Archive of Our Own

It’s a dark and stormy night.

Alright, it isn’t stormy—just drizzling a tad. And it isn’t even very dark, thanks to the motion sensing lights in the Manor’s kitchen flickering to life as Jason slips in through the window above the sink. He could’ve just used the door—his biometrics are still programmed into the security system, which is the only reason his presence here doesn’t set off Bruce’s multitude of alarms—but there’s a camera on the landing that snaps a picture of anyone who enters, and Jason would rather avoid any photographic evidence of his visit. 

Plausible deniability and all.

See, he’s just returned home from a mission with Roy that had gone a little longer than they’d intended. 

Like. Sixteen days longer.

But in this line of work, that’s just par for the course. Sometimes you show up, guns blazing, to bust a drug cartel, and you kick ass, and other times your buddy’s exploding arrow malfunctions and you get captured and held underground in a bunker for two weeks until you manage to whittle yourself a shiv from a discarded plastic spork, shank a few guards, steal their clothes, and trick some lackey into letting you gain access to the drug lord’s chambers so you can finish the job, all before driving off into the sunset in a stolen Jeep with a missing tail light.

C'est la vie.

Anyway, after a solid two weeks of forced team-bonding, Jason’s little one-bedroom apartment had never sounded so sweet. A private shower, fresh clothes, a good night’s sleep, and above all else, a hot meal. It’s not like the cartel were starving them there, but suffice it to say that Jason doesn’t want to see plain rice and beans again for at least a few months.

Of course, the trouble with an impromptu sixteen-day kidnapping is arriving home at two in the morning—exhausted, sore, a little jumpy, and downright famished—to a fridge full of spoiled food. Because if there’s one thing Jason Todd hates, it’s going to bed hungry. 

It’s a trauma thing—remnants of a childhood of chronic food insecurity, or whatever. Dinah explained it to him once. Practically speaking, it means his options are either breaking into the Manor, or hitting up the only 24-hour mini mart in Crime Alley for some laughably overpriced Top Ramen. And they don’t even sell the picante shrimp flavor.

So there’s really no choice at all, is there?

Jason pauses on the counter for a second to wipe his muddy boots off with paper towels—because Alfred didn’t raise an animal (excluding Bruce, of course)—before hopping down. Moving to the fridge, he rifles through the usual assortment of fresh produce and neatly stacked pyrex containers of leftovers, all labeled, dated, and organized in accordance with the butler’s overly-anal storage system.

He’s perusing the offerings—02/16 meatloaf, 02/17 vegetarian lasagna–no onion, 02/17 roast turkey cutlets, 02/18 shepherd’s pie—when suddenly, out of the corner of his eye, he notices a slight movement from a brown paper bag on the bottom shelf of the fridge.

Jason blinks, then rubs his eyes. The sleep deprivation these past few weeks must be catching up with him. But, no, the bag, marked simply with the timestamp of 7:30 pm, rustles ever so slightly again.

Well that’s not ominous at all.

Carefully, Jason pulls out the package and unwraps it. Inside, he finds a pair of lobsters, their claws banded with rubber-bands, which only makes him more confused because after the absolute fit Damian pitched last year, Alfred vowed only to ever purchase fresh lobster for–

“...the old man’s birthday,” Jason whispers aloud, suddenly recalling the date. A sly grin spreads across his face.

Sure, he could just make himself a sandwich or reheat some of Alfie’s meatloaf and call it a day, but he’s had a really bad past couple weeks, okay, and nothing—honestly nothing—brings Jason as much pure unadulterated joy as being an absolute menace to Bruce Wayne.

And if that happens to mean commandeering his adoptive father’s one annual birthday indulgence for a post-midnight snack while he slumbers away upstairs? 

Well, that’s just the icing on the lobster thermidor.

Ten minutes later, Jason has just finished dicing the onions and celery, one of Alfred’s French cookbooks propped open on the counter to a dog-eared page while a mixture of water, wine, and spices simmers on the stovetop. He’s about to start in on the carrots when he hears the quiet but still unmistakable creak of the fifth stair from the upstairs landing.

Shit. Jason flicks the motion light off and ducks down behind the island. Who would be up at this hour? The glowing numbers on the stove’s clock show it’s not even four a.m. This is supposed to be the sweet spot—when everyone’s made it back from patrol and showered and collapsed into their respective beds, yet still several hours before even the earliest risers have emerged.

Did he trip an alarm after all?

Jason stills his breathing, listening as the sound of footsteps comes closer—which, honestly, is a little unexpected, given all the stealth training Bruce put them through. So that can only mean–

There’s a sharp thud of someone smacking straight into the doorframe, followed by a hiss of, “Ow! Fuck...”

Jason stands back up, slapping on the light switch with a frown. “Dickface?”

The fuck is he doing here?

“The fuck are you doing here?” Jason demands.

