awashlogs | oh, baby, you're the only thing in this whole world that's pure and good and right

Yes. [To answer his first question.

Fish and chips sound pretty good, honestly. But he looks back up at Ignis curiously when the man mentions onion rings. Um, hell yeah. It'll make him think of Gotham... Greasy, breaded, something you'd get at one of the diners or fairs.

Not that, uh, he's gone to many fairs or anything!!]

If you can make them, I would eat them. Are you sure you don't want to keep the lager for yourself, Scientia?

[Just to see what the man will say.]

It's not my drink of choice, for one thing, and I'd feel indebted to you if I were to take your prize without offering back something in return.

[He shrugs a little, sort of absently reaching into the Armiger after a pair of onions, which if you're not expecting a man to literally pull vegetables out of thin air with a shatter of blue-white crystal light, is probably a very odd thing to witness.]

For another, I'd find it a satisfactory outcome, if you enjoyed something I cooked. That's most of the reason why I'm out here at all, frankly.

[HOLD THE FUCK UP. WHAT?

The Armiger is a wild damn thing to be existing for Damian, and he starts in surprise when Ignis so casually yanks onions out of... air? Fancy air light. Both brows go up, and his lips part. He's officially surprised? Rarely is he surprised.

Alright, nevermind the damn onion rings or heckling Ignis about drinking the beer.]

How did you...? Is it something like what Strider has? Whatever it is he claims to keep his things in--

A pocket storage.

The Armiger.

[He offers it casually, less like a teacher correcting a student and more just like someone in the know providing the correct vocabulary word for an idea that the other person is already articulating. Methodical to a fault, he finds a knife and starts getting out the things he needs to make a breading batter, continuing the discussion as he works.]

And yes, it's something rather like what Dave has, though not identical. Dave's, as I understand it, is something unique to him and him alone. But the Armiger isn't technically mine; it's more something I simply have access to, like an additional user on an existing system.

An arms bearer...? [It's mostly a muttered thing to himself, and he gets more clarification when Ignis continues the explanation. What the hell?

Damian's face bunches gently, but he doesn't interrupt Ignis in food prep. He wants a fucking pocket storage device? HELLO? HE HAS SO MUCH BAT STUFF TO PUT IN ONE!! Why doesn't he get the cool RPG inventory...] I see.

A filing system connected to a network. LAN storage.

Does it allow you to keep anything inside?

Anything but a living creature. Foodstuffs are fine, and will be preserved inside the Armiger, but it won't accept a live animal.

[He pauses in his work, regarding Damian for a moment, and then sets his knife aside in favor of pulling from the Armiger, in brisk succession, his daggers, a potion, and a spare shirt, replacing each back inside the hold before extracting the next.]

As you can see, it's quite versatile.

[WAH!! Damian is so mcfreaking jealous. Of course, there's no real surprise, or shock, or awe, or even envy on his face. He's fairly resolute, studiously and clinically watching Ignis work the Armiger with the items.

No fair.] How? [Okay, maybe the pinch to his brows is enough evidence Ignis needs to understands he's pretty envious of the ability to store things in a hammer space.]

How did you get it? Is it because of your service?

It is. The magic belongs to the bloodline I serve, and it's because of my service that I was granted access to it. It's lucky I was, too; some of the first fruits and vegetables in the garden were actually ones I had with me in the Armiger. Rather than cooking with them, we planted them. Fortunate I had them, with the state of the food being what it was back then.

[He grimaces slightly, then moves back to the cutting board to get to work on that onion.]

In strictest terms, it's only meant to be for weapons, but we all...ah, cheat, a little bit, just from how convenient it is.

[Damian's face softens a little. Sometimes, he forgets to consider just what everyone else brings to the table. He's too caught up in the hero shtick still, even here. Tunnel vision. Thinking about what he can do, what he can accomplish, fix, build, whatever.

But everyone else is helping, too, in their own way.

