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Jason invites Tim over for his birthday. Bruce is in traction, Dick is in space, and Jason knows that no amount of bribing or begging from either of them would get Tim to spend his twenty-first with Damian. He feels a little bad. So, he texts Tim, come over for ur birthday. ill make cake.
Unfairly, Tim responds with a picture of Dick’s ass.
Jason hesitates for a moment, then sends him a lettuce emoji and a question mark.
yea ok, says Tim, and that’s the end of it.
-
Tim shows up with a messenger bag and a crushed half of a grocery store birthday cake. “Nice,” Jason says. “Did you get that from work?”
“Cassie and Kon, for your information,” Tim says, and flings his bag onto Jason’s couch, then sets the cake on the coffee table. “God, it smells good in here.”
“It’d better,” Jason says, opening the lid of his Crock-Pot and giving it a stir. “I’ve been slaving over it for hours.”
He pours a glass of red wine for Tim. Tim takes the glass and watches him, an eyebrow raised. “You consider dumping a bunch of shit into a Crock-Pot and letting it sit for a few hours particularly onerous work?”
Jason waves his comments aside with his spoon. “It’s the principle of the thing, Timbers. Besides, there’s all kinds of stuff you can screw up, cooking like this. Ratios and shit.”
“Uh huh,” Tim says. He takes a sip of his wine. “What is this?”
“A Cabernet,” Jason says evenly, and pulls the garlic bread out of the oven, setting it on the stove. “It should probably open up a bit more. You like it?”
“It’s fine,” says Tim, with a voice clearly expressing the fact that it is not.
“Yeah, I bet it wasn’t exactly the substance you were planning on abusing tonight, turning twenty-one like this,” he says, amused at Tim’s obviousness. “Probably too tannic for you.” He tosses Tim his real birthday gift.
“Oh my God,” Tim says, catching the Ziploc. “Jason.”
Jason grins.
-
Tim wants to smoke up immediately, but Jason has other plans. He’s got two and a half cups of weed butter chilling in his fridge and a recipe for a truly transcendent birthday cake. Jason manages to distract Tim for long enough to get the garlic bread sliced and on the table. Once Tim is inhaling slices of it like he hasn’t eaten all day, which, maybe he hasn’t, he tells Tim his plan.
Tim chokes on his garlic bread. “Oh my God,” he says for the second time that night.
-
Jason’s molten chocolate lava cake recipe is directly adapted from Food & Wine. It’s basically about seventy percent chocolate, twenty percent butter, and ten percent other baking shit. He always uses single-origin dark chocolate, real high end stuff. He owns the special fucking ramekins, for God’s sake. He’s never gotten any complaints.
Still, it’s a little harder to make when short, obnoxious siblings are constantly and literally getting underfoot. “I can’t believe I’m getting some signature Jason Todd weed brownies to start off my twenty-first birthday,” Tim says. “Really feeling the love, Jase.”
Jason whaps Tim on the head with his (thankfully clean) whisk when the idiot tries to steal a chunk of carefully chopped chocolate. “First of all,” he says, “they’re weed lava cakes, idiot. Second of all, I’ve never done this before, so if it turns out like shit, it’ll be your fault.”
Tim sputters. “How does that even work? You’re experimenting on my birthday cake, and if you fuck it up, it’s my fault?” He takes a bite out of his garlic bread and uses his index finger to poke at Jason’s bowl of chilled weed butter.
“I’m trying to concentrate,” Jason says. How many tablespoons had he added? “There’s math involved with this, baby bird.”
“Uh huh,” Tim says. He swipes a piece of chocolate. “I bet I do more drugs than you do.”
“Probably,” Jason says, adjusting the double boiler and dumping the chocolate in.
“I don’t know how anyone ever thought you were cool,” Tim says, licking the finger that’s been in the butter. “I don’t know how I ever thought you were cool. You’re a wine snob and you like going to the theater and you’re using a scale to measure shit for your weed brownies. What the fuck, Jase.”