Dick—left arm in a sling, right arm braced against his bandaged side, and sporting the beginnings of an impressive black eye—huffs out a short laugh. “Could say the same to you, Jaybird,” he says, wincing as he takes another step forward over the kitchen’s threshold. He wrinkles up his nose at the steam wafting toward him from the pot. “Are you… boiling wine?”

“No, you uncultured swine,” Jason scoffs, turning back to the carrots to resume his chopping. “That is a simmer.”

Dick’s gaze travels around the room, taking in the various ingredients before landing on the recipe’s title in the open cookbook. He looks up again, blinking at his brother. “Really, Jay?” he says flatly. “On his birthday?”

“I had a rough couple weeks!” Jason defends. Using the knife, he gestures vaguely at Dick’s injuries. “Now, why do you look like someone beat the snot out of you?”

Dick shifts uncomfortably. “Sting operation back in Blud’,” he says, moving gingerly over to the walk-in pantry. “Didn’t go entirely to plan.”

Jason snorts. “And you’re always telling me not to go in with no back-up.”

“Hey, I tried to get back-up,” Dick huffs, opening a hidden panel inside the pantry to reveal Alfred’s meticulously well-stocked medicine cabinet. He starts rifling through the painkiller section. “Roy said he was game to help me take down these guys months ago, but suddenly it’s time to strike and the guy’s not answering his phone.”

The irony of that remark causes a sharp bark of laughter to escape Jason’s lips. He knows exactly why Roy wasn’t picking up. The cartel had smashed their phones on day one.

Dick glances up from the bottles, giving him a quizzical look. “What?”

“Nothing,” Jason says quickly. From the sounds of things, Dick has no reason to suspect his brother’s absence for the last half month was anything out of the ordinary and Jason firmly intends to keep it that way. Last thing he needs is a four a.m. post-kidnapping heart to heart with a doped-up Dick Grayson.

Dick frowns at the orange prescription pill bottle in his hand. “Is Percocet the same as hydrocodone?”

Jason rolls his eyes because honestly, how do these idiots survive without him? “We go over this every time. Percocet is oxycodone. Norco is hydrocodone.”

“What’s Vicodin then?” he asks, holding up a different bottle.

“Also hydrocodone.”

“Well that’s not confusing at all…” Dick mutters, shaking out two Vicodin into his open palm. He tosses them back dry. “Ugh.” He makes a face. “Nasty.”

Jason’s eyebrows raise. It’s not like Dick—or any of them, really—to break out The Good Stuff willy-nilly. “Just how hurt are you?”

Dick gives a one-armed shrug. “Eh, cracked a couple ribs. Bruised a kidney. Popped my shoulder out again…”

Jason snorts. “I’m surprised that shoulder’s even still attached at this point. You dislocate it every other week.”

“It’s not that often.”

“You’re kidding me, right,” Jason scoffs. “Are you forgetting the time you once sneezed it out of place?”

“Hay fever sucks, what’s your point?”

“And denial is a river in Africa…” Jason mutters under his breath.

Dick shoots him a tired glare, but Jason just flips him off and resumes his chopping. He makes quick work of the carrots and dumps them carefully into the simmering pot, then on a whim, he takes out a small frying pan and sets it on the stove with a little oil.

“If you’re just gonna stand there, grab the eggs, will ya?” Jason orders, mincing one of the extra onions on the counter. “And a green bell pepper, and the milk, and some shredded cheese. And ham, if you see any.”

Dick opens the fridge dutifully. “Having second thoughts about ruining B’s birthday dinner?”

“God no,” Jason scoffs, side-stepping over to snag the requested ingredients as his brother deposits them onto the counter one by one. “I’m just making me lobster thermidor, and you an omelette.”

Dick looks up, brow furrowed. “An omelette?” 

“Yeah, because twenty bucks says you didn’t eat dinner, and I’m not about to mop Alfie’s floor when those pills kick in and you hurl from taking narcotics on an empty stomach,” Jason retorts, chopping the top off the pepper. “Now hand me a mixing bowl.”

Dick rolls his eyes, but gets one out of the cupboard anyway. “I wouldn’t have hurled.” He hands Jason the metal bowl. “Also I hate green pepper.”

“Sorry, what was that?” Jason mocks, still chopping away. “Extra pepper you say?” He dumps a generous handful into the bowl with the onion, receiving a very unamused look from his brother in return.

Jason grins back. Messing with Dick isn’t quite on par with messing with Bruce, but it’s certainly up there.

Dick closes the fridge again and goes back to leaning against it. He’s quiet for a moment while Jason cracks the eggs and whisks them together with the veggies, then admits, “B’s been pushing me to get the surgery again.”

“You should do it,” Jason says automatically.

“Excuse me?” Dick balks in faux-surprise. “Do my ears deceive me or is Jason Todd siding with Bruce Wayne on something?”