Quietly, he watches Ignis work on the onion without saying anything for a long moment. Seeing the man cook reminds him of sitting in the kitchen and watching Alfred. He can't believe how much for granted he took Alfred's help. Hell, Alfred's existence.

His eyes focus, and he glances up at Ignis's face.] I want you to do something for me.

If you will.

You're in luck. I rather like to do things for people.

[He's not being facetious, either. Even the joy of cooking isn't really about the cooking in and of itself, but of the people it allows him to connect with by doing it.

He separates the cut onions into rings, setting them aside momentarily while he finds a bowl to make the beer-infused batter with.]

What favor would you ask?

[Again, Damian is quiet, almost like he's trying to decide whether or not he actually wants to ask for the favor. It's not one he thinks Ignis can't complete, but one he worries may... mar his own serious reputation.

But why? The act itself isn't disgraceful. Maybe it's the admittance of not being able to do it already.]

I would like for you to teach me how to cook. Pennyworth is the one who practices the culinary endeavours for our household.

But... I would like to learn.

[...Oh. That brings a soft hint of a smile to his face, as for a moment he's preoccupied with thoughts of early campsite mornings and teenagers grudgingly rousing themselves from bed to stir pans and trade puns and spend time together.

In short, happy memories.]

I'll agree, on one condition.

[His smile grows, just a little, and mostly at the corners.]

Half the point of cooking is enjoying the result. So you'll have to tell me your favorite things to eat, and those can be the first things I teach you to make.

[Ugh, don't smile at him like that!! This is sappy as heck, and he hates it. Thanks. He can't believe he's getting... freaking Pennyworthed, and Alfred isn't even here at all!! How is there another Alfred in a totally different universe!!]

Fine. I agree to your condition. [For some reason, he stands a bit straighter, more determined, like he's preparing. Like this is some kind of formal induction into the military.] You're sworn to secrecy. You can't speak of this endeavour to anyone.

Especially not my father.

[If only Ignis could properly appreciate what a compliment it is to be compared in a favorable light with Alfred Pennyworth. He would be even more pleased than he is right now.]

Naturally. I wouldn't be much of a chamberlain if I didn't know how to exercise discretion.

[Although.]

Why from your father? Is the end goal to cook something for him as a surprise, perhaps?

[True enough. Alfred is more along the same lines, though Bruce isn't quite as high on the hierarchy scale as a royal. Almost, but not quite.

The probing question causes Damian some visible grief: embarrassment. He handles it much the way Noctis does more than likely. Unable to find anything to say and quickly looking off to the side as if eye contact will make Ignis less unaware of his distress.]

Maybe.

That's fair. It's why I started cooking, myself. For me, it was a pastry I was trying to replicate.

[It's true; the parallels to a younger Noct continue, and are striking. Though that's probably not such a bad thing, since it means Ignis is perfectly in his element when it comes to dealing with it.]

What does he like?

[Embarrassing. He's so glad Ignis is like Alfred in the sense the man knows when to tease and when not to tease. It's a very fragile battlefield, but both are such experts are crossing it.]

Simple things. [It's offered after a long pause of thought. He never exactly paid any analytical attention to what his father ate, even if he noticed.] He likes... sweets. And... simple dishes.

Anything fancy makes him feel disconnected from others. Rich and poor. He tries to be as close to the people of Gotham as he can, on their level, so he understands how to help them.

I see. So your challenge, then, is to find something that isn't pretentious, but that still demonstrates care and thoughtfulness. Simple isn't necessarily synonymous with amateur, after all.

[He thinks a minute, then surrenders to the insatiable impulse to snap his fingers as a thought comes to him.]

But I think I've got just the thing. Does he prefer vegetarian dishes like you, or can we expand a bit into proteins?

Father isn't a vegetarian, so meats are fine. He prefers lean meat rather than anything fatty. [Just because Bruce doesn't enjoy being high society doesn't mean Bruce lacks healthy standards.

Well, as healthy as scrimping on meals and eating protein bars on the go can possibly be.

There's a pause. This is a butt-in, but Damian is curious:] Did you learn to cook during your service, or did you always have an affinity for it?