“You’re such a jerk,” Jason says, stirring the chocolate.
“Takes one to know one,” says Tim. “You got any more garlic bread?”
Jason sighs.
-
Tim eats his first lava cake sitting on Jason’s ugly brown couch, hunching over his plate so he doesn’t drip molten chocolate on his designer jeans. Jason watches in disgusted fascination. Unlike Tim, he’d had the patience to scoop some Ben and Jerry’s vanilla ice cream onto his plate and top it off with a few raspberries.
“Holy shit,” Tim says, licking his fingers and then the plate. “I am never getting high any other way now. How much do I have to pay you to make me weed lava cakes every day for the rest of my life. Holy fucking shit.”
“Um,” Jason says, watching as Tim uses his middle finger to swipe up drops of chocolate from the plate. Absently, he wonders about all of the places where Tim’s disgusting little fingers have gone. “I could. I could freeze some. For special occasions.”
“Good enough for me,” Tim says. “Can I have another one?”
“There’s like seven and a half milligrams in one,” Jason says. “I’m not trying to kill you. So, no. You can have some ice cream?”
“You’re a wimp,” Tim says. He makes eye contact with Jason and licks his plate. “Seven and a half is nothing to me.”
“Sure,” Jason says. “Still not letting you have another one.”
Tim pouts.
-
Forty-five minutes later, Tim has bullied Jason into splitting another lava cake with him. They have finished the pint of Ben and Jerry’s. Jason is lying on the ugly couch and staring at the popcorn ceiling. Its texture is infinitely fascinating. Jason could probably stare at it for another twenty minutes. Hell, he could stare at it for another hour.
“Jason,” Tim says, from the floor.
“Yeah?” Jason asks.
“You should let me have another lava cake,” Tim says. “I bet you barely put any in.”
“I think you’re just hungry,” says Jason. It’s possible he thinks that Tim is hungry because he himself is hungry.
“Maybe,” Tim allows. “But we don’t have any more food.”
Jason thinks about this for a moment. “I could make more garlic bread.”
Tim shakes his head. “I want real snacks.”
“You should’ve brought your own,” Jason says. “You tell me you do drugs all the time.”
“It’s my birthday,” Tim whines. It’s a very convincing argument.
-
Tim diligently checks Jason before they leave the house. Jason is so grateful for attentive younger siblings. “Keys?”
Jason nods.
“Wallet?”
Another nod.
“Phone?”
Jason pats his pocket.
“Good,” says Tim. “We’re ready.” He opens the door.
“Wait, Timmers,” Jason says. He stuffs his feet into a pair of shoes sitting by the front door.
Tim nods appreciatively. “Now we’re ready.”
-
Fortunately, the bodega is maybe fifteen feet away from Jason’s apartment. This is fortunate because Jason is not sure whether his feet are actually making contact with the sidewalk.
“You’re wearing shoes,” Tim points out.
Jason looks down at his feet. “Right,” he says.
Also fortunately, it is Luisa and not either of her extremely Catholic parents who is working tonight. Jason nods at her as they enter, and Tim smiles at her before disappearing to find his snacks. Jason props himself up against a stack of newspapers and tries to remember that he’s wearing shoes.
Tim reappears what feels like seconds or maybe hours later with a lot of brightly colored packages. “Ready?” he asks Jason.
“No,” Jason says. He selects a small bag of peanut butter crackers from the rack. Now he is ready.
They pile their snacks in front of Luisa, an offering of hydrogenated oils and potatoes.
“Nice evening?” Jason gets out as she rings them up, struggling to get the cash out of the cavernous depths of his wallet.
“Uh huh,” she says wryly, pushing their snacks towards them.
“Well,” Jason says, struggling to grab everything. Tim is just staring. “If you, you know, need anything.”
He stumbles away from the counter and almost knocks over the newspapers.
“Idiot white boys,” she says, rolling her eyes. Jason tries to smile apologetically. Luisa waves him off, but she’s smiling too.