“Only because you’re being a stubborn ass about it,” Jason huffs, flicking an onion stem across the kitchen at him. “Leslie’s been telling you to get that shoulder fixed for years.”

“It’s not that bad.”

“Not that good either,” Jason points out. “Why don’t you just do it and get it over with?”

“Eh…” Dick makes a dismissive gesture.

“It’s because the ortho told him it’d be a minimum three-to-six month recovery time.”

Both Jason and Dick startle when the new voice—hoarse and raspy—joins the mix. They turn to see Tim shuffling into the kitchen, a blanket wrapped around his shoulders. The dark circles under his eyes are reminiscent of a raccoon’s and he’s even paler than usual—which for Tim is saying something. He pauses on his way to the fridge to cough a few times into his elbow—deep, chesty hacks that make Jason wince in sympathy.

That’s bronchitis if he’s ever heard it.

“And how do you know that?” Dick demands, turning on the sick boy with equal parts annoyance and amusement in his tone. “Did you hack my medical records again?”

“It’s hardly ‘hacking’ when I wrote the encryption software for the database myself,” Tim mutters. Reaching the fridge, he retrieves a metal water bottle and takes a sip, wincing as he swallows. “Ow,” he breathes out, then starts hacking into his elbow again.

“Did you even use the cough syrup I bought you?” Dick asks as Jason flips the omelette over.

“You got me the menthol one,” Tim croaks, wrinkling up his nose in disgust. “It tastes–” He cuts himself off, coughing a few more times. “Tastes like ass. Said I wanted cherry.”

“CVS was out of cherry.”

“You could’ve gone to–” Tim breaks into another coughing fit, this one going on long enough that Dick takes pity on him and limps over to help him cross the kitchen and collapse down onto the breakfast nook bench. Jason, meanwhile, starts the kettle going for tea.

Tim’s wheezing by the time the fit has subsided. “Could’ve gone to Walgreens. God...” he groans, resting his elbows on the table and balling up his fists to press into his eyes. “Can’t wait till I’m eighteen and I can buy my own friggin' Robitussin.”

Jason snorts, sliding the omelette off the pan and onto a plate. “Your problem is you’re trying to buy it in Bristol. Go to Crime Alley and I guarantee you, no one is carding minors for cough syrup.”

“Yeah, no one’s carding them for handguns either,” Dick mutters.

Jason flips him off, scowling, and like the grown man he is, Dick sticks his tongue out in return.

Tossing a fork onto the plate, Jason slides it across the counter at Dick—who for some reason has gone back to leaning against the fridge. “Bon appetit, dumbass. Get the surgery.”

“Mind your business,” Dick grumbles. He pokes at the eggs a bit, looking unenthused.

The tea kettle whistles, so Jason takes it off the heat and makes a mug of chamomile. He sets it down in front of Tim—who’s coughing again so much that he can only nod his thanks.

“Want some eggs?” he offers, mostly because there’s still half a diced onion on the counter and Jason hates being wasteful.

Tim shakes his head, the coughs finally subsiding. “‘M allergic,” he rasps out.

Jason blinks at him. “Since when?”

“...Since ever?”

Jason stares at him. “But I’ve seen you eat eggs before. Like, many times.”

Tim flaps a hand dismissively. “I’m not deathly allergic. I eat ‘em whenever Alfie makes them not to be rude. I just usually throw up after.”

“Timmy!” Dick whirls his head around in shock. “What the hell?”

“Not on purpose!” Tim croaks. “They just mess up my stomach, I dunno. And it’s not every time, it’s just that my throat already hurts so I don’t wanna risk it.”

Jason blinks at him again. “Okay there’s self-sacrificial bullshit, and then there’s whatever the fresh hell that is.” He crosses over to the pantry and pulls out a canister of stone-ground cornmeal. “Eat your eggs,” he orders at Dick, seeing the still-untouched plate.

Dick makes a face. “These are like, forty percent green pepper.”

“They’re good for you,” Jason retorts. He fills a small pot with equal parts water and milk and sets it on the stove to boil with a few dashes of salt. “Vitamin A and C and all that shit.”

“I already take vitamins.”

“I don’t think Flintstones chewables count.” Jason measures out a cup full of cornmeal and sets it aside. 

“Then why are they the pediatrician’s number one choice?” Dick challenges.

“You do know you’re twenty-eight, right?”

“I’m a child at heart.” He stabs a piece of pepper with the fork and brings it warily to his lips, then immediately shudders. “Eugh. Yeah, no, still nasty.” He pushes the plate away.

Jason rolls his eyes. “This is the last time I cook for you.”

“Not like I asked.”

“You took Vicodin, moron. You need to eat or you’re gonna fucking hurl.”

“I’m not gonna hurl.”