Good. What I had in mind is a dish made primarily with chicken, rice, and egg, so that should fit his preferences quite well.

[All this time, by the way, he's been working at prepping Damian's onion rings, and by now he's got quite a few of them battered and going into the frying oil, so This Shit is starting to smell Delicious.]

...Ah. No, I picked it up in the course of my duties, but it wasn't a duty explicitly given to me. I, ah.

[Hmm. He's quiet a minute, a little thoughtful, and then finds the words he wants to go on.]

Like your father, the person I serve once suffered a sort of...personal tragedy. It had a profound effect on him, and a number of the things he had previously enjoyed no longer seemed to hold any joy for him. But one day he mentioned a simple pleasure to me, mostly offhandedly — a pastry he'd eaten and enjoyed once, that he wished he could eat again.

[He shrugs a little, keeping his eyes on the onion rings.]

We might've sent away for it, I suppose. Found a chef who made them. Requested the recipe from somewhere. But I wanted to make him happy on my own terms, so I set out to try and replicate it on my own, through trial and error. That's when I started learning to cook — from trying to recreate that pastry.

That should suffice.

[Man... this bullshit battered onion ring thing sucks. It smells so good? He feels impatient. He's hovering, honestly--both idly watching Ignis work and, like, unconsciously attracted to the food.

The explanation gets a subdued, somewhat amused smirk out of him. It doesn't sound at all like something Alfred would also do for Bruce.] Are you certain you're not Pennyworth masquerading as someone else? He is a good actor, and he had a career as one before working for my father.

The two of you sound very similar. I'm beginning to suspect trickery is afoot.

Are you quite certain you're not my liege? You have quite a few of his mannerisms down pat, and the attitude to match.

[Though from the way he says it, it doesn't precisely sound as though he considers that a bad thing. It's amused chiding, not criticism.]

Really, if it weren't for the bit about the vegetables, I might have trouble telling the two of you apart. As it is, if I'm ever struck with a case of mistaken identity, I'll simply put a carrot in front of the both of you and watch for which one recoils.

[Speaking of vegetables: onions. Beer-battered fried onions, dipped up perfect and crispy out of the hot oil, and arranged neatly on a bit of paper to dry and cool down.]

[With the accusation turned on him, Damian does the only thing he knows how to do really: get mildly flustered. It's an affection not entirely directed at him, and he can tell, but it only makes him more embarrassed.

He can't find any rebuke, so he snort quietly and turns his head.] Not me. Carrots are delicious. What does he even eat if he doesn't eat vegetables? [The only thing which gets his head to turn back is the brandishing of the fried onions. OH NO, good food...

He ventures closer than he had already been, lured in by the sweet smell of fried amazingness.]

Meat, generally. Carbohydrate-rich sides. The occasional fruit, though it's a challenge. And plenty of junk food and desserts, of course.

[I mean. He loves his king and boyfriend but also like. That does not exempt him from ALL THIS SHADE.]

I've found the occasional way of sneaking something nutritious into something else he's willing to eat, but most of the time his vegetables simply end up on someone else's plate. Sometimes mine.

[He's eyeing the rings, dabbing lightly at them with another paper towel to help get some of the excess oil off, and soon enough he slips a clean spoon through the hole in the middle of one of the rings and offers it up to Damian.]

Here we are. Care to taste-test?

[Oh--gross. No offense, Noctis. At least Ignis would have two very similar boys who would share the (1) plate of food, amazingly. Noctis gets all the meat and half the carbs, and Damian gets all the vegetables and half the carbs.

Then they could split the dessert. Damian gets a sweet tooth from his dad.]

Yes. [The delicious golden Sonic ring of heaven comes over toward him, and he carefully picks it off the spoon by the edge. His face breaks softly when he bites into it, despite how much he tries to keep composed.

He hasn't had disgusting fried city food.... in.... so long....!!]

I missed this about Gotham.

oh, baby, you're the only thing in this whole world that's pure and good and right

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this icon is only half appropriate

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