-
It takes them a little while to open the door to Jason’s apartment. “Why did we lock it?” Tim asks, trying to hold his snacks in one arm and slide the key into the hole with the other.
“I don’t know,” says Jason, who is gripping his bag of peanut butter crackers with both hands, so tightly that his knuckles are white. “Were we afraid of crime?”
They look at each other. They burst into laughter.
“Fuck, Jason,” Tim gasps, almost doubled over from laughter, most of his snacks on the floor, finally pushing the key into the hole.
Jason doesn’t know what’s so funny, but he’s laughing so hard that tears are in his eyes. “Oh my God,” he says, as they stumble into the apartment, tripping over Tim’s snacks. “Tim. Wait, Tim. Your snacks.”
Tim sits down on the floor. “It’s fine,” he says. “We can just eat yours.”
Jason sits down too, clutching his peanut butter crackers to his chest. “Tim,” he says, scandalized.
“What?” Tim says. “It’s my birthday.”
“Your bitchday,” Jason says nonsensically. “‘Sides, they’ll get stolen if you leave them out there.”
Tim flops onto the floor, legs splayed out. His head makes a nasty thunking sound as it smacks against the coffee table leg. “So they get stolen,” Tim says, sleepily. “What do we care about crime.”
“Oh my God ,” Jason says. He can’t decide if he wants to laugh or cry. “It’s your fucking birthday.”
“So?” says Tim. He seems a lot less stoned than Jason, which is deeply unfair, given the fact that Tim definitely ate a lot more of the second lava cake. “I’m a year closer to death. Yay.”
“But-” Jason says, struggling to get the words out. “But, Tim. Death is arbitrary. You could die anytime. Someone could throw a manhole cover at you and break your tibia. And your fibula.” Alarming, Jason feels himself starting to cry.
“Oh my god, chill out,” Tim says, annoyed. “You are harshing my mellow.”
“And you could be sitting in a full-body cast in the Cave with Bruce by the end of the year!” Jason shrieks, hysterical.
Tim shrugs and crawls to the door to fetch his snacks. “It is what it is,” Tim says philosophically, opening his bag of chips. “We’re lucky I made it this far.”
“Yeah,” Jason says morosely. “Real fucking lucky, I guess.”
“Awe, Jase-”
“No, no,” Jason says, sitting up. “I’m so fucking serious. You gotta call Dad. You gotta - oh my God, Tim, you’re fucking twenty-one and you don’t have a will yet, what the fuck-”
“Jase, chill out,” Tim says. He eats a chip. His pupils are huge.
“No,” says Jason, feeling belligerent, scrambling for his phone. “You’ve gotta call Dad, you’ve gotta get your will written. Or do you want your computer going to Damian?”
“We’re billionaires, he’s not gonna give him-” Tim pauses for a minute. “Wait, you really think he’ll actually give Damian my gaming PC? As in, the one I built myself? With my own hands? Like, actually?”
“He gave away Robin,” Jason says, digging through his pockets for his burner.
Tim stares at him. “I stole Robin,” Tim says, trying to snatch the phone away from Jason. Jason holds the phone up so Tim can’t reach it. “And, you’re such a fucking dick, whatever, he’s not actually-”
“Yes, he is,” Jason says insistently, dialing Bruce’s number with one hand, the other batting away Tim’s attempts to grab it. “You’ve gotta get this shit figured out so he doesn’t give Dami your stuff.”
Tim grabs the phone and casts it across the living room. “Jason, buddy, we’re both high as shit, Bruce is gonna kill us if we-”
The phone rings.
Tim and Jason stare at the phone on the floor. “Oh my God,” Tim whispers loudly. “Jason, oh my God.”
“I know,” Jason hisses. “Should we-”
“No, Jason, what the fuck, no-”
“Boys?” They hear from the phone. Their heads snap up at the sound.
“Oh, fuck,” says Tim lowly.
“Tim?” Bruce asks. “Jason?”
