Work Text:
“Alrighty,” John began, brushing his hands off together before placing them on his hips. “We’re gonna teach you how to cook, got it, Brucie?”
Bruce wasn’t that bad of a cook, but somehow he’d found himself agreeing when John offered to aid him in learning a simple recipe. It couldn’t hurt… hopefully. John was going to have to be sent back to Arkham soon. It was a fate Bruce had done his best to mull over as little as possible, but a fate nonetheless that he’d have to face. He took a deep breath, pulling an apron over his head as John came up behind him, putting his arms around his waist. Bruce’s breath hitched, sides tingling and just as he was about to ask John what he was doing, pressing against his back, he pulled his arms to his back and Bruce felt the apron tighten as John tied it together.
Bruce cleared his throat, trying to ignore the warmth spreading through his body at John's touch. “I could have done that myself…” He mumbled to himself, trying to focus on the task at hand.
It seemed like his comment was ignored, John exclaiming proudly as he finished his tying job, waltzing back in front of Bruce. His hands had found their way back to his hips. “Wowie! Bruce, you really fill anything in, dontchya?” Bruce shrugged his shoulders. John didn’t look too bad himself. The apron he’d picked out had ‘Kiss The Cook’ written on it, and Bruce wondered when he’d ever owned anything like that. Did Alfred buy it? Why Alfred would own something like that was a mystery. (Probably easier to solve than the one currently on their hands. Bruce couldn’t help drumming his fingers against his thighs waiting for any sort of alarm or notice.)
John grabbed a knife from the knife block, playfully handling it with a few twists in his hand and a smile, jamming it into the cutting board. Unfortunately, it didn’t stick, and John’s smile dropped from his face as he chuckled to himself. “That would have been a lot cooler if your knives weren’t so dull.” He mumbled, placing the knife back on the desk. He whipped back around with a clap that startled Bruce out of his vacant stare.
“How about we start with something simple, huh?” John said, as Bruce began looking him up and down. Was his apron tied tight, or did John’s waist just look like that?
“Soup!”
“...Soup? Do you really think I can’t make soup, John?”
John grinned, his eyes sparkling mischievously. "Oh, I'm sure you can, Bruce. But this is my specialty. Buuut… If you can do it, go ahead! I’ll watch ."
Ok then, Bruce thought. He turned around and faced the counter tapping his fingers on the cold marble, kneeled down and opened one of the wooden cabinet doors. It was full of spray bottles, window cleaners, and dish sponges. There was a little snicker behind him and he sighed, closing the doors back and standing back up, beginning his search through the other cabinets in the kitchen. What would you put in a soup? Vegetables, right? He should surely have some canned veggies somewhere. “You doing alright there, Bruce?” John teased.
Bruce shut another cabinet with a huff. “I know how to make soup. I just… can’t find the ingredients.”
“Oh? You mean these?”
There was a clinking of metal, and Bruce turned around to see a couple of cans atop the counter where John was standing. John’s huge grin accompanying them, with a can-opener in his hand. “So, ready to submit to me and my soup?”
Bruce chuckled and raised an eyebrow. "Submit to you and your soup? I don't know if I'm ready for that kind of commitment."
John laughed heartily at Bruce's response. "Trust me, Bruce. Once you try my soup, you'll be begging for more.”
The cans weren’t the same as anything fresh, but admittedly they were all that was left that wasn’t spoiled or frozen, so he wasn’t complaining.
"Alrighty," John began, opening the cans with the can-opener. "First, we need to heat up some oil in a pot. Just a tablespoon or so, we don't want to make it too oily."
Bruce watched as John poured the oil into the pot and turned on the stove, adjusting the heat to medium. "Next, add some chopped onions and garlic to the pot. About half an onion and a couple of cloves of garlic should do the trick."
As John chopped the onions and garlic, Bruce couldn't help but feel a sense of admiration for John's culinary skills. He had never been much of a cook himself, relying mostly on takeout or Alfred's cooking before he’d left.
Once the onions and garlic were chopped, John turned around to Bruce and chuckled. “Are you just gonna stand there and be a big hunk? Or are you gonna put these in the pot for me?” Stunned out of his stillness, Bruce nodded and stepped over to John’s side of the counter, brushing the onions and garlic into his hands before adding them to the pot.
“...and stir it, Brucie! Gotta get the flavor out, right?”
Bruce took the wooden spoon John was handing him, “Yeah, yeah, c’mon I knew that, John.” He said with a small smile. Bruce stirred them around, letting them cook for a few minutes until they were soft and fragrant. "Now, we'll add some water to the pot, and the canned vegetables too. Just pour it in and keep stirring it around."
Bruce watched as John poured the water and vegetables into the pot. He let Bruce stir it around until it was heated through. "And that's it! Simple, but delicious. Oh, and the spices. Can’t forget those!" John said, turning away from Bruce as he reached up to get what Bruce guessed were spices.
John had been right, it was easy to make. Why hadn’t he ever tried? Within 30 minutes, they had a warm meal ready to eat.
Despite the usual chaos and unpredictability that came with being around John, it was moments like these that felt like the eye of the storm. Moments where all the chaos of the outside, all the circumstances and influences that were held over them disappeared. And Bruce found that comfort with John, even if he didn't quite understand it. Even if nobody could understand it.
John’s words echoed in his mind: “We’re two threads in the same stitch.”
As the soup bubbled away on the stove, they sat down at the kitchen island, enjoying the silence, and the warmth of the soup. It was the perfect simple soup. The flavor of all the spices together was a lot better than the frozen meals Bruce had taken to eating over the past few months.
Of course, John was the one to fill the silence, talking about everything and nothing and taking small breaks to have his soup. Bruce gave John a little side-eye as he slurped, holding the bowl in his hands instead of using a spoon.
“What, is it that good?” Bruce asked, blowing gently on his spoon.
John put the bowl down with a clatter and smiled, “It is, buddy! You did way better than I thought you would!”
“Well,” Bruce gazed softly at his bowl, knowing he made this. “ We did great. We made this together .”
He didn’t say anything, but Bruce knew he probably couldn’t have done this without John. At least not in the same way. Not with the same heart. The domesticity of it all made him warm (or was that just the soup?) but it wasn’t soon before that feeling melted away. The realization that this couldn’t last bubbling to the surface to replace it. John had to be sent back to Arkham at some point, whether Bruce liked it or not. He couldn’t just stick around and make the place less empty, less… lonely.
Why did his chest ache so much at that thought? It was like his insides were squeezing in on themselves. A gut punch, but worse. Bruce could handle a gut punch. A couple, actually. But not this.
John’s voice burned through his thoughts, “Bruce?”
Bruce sighed, leaving his spoon in his bowl and straightening his posture. “What?”
“Thought I lost you there. Anyways, are you done?” He asked, Bruce noticing how he was holding his own bowl empty in his hand, his other hand reaching out for Bruce’s. Bruce handed his bowl over, only a bit of soup left inside that he couldn’t get out with his spoon. “Yeah, thanks.” Bruce said.
“Mmhm.” He said, with a grin.
As they finished their bowls, John stood up to take them to the sink. Bruce watched him go, and felt his heart racing a little faster than it should have been, as he realized that he might just have feelings for his best friend.
(That added some layers to his mission, didn’t it?)