“Yes you will,” Tim says tiredly, head hunched over the steaming mug of tea. “You’ve got the weakest stomach out of any of us. And you’re the whiniest when you’re sick.”

Dick scoffs. “That’s rich coming from Mr. ‘I’ve Been Puking Eggs Twice a Month for the Past Four Years.’”

“Yeah but I’m not a little bitch about it.”

While Tim and Dick continue to bicker, Jason cranks the heat up on the larger pot of simmering liquid, and the tiny bubbles begin to grow in size. Then he grabs a silicon spatula and starts stirring the cornmeal into the small pot of water and milk—which is now boiling.

“What are you making?” Tim asks curiously. 

Jason points at the first pot. “Lobster thermidor–”

Tim covers his face with his hands. “You’re such an ass, Jay,” he mutters into them.

“–and for you, I’m making grits,” he finishes, nodding to the pot of corn mush he’s stirring. “You’re fucking welcome.”

“Grits?” Tim looks up again, wrinkling his nose. “That’s like, baby food.”

“Uh, excuse me?” Jason balks at him. “I think you mean a fucking delicious southern staple.”

“I’m not even hungry.”

Jason points his spatula at him threateningly. “Do I look like I care?”

Tim opens his mouth to retort something, but due to another coughing jag, Jason doesn’t find out what. It’s probably for the best.

As Tim’s getting his breath back, Jason unwraps the lobsters and drops them into the boiling stock. He covers the pot, then checks the cookbook and turns to Dick. “I need the mushrooms, a lemon, and some butter,” he orders, pointing to the fridge.

Dick sighs and pushes himself away from the fridge door again while Jason gives the grits another few stirs. It’s thickening up nicely.

“Here,” Dick says, handing over the items. Then he closes the door again and goes back to leaning.

“Why aren’t you sitting down?” Jason asks. He gestures over at the breakfast nook. “I know Tiny Tim’s got the plague over there, but I would’ve thought your ironclad Flintstones immune system could take it.”

At that, Tim barks out a laugh so suddenly that it triggers another round of coughing.

“What?” Jason gives him a quizzical look. “It wasn’t that funny.”

If he didn’t know any better, he’d swear he sees Dick’s face flush. “He’s delirious,” the older boy mumbles. “Fever, you know...”

“Not,” a new voice says sharply, and all three boys jump—Jason so badly that he jerks the spatula and accidentally flings some grits across the stove.

“Jesus Christ, Cass,” he breathes out, still clutching his chest. “How long have you been here?”

Cassandra emerges from the shadows on the far end of the kitchen, grinning. “Long time. Heard you come in.”

“‘S that why you’re up?” Tim rasps out. “We bein’ too loud?”

She shakes her head. “Up before, too. Not a sleeping night.”

They all nod in understanding. Ever since Cass first joined the family, they’ve been aware of her little idiosyncrasies, including her proclivity to silently patrol the Manor some nights instead of sleeping. Dinah says it’s anxiety that causes Cass to not always feel safe in her own room, and Cass just shrugs at that.

Cass’s eyes sparkle mischievously. She points a finger at Dick. “Can’t sit. Because…” She points at her own rear end, then mimes a kicking motion, which causes Tim to bark out another cough-laugh and Dick to groan and slide a hand over his face in exasperation.

“Cass...” he whines.

“Wait, wait…” Jason feels the corners of his mouth spreading into a shit-eating grin. “Dickhead… is she saying you literally got your ass kicked?”

More cough-laughs from Tim, and a louder groan from Dick.

Cass nods, grinning. “Boot,” she adds. “Steel toe.”

Jason is doubled over laughing now. “Oh my god, Dick. You got your fucking ass kicked!”

Dick shoots him a glare. “It’s called a fractured tailbone, Jason,” he says through gritted teeth. “And I’ll have you know, I was winning that fight until the shoulder went out.”

“See?!” both Jason and Tim exclaim in unison, but Dick only scowls.

Once Jason’s managed to wipe the tears from his eyes, the grits are bubbling. He turns off the heat and dishes up a bowlful, shoulders still shaking with silent giggles. After adding a pat of butter to the top and some more salt, he sets it down in front of Tim, along with a spoon.

“Thanks,” Tim mumbles, and to Jason’s surprise, he actually picks up the spoon and starts eating. 

(Then again, given his history with the eggs, that doesn’t mean much from him.)

Jason turns to Cass. “And what would you like from the short order cook tonight?” he sighs.

Her face twists up in thought. “Meat,” she answers after a second’s deliberation.

“Meat?” Jason echoes. “Any particular kind?”

She shrugs. “Any. Not picky.”

“But you don’t want grits?”

Her face scrunches up. “Not a baby.”

“Why does everyone keep calling it baby food?” Jason demands hotly. He rips the plastic off the top of the mushroom container and starts rinsing the dirt off them in the sink. “Grits are a fucking delicacy. If I called it polenta would you eat it?”

