Dick finished making himself a bowl of cornflakes in the stately Wayne Manor kitchen. He was fully capable of cooking. That just required time, effort, devotion-and what was the point if there was a perfectly good box of corn flakes available?

The police-officer-by-day-vigilante-by-night had driven up to Gotham on his day off. He needed to swing by the cave to check out all the new gizmos and gadgets that Harold had conjured up. That, of course, could wait until after food. Dick reached into the fridge and pulled out a carton of milk, only to find it empty. He set it on the counter and went back to rummaging.

"Alfred needs to go shopping, you know," Dick said without turning.

"He's doing that now," Bruce said, coming into the kitchen. "We're out of ketchup too."

"Since when do you eat ketchup?" Dick asked, as he continued to dig through the refrigerator.

"I don't."

Dick mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like "Figures," and went back on his quest for milk. "So why didn't you pick up ketchup on your way home from work?"

"Because I don't like ketchup," Bruce responded plainly. He watched his surrogate son rearrange Alfred's entire alphabetical system inside the fridge.

"So why didn't you buy some for the people who do?"

"But you don't like ketchup either."

"I know. That's besides the point."

"You had a point?"

"Ta Da!" Dick exclaimed pulling a 2% milk carton out. "Don't you know Bruce," he poured it in the bowl, "that there," snapped the carton back up, "is always" put it in the fridge, "a point?" Dick took another spoon out of the drawer, forgetting the one on the counter. He finished asking his question and whirled around. He lifted the spoon to take a bite of cornflakes. The spoon didn't reach his mouth. "Why are you wearing that?"

Dick surveyed the clothes. Armani suit, complete with matching shoes, 24K cufflinks all topped off with a Gotham Knights cap.

Despite the attire, Bruce Wayne gave his former ward his best Dark Knight scowl. It didn't work. Dick seemed more interested in the cap.

"Did you lose a bet?" Dick cocked his head to examine the non sequitur of the ensemble.

"Did who lose a bet?" Tim Drake asked as he entered the kitchen. He stopped, his eyes scanning Bruce's form. "Bad hair day perhaps?" Tim hopped up on the counter, almost upsetting the box of cornflakes that was precariously balanced upon a spoon for some reason. So that's where the elusive silverware had gone. *That* had to be Dick's fault. After all, everyone knew that cereal boxes get put on their side after being poured into bowls.

"Drop it," Bruce ordered. His tone of voice dipped dangerously close to being the voice.

"And next, on lifestyles of the Rich and Boring," Dick said in between cornflakes bites, "we have Bruce Wayne! Oh Brucie, what *is* that stunning head gear you're sporting?"

Tim smiled and surveyed the hat with a sadistic curiosity. "Did you buy the team? Is it a promotional deal?"

"If you tell me, I'll give you cornflakes," Dick shook the cereal box in front of Bruce's face for extra emphasis. Tim threw up his hands to shield himself from the flying cereal that ended up decorating the kitchen counter.

Tim leaned over and not so discreetly whispered to Dick. "Um…dude. You're bribing him with his own food."

"Is it working?"

The two boy wonders looked at the impassive C.E.O.

"No," Bruce said, affirming Tim's skepticism.

Tim leaned over and tried grabbing the hat, but Bruce sidestepped. Tim was forced to put his hand on the counter, lest he lose his balance and fall. Dick, picking up on his younger friend's idea, reached across the counter in an effort to swat the offending cap off Bruce's head. Bruce, however, took a step backwards, leaving Dick slightly winded from running into the counter. For the briefest moment, amusement flashed on Bruce's face only to be replaced by impatience and disapproval at the boys' antics.

"Ah-ha!" Dick exclaimed as he made a grab for the hat, only to miss and knock over the box of cereal. However, working in tandem (what a concept), Tim took advantage of the Dark-Knight-turned-fashion-victim's momentary distraction and managed to hit the visor, disrupting the hat. Dick aimed the clean spoon that was hiding the counter and launched it, Bruce ducked and it sailed harmlessly overhead. Yet, the sudden movement accomplished what neither could achieve. As Bruce ducked, the hat that was already loosened from its place sailed off.

