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Oliver's chili was the worst thing in the word. It was so spicy that you could feel it in your mouth for days, no matter how many times you brushed your teeth. There was always that intense burning feeling killing your will to live and making you think about all the bad choices in your life that brought you to this moment, eating this infernal chili.
Dick Grayson wasn't the only one who thought that: Roy grew up with that chili and even he wasn't a fan, instead developing a flight or fight response to every kind of chili, not just Oliver's. Better to not risk it.
No human being (or alien, or demon, or whatever was going around this weird universe and was able to eat) could stand that particular dish, the secret ingredient of which was probably sulphur. So, of course, Bruce loved it.
One of Dick's theories about it was that he simply loved to suffer THAT much. Donna's theory was that he enjoyed it just because they said that no one could. "You Bats are stubborn like that," she said once. "Don't use that plural," he would have loved to answer. But that was Donna, no point in trying to defend himself. She knew him far too well.
But now Bruce was gone. Had been gone for a while, dead for everyone except for Tim, still holding to the hope that he was still around. He left behind a whole city that Dick now had to protect, a cowl that he never wanted to wear, and a kid who Bruce himself barely knew. And that chili. For some reason there was a portion of that damn chili in the fridge. Oliver possibly made it out of kindness. Alfred would probably never throw it away because… well, likely because it reminded him of the man he raised. If he were to throw it away it would mean that nobody was going to eat it. And if nobody was going to eat it, it meant that Bruce was… actually dead. And nobody wanted to think too hard about that.
Dick didn't have the time. He was Batman. A Batman with a deeply complicated Robin: Damian Wayne, who decided to just show up just before Bruce’s death and who was now his responsibility. Damian the wild card, something he and Alfred could rarely understand. He accepted being Robin, but acted like he hated everything about it. He was there because he chose to stay in Gotham, to be with his father, and yet he never asked anything about him. He locked himself in his room all day and then went out for patrol. Dick was usually good with kids, but he definitely wasn't good with this one. Maybe because he acted more like a tiny adult then the ten-year-old he actually was.
Rationally, Dick knew he should get to know him better, make the first move. He was raised by the al Ghul, he probably learned many things, but small talk wasn’t one of them.
Honestly? There was just no time. Gotham was a mess, finding the time for actual bonding with the kid or for telling Alfred to just throw away that chili was hard to find.
One night he got back from patrolling alone. Damian had been benched for the night – he had been, yet again, too violent and impulsive. He needed to learn the hard way, so no patrol, the equivalent of taking videogames away from a child raised normally. Damian got mad of course, really mad, protesting for hours, throwing stuff on the ground like the spoiled child he was and, to top it all, refusing to have dinner. Fine then, demon child. Don't eat. Hell if I care, he thought.
It was better like this anyway, since he only complained about Alfred's cooking. So Dick went on patrol alone and thank God it was a quiet night: a couple of robberies, Kite Man doing… whatever Kite Man was fond of doing. Nothing that required more than one person.
He got back, showered and went to the kitchen for some hot milk – old habit he had acquired back when he was Robin, something very innocent in the not very child-friendly life he led. He remembered Alfred heating up the milk, and he remembered drinking it while Bruce was just… there. Probably not knowing what to say and being awkward on the inside and intimidating on the outside, he was good at that. The tradition had stuck and now, every night after patrol, he got his damn hot. When Alfred wasn’t around he even got some cookies, despite remembering admonishments, Alfred’s voice in his head saying, "they stay on your stomach all night long, Master Richard." Whatever, Alfred. He was an adult. He could do what he wanted.
Then Dick walked in on something unexpected: Damian Wayne, spoiled prince extraordinaire, was sitting on the kitchen floor eating Oliver's chili. He was eating it with some of the forbidden Doritos that Alfred should never know about (how did he even find the spot Dick hid them?) and he seemed to be enjoying it a lot. No burned tongue. No disgusted face. It was a sight to behold. For the first time since Dick had met him, he actually looked like a child, eating in secret, with his legs crossed on the floor, a drip of chili on his chin.
As he watched, Dick had to finally admit to himself why he never actually tried to break the ice with the Damian: he was too much like Bruce. Not in looks (the vivid green eyes so different from Bruce’s blue, the skin tone, way darker than that of his father, even his facial features were different from the many pictures of Bruce as a child that could be found all over the Manor) but in his stubbornness, determination, and his willingness to eat the Hell Chili from Hell.
“You like it?” he said, alerting Damian to his presence.
“It is… decent,” Damian conceded. “But there was no bread. And I was not hungry, I simply require the energy to excel in my training tomorrow.”
He was so clearly lying it was hilarious, but Dick didn't laugh at him. Instead he just took the milk from the fridge and started heating it up on the stove.
“You know, our… your father loved that chili too.” He really hoped Damian wouldn’t notice the slip. “It’s a special recipe. Oliver Queen made it.”
Damian looked lost for a moment, like he didn't know what to say, so Dick kept going.
“I never liked it. Too spicy, if you ask me, but if you like it, I can ask Oliver to make you some more.” Dick pointed to the pan on the stove. “Personally, I always preferred old-fashioned hot milk before bed, but that’s just me.”
Damian remained silent, so Dick filled the emptiness the way he knew best.
“You could heat it up, if you wanted. I bet it’s even better hot.”
Dick could have told him that he wasn't fooling anyone, that Dick knew he was just hungry because he hadn’t wanted to have dinner. But there was nothing like an unexpected approach, Bruce had taught him that, and what better way to surprise a child raised by assassins than with kindness?
“Then heat it up, Grayson… if you are able to.”
Dick smiled to himself. Nailed it. He’d gotten a semi-polite answer. Not bad at all.
So he heated up the chili and the milk. Probably not the best for Damian's stomach, chili at that time of the night, but that wasn't the point.
“Father liked this chili?” Damian asked.
It was truly a night of revelations for Dick Grayson: Damian really didn’t know anything about his father, did he?
Dick asked the question out loud, and Damian frowned deeply.
“I know many things about Father. I know that he was a fierce warrior and a brilliant detective, that he was a king and Gotham was his kingdom…”
“But you didn’t know about the chili,” Dick replied gently. Damian fell silent. “If you want… I can tell you other things about him. Do you know what his favourite TV show was? It was the Gray Ghost. I didn’t like it, but maybe you will…”
They talked about Bruce a lot that night: simple things like his favorite song, his favourite book, his favourite play, the sports teams he’d cheered for. Damian just nodded. He still didn't know if he liked those things too – he probably had no idea of what he liked outside of combat.
That night, something changed. A kid that had seemed impenetrable was starting to show some cracks. A lost father didn't seem so distant, because they were remembering who he’d been and the things he’d loved. And maybe a terrible chili was just something that needed the right person to enjoy it.
Dick was still going to stick to the milk though.