Cass shakes her head. “I have teeth,” she says simply. “Want meat.”

“Of course you do…” Jason mutters under his breath, but it only makes her grin again. “O Great Guardian of the Fridge,” he addresses Dick with a mocking little bow. “Bacon, if you would be so kind.”

Dick tosses him a tired salute and gets it out. He’s looking progressively more dead on his feet, so Jason knows the drugs must be finally kicking in now.

Jason turns back to Cass with a sigh. “Do you know what a donut pillow is?” he asks.

She nods, swooping her hands around in a circle to outline its shape. “For sitting.”

“Exactly.” Jason returns the nod. “The old man keeps one upstairs in his bedroom closet for bad back days. Think you can sneak in and grab it without waking him?”

“Easy,” she says confidently, and Jason snorts. Bruce is a notoriously light sleeper, but he supposes if anyone has a hope of getting in and out undetected, it’s the resident trained ninja assassin.

“I don’t need the donut, Cass,” Dick grumbles as Jason takes two pans—one larger frying one, and a smaller sauté pan—and sets them both on the stove.

Cass shakes her head back and forth a few times. “Dumb brother...” she sighs fondly, and then slips out of the room without a single sound. 

While she’s gone, Jason starts the mushrooms stewing with butter and lemon juice in the sauté pan. Then to the larger pan, he adds bacon strips, dropping them in carefully with tongs to avoid getting splashed with grease when they sizzle.

Cass returns a few minutes later, donut pillow tucked under her arm. She skips back through the kitchen and deposits it on the bench opposite Tim at the breakfast nook. “Sit,” she says sweetly.

“Mm…” Dick hums a bit, causing Jason to glance up from the stove. His brother has his eyes closed and is leaning the back of his head against the fridge door, breathing shallowly through his half-open mouth. 

“Well? Go sit down before you fall asleep standing up,” Jason orders, pointing across the room at the bench. “You’ve broken enough bones for one day.”

“Mm-hmm,” Dick hums again, and slowly pushes himself away from the support of the fridge. He shuffles slowly over to the bench and sits down on the pillow with a sigh, immediately resting his forehead down on the table.

“You didn’t bring your omelette,” Tim points out.

“Don’t want it,” Dick mumbles into the table top.

“Well I didn’t make it for show,” Jason scoffs. “Cass”—he nods toward the barely touched plate on the counter—“can you bring him his omelette?”

“Noo…” Dick groans, just bordering on a whine. “I can’t eat that.”

“Oh grow up, Richard, it’s a fucking pepper,” Jason grumbles while Cass sets the plate down in front of him.

Dick gulps audibly, the smallest of moans escaping.

“Dick…?” Tim asks warily, pulling the plate back away from him. “Are you gonna–”

“Trying not to,” he grits out.

“Oh for fuck’s sake!” Jason exclaims in exasperation, abandoning the bacon to move to the pantry. “What did we fucking tell you! Cass, get a–”

“Bowl,” she agrees readily, racing over to the appropriate cabinet.

“Tim!” Jason grabs a sleeve of saltines from a box in the pantry and lobs it across the kitchen. Tim—who isn’t even looking up—shoots out a hand to catch it on reflex. 

Cass plops an empty mixing bowl down in front of Dick. He immediately sits up and pulls it over to him, breathing heavily. Tim rips the crackers open and shoves one into Dick’s hand, bending his fingers around it.

“Eat,” Tim orders, and this time Dick obliges, bringing the saltine up to his mouth with a grimace and starting to nibble at it while Jason grabs a can of ginger ale from the fridge and plunks it down in front of him.

After a few tense minutes, it seems as though the danger has passed. Dick is breathing a little more evenly now that he’s gotten down three of the crackers and about half the soda, and most of the color has returned to his face.

“Now what have we learned here?” Jason asks in a faux sweet voice as he plates up the cooked bacon, but Dick just gives him a withering look.

Jason passes off the bacon to Cass, who beams back at him, touching her chin with her fingertips and extending her hand forward in the sign for thanks. She carries it over to the table and slides in next to Tim to start munching on it.

“When did Todd arrive?”

For the goddamn fourth time that night, Jason startles at the voice of their newest intruder, and he drops the now-cooked lobster that he was fishing out of the pot with a pair of tongs straight back into the boiling liquid. It splashes back up at his hand and he shakes it, cursing.

“Someone’s jumpy,” Tim snorts.

A bitter part of Jason nearly snaps back that yeah, that’s what fucking happens when you’ve spent the last sixteen days held in some bunker being mildly tortured for information, but that’s also not really something he wants to get into at the moment, so he settles for a glare.

Damian steps further into the kitchen, and Jason can see now that he’s holding Alfred the cat, stroking his fur absently. He side-eyes Jason. “Are you cooking Father’s birthday lobster?” 