"That is the-" Dick started, before his mouth completely dropped open.

"Pinkest!" Tim supplied, giving Dick the moment to compose himself.

"--Gum?"

The two boys exchanged looks of amazement, before collapsing into hysterics.

Bruce frowned.

"How did you..?" Dick attempted to ask but he was laughing to hard.

"What happened?" Tim inquired, having gained some composure back.

"I'll be in the cave," Bruce said turning away. He turned to head out the door before the ribbing could start. "Send Alfred down when he comes back. I'll need his help with…this."

"Why wait?" Tim asked hopping down from the counter with a flourish.

"Yeah," Dick piped up, the bowl of cornflakes long forgotten. "We're as competent as Alfred." Dick shifted under the intense glare that Bruce gave him. "Mostly." He shifted again. "Come on!" he finally exploded. "We can save the world! We can take on bubble gum!" He threw his arms wide, knocking the bowl off the counter.

The trio watched it fall and splatter. Dick looked up embarrassed to meet Bruce's gaze. "Or you could go down and wait in the batcave," Dick suggested.

Tim sighed and shook his head. "And to think you were my idol," he muttered.

"Watch it, short stuff!" Dick protested, "I'll have you know that-"

Bruce looked down at the mess. He looked Dick square in the eye. He looked back down. "Dick," Bruce said, the inherent command more than obvious. Dick sighed, grabbed a towel and began cleaning up his mess.

"I feel like Cinderella all of the sudden," Dick grumbled from the floor. "Hey Timbo, grab the peanut butter." Dick threw the now dripping towel in the sink. He put his soggy hands upon Bruce's shoulders (the poor suit!) and ushered him to the nearest stool. "We'll have that gum out of your hair in no time," he reassured him.

"Do I have a choice?"

"Trust us," said Tim, now holding a jar of Skippy.

"And how exactly does trusting you involve peanut butter?"

"It's an old bat trick passed down from one bat to another," Dick said as he examined the offending substance. Tim, had hopped back on the counter and was doing the same. Just as Tim was about to touch the bubble gum, Dick swatted his hand away.

"So," Dick started, "are you going to tell us or are we going to have to guess again?"

"Her name's Stacie," Bruce admitted reluctantly.

"A woman," Dick said knowingly as Tim opened the jar.

"She's new," Bruce continued.

"Ah, the plot thickens."

"She's an intern at Wayne Corp."

"Ew. Kinky," Dick protested.

Tim grabbed a clean spoon from a drawer. "Kinky? How so?"

"Well, intern, you know," Dick said providing a succinct and unhelpful explanation. "Never mind." He yanked the jar out of Tim's hands as he gave his friend a look that said 'I'm older, you sit down and watch.' Dick scooped out a good quantity of peanut butter and instead of touching the substance, tried flinging the spoon hard enough so it would slip off on its own. It didn't work. Undaunted, he tried it again. He'd never figured he'd actually have to touch the icky food substance. The second time, the peanut butter slid off, but unfortunately, the downswing was too hard and the spoon hit Bruce on the head.

Subsequently, Bruce leapt to his feet grabbed the spoon out of Dick's hand and threw it into the sink all in one swift moment. As Bruce was starting to look a tad bit peeved and Dick a tad bit chastised, Tim interjected.

"So, what does Stacie the cute intern have to do with chewing gum?"

"I never said she was cute," Bruce said sitting down. He snatched the jar from Dick's other hand and quickly passed it off to Tim. Tim was, of course, the responsible one.

"Well is she?" Dick inquired. The only response he got was in the form of Tim elbowing him in the ribs to get him to shut up.

"The gum?" Tim asked impatiently.

"Well, she came into the office to give me some folders. I was on the phone and apparently talking and chewing gum is just too complicated."