“Dad?” Jason says, to Tim’s frantic shushing motions.
“Shut up, Jase, shut up,” Tim hisses. “Oh my God, we’re gonna get in trouble, shut the fuck up-”
“Jason? Son?” Bruce asks, slightly muffled. “Are you alright?”
Upsettingly, Jason starts to cry. “Dad, oh my God. Dad, we screwed up, I made lava cakes and I can’t feel my feet anymore, and Tim’s gonna die and you’re gonna give away his laptop, except you can’t walk, oh my God-”
“Uh, Jay, I’m sure-”
“Dad, oh my God,” Jason cries.
“Jay, kiddo, it’s okay,” Bruce says. “Clearly we’re both stoned out of our minds right now, so. You’re a good kid, and I love you, and it’s going to be okay.”
“You’re not mad?” Jason asks. “You did drugs too?”
“No,” Bruce says, and yawns. “And, yes. Just a little bit. Percocet and one of those gummies in Tim’s desk. Tell Tim happy birthday, and I’m sorry. And have a nice night, alright?” [1]
There’s a beep. Bruce has hung up.
Jason stares at the phone. “Right,” he says slowly. “That was very normal.”
-
Tim and Jason are lying on the ugly couch. Tim has a bag of potato chips wedged between his armpit and the couch. Jason is sitting on Tim’s knees and eating the armpit potato chips.
“Two things,” he says sleepily, then pauses.
Tim blinks at him slowly, as if asking him to continue.
Jason frowns. He doesn’t remember the other thing he was going to say. “One thing. Why did we buy all these snacks if you weren’t going to eat them?”
“Uh,” says Tim.
“Actually, also the other thing. Why the fuck did you buy Ruffles when I know for a fact you could have bought literally anything else?” He bites into a chip for emphasis.
“Ruffles are delicious,” Tim says. “Also, I like textures. When I’m high.”
Jason chews and swallows thoughtfully. The chips do feel nice to chew. “Right,” he says.
“If I could chew vinyl I would,” Tim volunteers, apropos of absolutely nothing. “I’d go nuts for all the ridges.”
“Uh,” says Jason. “So, I should probably not let you pick out something for us to listen to?”
“I can control myself,” Tim says. He pauses. “Actually, maybe you shouldn’t let me see it. I won’t eat it but I’d probably at least lick it.”
“Right,” Jason says.
-
Jason is, in fact, not the one to pick out what they listen to. He sorts through his collection of vinyl, carefully keeping it and its ridges away from Tim, who lounges on the couch while judging every single album Jason suggests as harshly as possible.
“Beach Boys’ Party,” Jason says.
“You think I want to listen to Brian Wilson right now?”
“Run DMC?”
“Nope,” says Tim. “C’mon, pick something cool.”
“More Songs about Buildings and Food?”
“David Byrne? Seriously?”
Jason rolls his eyes. “Dark Side of the Moon?”
“I know you’ve done drugs before,” Tim says mildly. “You’re acting like this is the very first edible you’ve ever had.”
“Jesus, you’re mean,” Jason says, setting the album down on the floor. “Okay, fine. Look, buddy, I didn’t say anything about the Beatles. I didn’t even mention Radiohead. I just, oh, I don’t know, mentioned a giant of classic rock that was a sonic innovation during its time and actually still sounds good , asshole.”
Tim stares at Jason, unblinking.
“We’ll listen to Mississippi John Hurt,” Jason says, and puts Last Sessions on. Tim doesn’t protest.
-
The next morning, Jason and Tim wake up on the floor of the living room. Jason is cuddling a copy of The Dark Side of the Moon. They can’t find Tim’s shoes anywhere.
They are both surprised to find the completely unopened Crock-Pot still warming at least four servings of stew on the kitchen counter. “Right,” Jason says. “Let’s never mention this again.”
“Right,” Tim says.