“Bad week,” Jason answers through gritted teeth.

“Tt,” Damian lets out a tiny scoff, but it’s lacking its usual heat. He crosses the kitchen and climbs up onto the bench next to Dick, Alfred still clutched tightly in his arms, then leans his head up against Dick’s good shoulder. 

“...Dames?” Dick asks quietly, but Damian just shakes his head, eyes closed, so Dick wraps his arm around him and starts gently rubbing his back.

Jason catches Tim’s gaze and they both exchange a look of ‘what the fuck?’

Cass makes eye contact with Jason and slowly lifts one hand up in front of her mouth, palm in, fingers in a claw shape. She twists it outward. Hot. Then she makes a c-shape with the same hand and circles it on top of the opposite fist. Chocolate.

Jason frowns at her. And then all of a sudden, it clicks.

He nods back and starts the kettle going again. 

(After all, even Jason still has nightmares about his time with the League.)

While Dick whispers quietly in Damian’s ear, Jason spends the next few minutes working on the thermidor, adding the mushrooms and some cream to the lobster stock and starting to reduce it over the heat. Cass slips out of her seat and comes over to help, so Jason points at the diagrams in the cookbook which show how to split the lobster shells to remove the meat and she rolls up her sleeves and gets to work. 

Tim, meanwhile, pulls out his phone and starts scrolling idly through it. On the surface, he appears totally indifferent, but Jason’s known him long enough to realize that’s just how he gives people space when they need it. 

(Jason’s suspicions are further confirmed when he comes over to place a mug of cocoa down in front of Damian and classical music begins playing very softly from the kitchen’s speakers—Tim still not glancing up from the glowing screen.)

Overall, it’s quite peaceful. That is, until Jason nearly shits himself when he turns around to see a blonde-haired face above the sink.

Stephanie waves at him, smiling brightly. Open up, she mouths through the window, pointing up at the locking mechanism.

“Oh fuck no.” He reaches up for the cord and pulls the blinds closed.

There’s a moment’s pause, and then he hears knuckles rapping against the glass.

Heaving out a sigh, Jason opens the blinds again. Stephanie makes a pouting face at him as he unlatches the window. 

“Rude,” she remarks as she swings her legs over and climbs in.

“Fuck you, Blondie,” Jason mutters. “It’s like you’re trying to finish me off a second time.”

“It’s only natural, Zombie Boy.” She turns to take in the rest of the room. “So what’s this, like the world’s saddest breakfast club?”

Jason and Tim both wince at that, but Damian just sits up straight and takes a sip of his cocoa with a smirk of amusement. “It is now that you’re here, Brown,” he quips.

“Aw, love you too, Baby Bat,” Stephanie gushes, hopping over to ruffle his hair. 

Damian scowls and shakes the hair back into place.

“So to what do we owe the pleasure of this visit?” Jason asks in a deadpan.

“Oh, I was actually coming here for Cass,” Stephanie explains, causing the other girl to poke her head up from the lobster. “We’ve been texting all night ‘cus I was up writing my Econ paper, and then like, an hour ago, I sent her a burning philosophical question, and she left me on read,” she says, narrowing her gaze in Cass’s direction. “And she hasn’t answered a single text since.”

“Sorry.” Cass shrugs, looking a little sheepish. “Busy.” She inclines her head down to the lobster shell.

“Yeah, speaking of that, why the heck are you two shucking a lobster at five in the morning?” she demands. 

Cass nods sideways to the open cookbook, so Steph walks over to peer over Cass’s shoulder at it. “Oh.” Her brow wrinkles up. “Is this like, some kind of birthday surprise?”

Jason snorts. “In a manner of speaking.”

“Interesting.” She turns back to the room. “Anyway, it’s actually great that you’re all up because now we have enough people for a whole philosophical debate.”

“What’s the burning question?” Tim croaks.

Stephanie grins widely. “Whether or not Spider-Man would stick to a non-stick pan.”

Jason blinks at her. Then he points back at the window. “Get out.”

“Aw, but I just got here!” She places her hands on the counter behind her and pushes herself up to sit on top of it. “I wanna hear all of your arguments.”

“Alright, I’ll bite. What kind of non-stick pan?” Dick asks, looking genuinely thoughtful.

“Oh I dunno.” Stephanie shrugs. “Let’s say teflon.”

“Teflon is shit,” Jason scoffs, getting out another mug. “It scrapes off if you scratch it with a fork. He’d definitely stick to teflon.”

“Alright, let’s say ceramic then,” she amends. 

“What’s the surface area of the pan?” Tim asks tiredly.

Damian frowns. “Why would that matter, Drake? Spider-Man himself has a limited surface area with which to adhere.”

“He has a fever, Dami, be nice...” Dick mutters under his breath.