It was then that Dick made a sudden exit. He wasn't about to actually going to touch that mess of goo. That was just...wrong. Yet, he couldn't leave Bruce in a lurch; he had a plan. So whilst Bruce recounted his tale, Dick slipped down to the batcave. His absence went unnoticed as Tim criticized Bruce's story.

"But the only way she'd get close enough would be from behind you. Unless she spit her gum at you?" At Bruce's shake of the head, Tim continued, "So why didn't she just drop the info on your desk?"

"If you're going to analyze what I say, why should I bother explaining this to you?"

"Hey, I'm just showing off my detective skills."

"In a grumpy mood are we?" Dick asked reappearing. He circled around Bruce, surveying the substances intently. "Continue with your story, don't mind me."

"Well, she ended up pouring me a cup of coffee. And we were talking and it's not good to make people laugh. What are you going to do?" Bruce asked. He turned his neck to see behind him.

"Trust me." Dick said. Tim snickered. Dick told Bruce to stay still and to look straight ahead. Begrudgingly, the older man acquiesced. Dick slid on a pair of Kevlar/Nomex gloves that he had liberated from downstairs.

"So you made her laugh, she lost her gum, and it fell into your hair," Tim stated with certainty. Bruce nodded, and Dick bopped him on the head.

"Hold still," Dick ordered, aggravated. Finally, Dick got to work. Tim watched intently, albeit a little disgusted at the procedure. The black-gloved fingers played in the hair trying to separate the gum from the perfect locks. Wait. Black gloved fingers, no blue. Whatsoever. He opened his mouth to comment, but Dick caught the moment and imposed a glare that made Tim's words halt before they could even be conceived. Tim was suddenly not so sanguine on the concept.

After minutes of tense silence, Dick was finally able to retrieve some of the gum. The rest, however, was firmly matted down and refused to separate from Bruce's hair. He tried tugging at it nonetheless. After yanking some of it out (purely accidentally mind you), Bruce protested.

"You're supposed to be getting the gum out of my hair, not pulling my hair out of the gum," he growled.

"Well, I've done what I can. You have a choice. You can either have me yank it out or leave it in there."

"Let's try this. Leave the hair. Take the gum."

"No can do." Dick said shaking his head, even though he was still standing behind Bruce. "Peanut butter doesn't work miracles."

"I'm surprised it even worked at all."

"Always a cynic," Dick said dispassionately.

"No. A realist."

"We could try lighter fluid," Tim stated randomly. At the sight of twin confused and skeptical looks he explained. "That's what my mom always used to use. She said it worked miracles."

"Like peanut butter?"

"Well, it's worth a shot." Dick added, ignoring Bruce's comment. Dick took off the gloves, tossing them lazily on the counter. He walked around to look Bruce in the eye.

Bruce looked at the two helpful and cheery faces. He eyed the jar of peanut butter that looked seemingly innocent but in reality held a multitude of torture uses. He looked at the counter covered with cornflakes, bits of hair, and gum. And that's when he noticed...

"My gloves," he intoned icily. He turned to look at Dick. "You have your own downstairs and you use mine."

"Hey, why don't you sit down, relax, clean up," the protégé of the bat muttered quickly. He avoided looking into those narrowed eyes. "I'll go looking for some lighter fluid. Come on Timbo," he said as he half yanked and half dragged the boy wonder from his perch. Then, quickly exited the room without so much as a backward glance.

Bruce watched the retreating form and almost smiled, despite his horrible day. They were only trying to help. He looked around at the disaster that Alfred normally considered the kitchen. The situation was absurd, and almost humorous. Almost. Still, why had it have to happen to him. He looked at the black material on the counter. And why did Dick have to use his gloves. That was just the sort of thing that required retaliation.

Bruce realized that nothing productive was going to get accomplished waiting around, hell, nothing productive had gotten done before. After the evils of peanut butter, he was not letting some flammable substance occupy the same room as him. He threw the perfectly good jar of peanut butter in the trash, and went downstairs to take a shower. "Oh well," he mused, "I suppose the cowl will cover it." And so down he went, resolved to deal with the kitchen later. One crisis at a time, thank you very much.

