Falling for Grayson : birdflash

Ch21: Non-Chipmunk

Bruce was sitting at the head of the table when we entered. He appeared deeply focused on the Gotham Gazette as if searching for one of the Riddler's clues. Maybe he was, or maybe he was reading about stocks, or the news about the Hadron Collider, or the latest ongoing criminal cases.

Alfred was elsewhere, likely in the kitchen preparing nachos, because right now, four empty plates sat on the table. Dick and I took our seat beside each other.

The dinning room was cozy: blue china plates carefully lined the top of the walls, only breaking formation to make way for a tall oak cabinet that housed the glasses, plates, and cutlery; the walls wore a pale floral pattern, dull and unassuming, as if not wanting to draw attention to itself; the table was bare and could comfortably accommodate six, while the chairs were austere and uncomfortable, as if the taste of the meal would be enhanced in contrast, much like how warmth is enjoyed more after being in the freezing cold.

The room was extraordinarily ordinary given its surroundings, because instead of stepping out of the room and into the narrow hallway of a respectable three bedroom townhouse, the dinning room led to an opulent dining hall with high-arching wooden beams supporting a ceiling of angels that could've been stolen from the Sistine Chapel. The dinning room seemed to be one of the only normal looking rooms in the manor, likely made for the servants; however, this humble room was where I always shared meals with Dick, Bruce, and Alfred.

When I first came to the manor years ago I had excitedly asked if we'd be having a banquet in the dinning hall. Dick laughed so hard he fell to the ground, and, to my annoyance, rather dramatically. He said they never ate there, it was for the dinner parties Bruce would reluctantly host for other wealthy fortunates. Bruce despised the word elite, as if money made someone better than another. These particular fortunates were inherently egocentric, which is why Bruce had the unfortunate duty of swaying the fortunates to invest in philanthropic ventures by feeding their egos with lavish parties. On those nights, Alfred would take Dick to a safe part of Gotham and go bowling. In many ways, Alfred was as much as a father figure to Dick as Bruce was, if not more.

To alleviate some of the discomfort, I lightly rocked on this concrete-like object passing as a chair. I leaned over to Dick, who seemed happy enough sitting on concrete. "You ever mention to Alfred about getting some cushions for these chairs?" I whispered.

Dick whispered back, "Stop being a wimp, the chair's good for your posture. You look like a curled up shrimp half the time otherwise."

"Why you talking about my posture like you're my mom?"

"Hush now, eat your imaginary vegetables."

"Tsk." I was exasperated with where this conversation was going—which was nowhere. Vegetables and a stern bird boy, two things I clearly didn't like. Though to be fair, Dick lightly teasing me about anything was something I liked, even if it was ultimately unhelpful. I guess there won't be any cushions on my chair in the foreseeable future. Also, sweet potato is okay. And brussels. And broccoli. You know what? I take back both statements.

Alfred entered the room, carrying with him a large tray of nachos. The room filled with the mouthwatering aroma of cheesy goodness. Nothing tastes better than a high-carb cheesy meal after running; I hadn't done much running today, but still.

Red bell peppers, hot peppers, salsa—all held together by cheddar and mozzarella cheese. It will take every ounce of my power not to inhale this food. Must make excellent impression on Bruce. Must make sure he doesn't lose his appetite.

Alfred took off his apron and draped it on the chair opposite me and sat down across from Dick. He looked as ready as I was to eat.

"Bruce, put that away," Alfred snapped as if speaking to mischievous nine year-old.

"Sorry, Alfred," Bruce said, folding up his newspaper, "I was carried away with the crossword."

Dick and I burst out laughing.

"What's so funny, boys?"

Dick spoke up, "Sorry, but you're really giving off typical dad vibes... didn't realise the Batman liked Sunday afternoon dawdling..."

"What's wrong with doing the crossword?" Bruce asked with mock defensiveness.

"Nothing," Dick continued, "I'm sure your crossword was rather riveting."

"Now now, boys, behave," Alfred interjected, looking at Dick and Bruce.

Alfred had foresight with the nacho tray: he had sectioned four piles of cheesy goodness and had cut the wax paper underneath into four pieces so that we could slide the portion of nachos onto our plates. I waited for the others to start, then began eating at the pace as Alfred; he'd have the epitome of good table manners. I shall not stuff my face.

* * *

So far, so good. Eating slowly. Small-ish bites. Chewing then swallowing before taking another bite. No chipmunks to be found. I am the anti-chipmunk, the non-chipmunk. I am keeping my manners in tact. I am in the clear.

"So, Wally," Bruce said, taking a moment to wipe the corners of his mouth with a napkin, "what do you think about Rose?"

And then a giant chunk of nachos got stuck in my throat.

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Author:

Next chapter's gonna be very entertaining...

See you on Wednesday! :)