would ever help him in the kitchen. Father did not help this insult when all he did was nod and shrug his shoulders.

"The Waynes are cursed," Father said, waving a fork around. "Whenever one of us steps into a kitchen, disaster follows. Cooking is just... not a thing for us. But, we can sing"

As if being compared to a songbird was a good thing. Damain vowed to prove them both wrong. And thus he ventured into one of the Wayne Manor extra kitchens, clutching a bag of groceries and a simple cookbook.

He followed the instructions to the letter. He studied various videos and cooking blogs. He used only the freshest ingredients. Really, there was no chance for it to go wrong.

And yet, when Damian pulled out the vegetarian lasagna from the stove, it resembled a soiled baby diaper. He attempted to take a taste, assuring himself it only looked bad, but the second the food made contact with his taste buds, his entire body shuddered in disgust. Damian had to stick his head under the running water of the sink to wash out the vile taste.

It was infuriating that out of all the skills in the world, something as simple as cooking was evading him.

Not about to give up, he tried again the following day. And again, and again, and again, until three months of failed attempts forced him to seek out professional help.

Alfred straight up refused to lend a hand, not after the many years he attempted to teach Damian's grandfather and father. Apparently, the only times Alfred had gotten workers' compensation were when he stood with a blood-related Wayne in the kitchen.

Damain wanted to call him a coward for that, except when he went into the kitchen to confront the bully, the stove exploded and nearly burned the old man's face off. Damian barely even glanced at the dials. He had no idea how it was able to set off like that.

Well, no matter, there were plenty of cooking instructors in this city. They may not be as great as Alfred- for that man made even dirt taste delicious- there had to be someone out there who could teach him to make one decent meal.

___________________________________________________________

Danny Fenotn is short on cash. That tends to happen when your evil godfather somehow rips your ghost half out of you and flings your human side to an unknown parallel world.

Gotham City was large and dangerous in a way Danny had never known. Without Phantom, he had no skills he could use to make a profit, and without a form of identification, he couldn't even sign himself up for school or aid programs.

He had wound up on the streets, dodging police and other street rats as best he could, but he was not doing too well for himself. days turned into weeks, which turned into months, and he was still unsure how he even survived that time.

Just as he was starting to actively dream of a shower and a roof over his head, word began to spread that a wealthy individual was willing to pay top dollar and even provide lodging for anyone willing to teach him how to cook.

Danny wasn't the best chief around, but he was desperate, so he washed up in a park sink and scurried across the city to the mansion of a house.

Danny followed a giant group of people, all dressed better, looking better, and smelling better than he did. Many were wearing chef outfits, giving him disgusted glances, but he grew accustomed to the casual hatred over the past few weeks.

They were told to wait in the hallway, sitting on some chairs with a number. The kid who wanted cooking lessons would call them in one by one and give them an interview, alongside asking them to cook something simple to prove their worth.

Danny was number twenty-two out of fifty candidates. A few people left when candidate number five ran out of the room screaming, with half his clothes on fire. More got up from their chairs and excused themselves when three different parametric teams were called in to rush out number eleven, number fifteen, and number seventeen.

What really cleared the room, however, was the screams that came from number twenty's mouth as though they were ripped off her limbs from behind closed doors. In a stampede of movement, the hallway was cleared, leaving only Danny sitting awkwardly on his chair.

"Number twenty-two?" A tall, dignified butler questioned from the door, seemingly surprised that someone was still there.

"Um, yeah?" Danny scrambled to his feet, aware his appearance was less than presentable. He felt like he just dragged himself out of a garbage can, even after trying his best to tidy himself up.

"This way, young man."

Danny is led into a kitchen —or a kitchen that has survived an ill-fated war. There was food splattered against the walls, smoke was burning on three stoves, some tiles were missing on the ground, and the furniture was turned over.

Sitting at the only untouched surface area was a young boy of twelve years old, and Danny nearly winces at how close in age they are. He doubts he will be able to teach the kid anything he doesn't already know.

"Good evening," The boy says, holding up a clipboard.

"Oh, uh, hi?" Danny replies. The kid raises a brow, clicks his red pen open, and scribbles something down. Danny feels himself break into a cold sweat.

"We shall start the interview." The butler cuts in, taking a graceful seat next to the boy and picking up his own pen. "Please answer to the best of your abilities."

Danny fumbles his way through the interview, muttering excuses when they ask for any of his past information, and by the time the food test comes around, he can tell they aren't going to consider him. He decided to teach the kid a simple recipe just so he could leave quickly, and by the time Danny had taught the kid a simple chicken soup recipe, he was all but ready to run.

Until the kid's fist closed in his dirt-stained shirt - it was no longer purely white, now it had a gross, brownish hue to it - keeping him in place.

"You are hired." The boy says, staring up at him with wide, joyful eyes while clutching his bowl of soup like it was the last lifeboat in a sinking ship. "The curse does not harm you."

Well.....Danny didn't like that, but he really had no other choice, did he?