So the kitchen stood silent. Empty. Trashed. A half eaten bowl of cereal. An empty carton of milk. Gum, hair, cornflakes, and utterly grotesque images greeted Alfred Pennyworth approximately fifteen minutes later.

This was intolerable. Before he could unload the groceries he had to clean the room. Ludicrous. It was only a little over an hour since he left the room, sparkling as fact would have it. Obviously that was no longer the case. He began cleaning as he tried to ascertain who the guilty parties were. As luck would have it, Master Dick was the only one he could identify with absolute clarity. The hair and peanut butter, he wasn't about to analyse, but the gaudy cereal bowl, that Bruce refused to touch, confirmed Dick's presence.

It was short, if not disgusting work. It wasn't until he opened the trash bin that he found the primary source for the telltale peanut butter odour. It didn't take a detective to surmise what had happened here. No, not a detective, only the butler of one. Still, despite his surroundings, he was not infallible and had yet to determine whom the unfortunate soul was.

He didn't have to wait long however. As he finished putting away the groceries, he could hear Tim calling from the hallway.

"We found some. Finally!" Tim's entered the reborn kitchen with Dick following.

"Found some what Master Timothy?" Alfred surveyed the two men. Both had their hair perfectly in place, which left only one possibility.

"Lighter fluid," Dick supplied.

"For the gum in Master Bruce's hair."

"Yeah, have you seen him?"

"I'm afraid not. I just returned back and have been working organizing the kitchen. I'm sure you can't imagine the state of disarray it was in."

"Um, yeah," Tim looked down. "Sorry about that."

"I'll take it to him."

"You just said you didn't know where he is."

"I'd imagine he's downstairs reflecting on the event." Before either Dick or Tim could protest, Alfred snatched the small container of lighter fluid. They'd used peanut butter and wrecked the kitchen. Superheroes or not, it was in everyone's best interest that the lighter fluid be held by someone responsible. Not to mention the further it was away from the house, the safer.

Just as Alfred was about to bring the substance downstairs away from his immaculately polished tables, Bruce reappeared.

"We found it!" Tim exclaimed as he entered.

"Ready for round two?" Dick asked.

"Alfred..." Bruce beseeched.

Gently, the older man guided him to a stool. As luck would have it, it was same one Bruce had occupied before.

"No lighter fluid," he ordered.

"Of course not." Alfred reassured him, "Do you think me some kind of sadist?"

Bruce's gaze shifted over to his partners, "No. Not you." He turned back to the older man. "No peanut butter either."

"Tish," was Alfred's only reply as he withdrew a pair of scissors from a kitchen drawer. With neat and perfect precision and with two pert pecks Alfred effectively ended the melodrama. Dick and Tim were left in awe at the swiftness and cleanliness of the proficient procedure.

The moment was shattered when Dick slapped Tim on the shoulder exclaiming, "Why didn't you think of that?"

"Thank you Alfred," Bruce said standing up. He quickly brushed his hair over the small spot. It fell into place and covered any evidence of any misfortune. Bruce turned to the younger men who were looking sufficiently embarrassed. "Dick. Tim. Thanks for trying to help. I only hope I can return the favor sometime." With a slight nod to Alfred, he left the room, taking the abandoned cap with him.

"Hey imagine that we finally got a compliment," Tim said naïveté showing.

"I believe that was a guarantee," Alfred supplied.

"No way!" Dick protested, "That was a promise. He's waiting for payback!"

Bruce smiled as he listened to the faint conversation that was echoing down the hall. He reached into his battered Armani suit and pulled a small object out of his pocket. With great care, he unwrapped it, and popped a pink candy into his mouth. Content, he headed towards the serenity of his bedroom for some peace. He popped the bubble just as he closed the door.

Pop!

fin

~story index~