-
Dick returns from space two days later. Jason is the first to discover this fact by virtue of Dick’s tendency to visit his apartment first, since he is the only one of his siblings to keep a properly stocked fridge. So, Dick wakes Jason up while trying to fry eggs at four-thirty in the morning. Jason stumbles into his kitchen only to be confronted by the sight of his older brother juggling a pile of toast, three overdone-yet-still-undercooked eggs over-medium, and a definitely-ruined non-stick frying pan.
“Jason!” Dick exclaims. “Good morning!”
“Dick…” says Jason. “How, uh. How was space?”
“Excellent!” says Dick, beaming. “And so is that compound butter you’ve got in the fridge! You are a culinary mastermind, Little Wing!”
“The what,” says Jason.
“And you had those lava cakes in the freezer, I had some of those, too,” Dick says, starting to look slightly guilty.
“HOW MANY,” Jason shrieks.
“Just two, chill out, there’s still-”
Jason closes his eyes and silences him with a hand. “Excuse me one minute, Dickiebird,” he says, and goes into the other room.
He dials Tim, who picks up on the first ring.
“Tim,” Jason says. “We. We have a situation, Tim.”
“Hnhh?” Tim asks. He is clearly still half-asleep.
“Tim,” Jason says again. “Dick is at my apartment, Tim.”
“So? Give him some leftovers, he’ll go away.”
“He’s already eaten my food, Tim.”
“Wait, what did he eat?” asks Tim.
Jason lets out a high pitched sob-laugh-scream.
“WHAT DID HE EAT, JASON.”
“You know what he’s eaten, Tim,” says Jason, clutching his phone so hard it might break. “Look, can you - just come over, okay.”
Tim shows up exactly seven minutes later, presumably breaking every one of the traffic laws enforced in Gotham to do so. He climbs through Jason’s window and greets him like a soldier addressing his general right before a death march. “Jason,” he says solemnly.
Jason, who has been hyperventilating into his sweatshirt for the last seven minutes, doesn’t say anything. He points to the door.
“Tim?” Dick calls. “Is that you? Is Jason doing okay?”
“Yeah, he’s fine,” Tim hollers back. “Hey, Dick, he says he’s got some Lucky Charms in the broom closet, you wanna go get them?”
“Sure,” Dick says. They hear doors opening and closing. Jason glances at Tim. Tim nods, determined. They sneak out of the room. Dick is still standing in the broom closet, digging through Jason’s piles of cleaning supplies.
“Oh, hey guys! I don’t see them, are you sure-”
“Yeah, you just gotta look deeper,” Tim says.
“If you say so,” says Dick. When his back is turned, Jason slams the door shut and locks it, then collapses onto the floor.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” Tim says. “Look, do you know if he has anything else going on today?”
“No,” says Jason, putting his head in his hands.
“Hey, guys?” Dick shouts. “I don’t see it.”
“Keep going,” Tim calls. “The cereal’s in there somewhere.”
“Just like in ‘The Cask of Amontillado,’” says Jason.
“What?” asks Tim.
Jason shakes his head and starts rocking back and forth. “Nothing,” he says.
“Hey,” Dick shouts. “The door’s locked, guys.”
“I know,” says Tim. “It’s jammed, we gotta try and get it open.”
“Okay,” says Dick. “Well, that’s fine. I don’t have anything going on today, I guess.”
“Yeah,” Tim says. “Take a nap or something.”
“Sure,” Dick says amiably. “Take your time.”
“We will,” says Tim. Then, to Jason, quietly: “We gotta keep him in there for at least two and a half hours.”
Jason frowns. “You sure? They were kind of strong.”
“Yeah, it should be fine,” Tim whispers.
“What’re you guys talking about?”
“Nothing,” Tim and Jason say in unison.
“Okay,” says Dick.
There is silence for a while.
“Hey, uh,” says Dick. “I hope you had a happy birthday, Tim.”
Tim glances at Jason, then at the door. “Yeah, man, it was great,” he hollers back.
“Oh, good,” Dick says.
-