“What? No it would still matter.” Tim looks up, brow pinched in confusion. “Wait… wouldn’t it?”

Dick pats his arm. “It’s okay, Tim.”

Cass clears her throat sharply, diverting everyone’s attention over to her. She’s holding the handle of a non-stick pan in each hand, using them to chop at the air, karate style. Atop her head, a third pan is balanced upside down like a hat. “Greatest enemy. Pan-Man,” she declares with a grin.

“Yes!” Stephanie exclaims happily. “Now we’re getting somewhere!”

Jason hands her a mug of hot chocolate. “Here, join Breakfast Club.”

She winces, sucking in a breath through her teeth. “Ooh, I would, but I’m only eating raw foods this week.”

“But this isn’t a food,” Jason argues. “It’s a beverage.”

“Yeahhh… but I think it still counts.”

Dick frowns at her. “Steph, you’re not doing one of those weird detox cleanses are you? Because they can be really unhealthy in the long run if–”

“Relax!” She laughs, holding up her hands in a placating gesture. “It’s not a cleanse, okay? It’s a bet.”

“A bet?” Tim repeats skeptically. 

“This really annoying guy from my statistics class, Kevin Nelson, bet me fifty bucks I couldn’t go raw vegan for a week.”

“Do you see Kevin Nelson here?” Jason scoffs, gesturing around the kitchen. “Because I sure don’t.”

Stephanie rolls her eyes. “Sheesh, it’s called integrity, Jason. I intend to win this fifty bucks fair and square.” She glances over to Cass and grins. “And then the two of us are gonna use them to go hit up House of 'Que downtown for two slabs of baby back ribs.”

Cass licks her lips, touching her middle finger and thumb together before pulling them away from her mouth. Delicious.

Damian rolls his eyes, muttering something about omnivores and weakness.

“Fine then,” Jason huffs. He plucks a banana from the hanging fruit basket and chucks it at her head. “Happy Breakfast.”

The banana bounces off Stephanie’s elbow and she has to fumble to catch it. “Thanks,” she says cheerily, already starting to unpeel it. “I appreciate the support.”

“Whoa, is this still the night shift?”

(Jason is pleased to report that he does not startle when Duke suddenly enters the room.)

(Well, at least not much.)

“It’s the madrugada shift,” Stephanie replies. “Which reminds me, Jay–” She looks over at him, sticking her lip out in a pout. “You said you were gonna help me with my Spanish homework this semester.”

Jason scoffs. “Uh, I never said that.” He starts spooning the lobster mixture back into the shells. “You were the one who said that I was gonna help you with your Spanish homework.” 

“Aw, c’mon,” she pleads. “I suck at Spanish. I bombed that last quiz on preterite tense, so I’ve got a D going right now.”

“Not like I’m the only bilingual here...” Jason grumbles.

“You should ask Bruce,” Tim suggests. “He knows like, sixteen languages.”

Stephanie snorts. “Hard pass, but thanks.”

“I know Spanish,” Duke says casually. “I went to one of those elementary schools with a bilingual program until fifth grade. We did half the classes in English, half in Spanish, so we all learned both.”

“Ooh, hola new BFF!” Stephanie skips over to Duke and loops her arm through his. She looks back at Jason. “Jay, you’re fired.”

“I’m crying on the inside.”

While the others continue to banter back and forth in the background, Jason finishes assembling the thermidor and slides it into the preheated oven. Then he heads back to the pantry and starts pulling out dry ingredients. 

“Duke,” he hollers over Stephanie’s chatter, and the boy looks up. “You’re getting pancakes. You’re welcome.”

“Hm.” Duke’s face twists up in thought. “I’ve never had a pancake.”

The room goes silent. And then it explodes.

“You…” Dick blinks at him. “You’ve never had a pancake?” 

“You’re joking right?” Tim demands. “This is a joke.”

“Duke!” Stephanie looks aghast. “Everyone in the world has had a pancake.”

“Even my grandfather’s servants prepared us pancakes on occasion,” Damian adds.

Duke shrugs. “My mom has celiac disease, so we never really ate gluten growing up, and at the foster homes, I was lucky if they tossed a box of cereal at me in the mornings. Then ever since I’ve been here, everyone’s told me Alfred’s pancakes are terrible, so I figured why start now?”

“Alright, that is true,” Jason allows, taking out the griddle. “Don’t eat Alfie’s pancakes.”

Cass gives a solemn nod. “Hockey pucks,” she agrees.

“Yeah, we don’t really know what the problem is,” Dick says with a grimace. “The rest of his cooking is all really good...”

“We think he might be doing it on purpose,” Tim throws in.

“But Jay’s pancakes are great!” Stephanie assures.

Duke watches warily as Jason starts to measure out the flour. “I dunno man, I’ve made it sixteen years without a pancake—I kinda wanna see how long I can go now.”

“Tt. What utter foolishness,” Damian huffs. “What would be the point of that?”

Duke grins. “I guess it’s like a badge of pride at this point.”

“Pride of what?” Stephanie balks. “Denying yourself one of life’s true pleasures?”

“You’re one to talk,” Jason mutters as he cracks eggs into the bowl. “You just went raw vegan.”

“Well screw that!” she exclaims, throwing her hands up dramatically. “Fifty bucks is not nearly as important as participating in my new bestie’s first pancake experience!”

“Still don’t know if I want to try pancakes, guys…”

“No one is leaving this kitchen until you eat a fucking pancake, Duke!”

The bickering goes on for the next ten minutes or so, right up until Jason is taking the first batch of pancakes off the griddle. He stacks them onto a plate, then passes it down the counter to where Steph and Cass have laid out just about every possible condiment that could ‘enhance the pancake experience.’

(Peer pressure eventually wins out and Duke eats a fucking pancake. He declares it, fine and about what I expected.)

Beneath his siblings’ chatter, Jason can feel himself starting to fade as he ladles the next round of batter onto the griddle. He supposes it makes sense—he’s been on his feet cooking non-stop for the last two hours, and prior to that he was driving the escape jeep back to Gotham, and prior to that he was taking down a drug lord, and prior to that there was the whole captivity thing, and prior to that–

The oven beeps, and Jason sighs and pulls on the oven mitts in a daze before opening the door. He’s just managed to remove the pan of golden-brown-crusted lobster tails and set it on the stove when one final voice interrupts his evening.

“...Jay?” 

Jason turns—a bit too quickly, as it causes his head to rush—to see Bruce standing in the doorway, fully dressed in his business clothes.

Greetings of ‘Hey Bruce’ and ‘Good morning, Father’ and ‘Happy birthday, B!' issue around the room, but Jason and Bruce are locked in a stare.

“Is that…” Bruce’s gaze falls to the stovetop, and then suddenly, the old man looks so touched he might just start tearing up. “Did you make me…lobster thermidor?”

“Fuck no,” Jason snorts out, even though it makes his ears ring. “I stole your…” He takes a breath, black spots dancing before his eyes, the room feeling suddenly farther away. “Your lobster therm… thermi…”

Almost before Jason realizes his knees are buckling under him, Bruce is there at his side, grabbing him by the elbows and lowering him down to sit on the ground, back propped against the kitchen island. Jason squeezes his eyes shut against the wave of dizziness.

The room has erupted into absolute chaos now, with little cries of ‘What happened?’ and ‘Jay, what’s wrong?’ and and ‘Does anyone know if he’s hurt?’ and ‘I haven’t seen him patrol in a while…’

“Jay,” Bruce says urgently, and then someone is coaxing a straw to his lips. “I need you to drink this, son.”

Jason grunts and twists his head away because he’s actually feeling kind of sick all of a sudden and he definitely does not want to drink anything. But the straw follows his movements, so he finally gives in and sucks on it. The sweet tang of orange juice fills his mouth.

“That’s it. Keep going, lad...” Bruce encourages.

After a few more sips, Jason pulls back and cracks an eyelid open to see seven pairs of worried eyes staring back at him. 

Jason makes a face. “Who the fuck is buying extra-pulp OJ…” he murmurs.

There are multiple relieved exhales, but Bruce just asks seriously, “Jason, when’s the last time you ate something?” 

“Uh…” That is actually kind of a good question, now that he thinks about it. He and Roy had taken advantage of the last rice and beans delivery to make their move, so they hadn’t gotten to eat that meal, and then they hadn’t had any money on them during the drive back, so no stops there… “What day ‘s it?”

Bruce pinches the bridge of his nose in exasperation. “Will one of you please get him some food?”

Once again, the kitchen breaks into a flurry of movement and noise.

“Pancakes! Give me pancakes!”

“–got a whole stack of crackers left–”

"Get a plate–"

“Duke! Catch!”

“–think there’s still grits on the stove–”

“Grab that omelette, Steph!”

“–half a banana–”

“Where’d the bacon go? Does anyone see the bacon?”

“Here, Todd, I have some cocoa left–”

Before Jason knows what’s happening, Stephanie is setting a plate heaped with food down onto his lap. He blinks at it dizzily as Cass guides a fork into one shaking hand, while Damian closes the fingers of Jason’s other hand around the handle of a mug.

“Jason?” Tim asks, holding out a separate plate with a whole stuffed lobster tail on it. “Did you want this instead?”

Jason’s stomach rolls at the thought and he grimaces before finally admitting the truth: 

“I fucking hate lobster thermidor.”

Bruce huffs out a short, breathy laugh. “I know, Jay,” he says, leaning back and rubbing his hand comfortingly up and down his son’s arm. “You always have.”