Chapter Text
Jason didn’t know how the whole thing started. One moment everything was fine. The next, everything was significantly less fine. “Hey, B,” he said one evening. He shut the front door behind him, shedding his backpack and ditching his shoes.
Bruce grunted, hardly slowing his stride as he breezed past, an icy draft trailing him down the hall. Jason winced at the sound of a distant door shutting harder than necessary. In the year and change since he’d started living at the manor, he’d learned to take Bruce’s occasional moods in stride.
Usually Jason was able to get at least a smirk out of him before long. And when that didn’t work, Alfred was there—reading Bruce like a sorcerer, diffusing tension with the practiced ease of a bomb defuser.
Jason glanced to where Alfred had emerged to peer in the direction of the slammed door. The two of them locked eyes, and Alfred made an It’s been a long day face. But still, he didn’t look concerned, which meant Jason wasn’t concerned.
So, for the next couple days, they weathered Bruce’s stormy mood as he stalked the halls like the Ghost of Christmas Canceled. They tried valiantly to maintain pleasant conversation over meals while Bruce stewed in prickly silence. Patrols were punctuated only by clipped, grunted orders and long, foreboding quiet.
Things took a turn when Jason came inside from training one morning and overheard shouting. “—ask you to do that!” Bruce barked.
“And when has that ever been in question?” Alfred threw back. He wasn’t one to shout, but the crisp edge to his voice cut the air just as effectively.
Alfred passed by where Jason stood frozen in the patio door. His nostrils were flared, his mouth pressed into a tight line. He didn’t even notice Jason was there.
Jason, meanwhile, launched into crisis mode. Whenever his mom used to be in a bad way, Jason made her a special meal. Back then, that meant canned noodles, but now he had a lot more options to work with.
He had a vague idea of Alfred’s and Bruce’s favorite foods, but they weren’t anything Jason could pronounce, let alone make. So, he went with something simple: chicken, vegetables, and mashed potatoes. That couldn’t be too hard, right?
He cranked the oven and started chopping onions and peppers like he’d seen chefs do on TV. Maybe it was a bit of an ambitious miscalculation. He ended up slicing open four of his fingers, but at least none of them were too bad. By the end, he had his fingers wrapped in bandages and a solid pile of veggies ready for cooking. Win, right?
He shoved the chunks off the cutting board into a waiting cast iron skillet, and the pieces stuck to the bottom and started to burn instantly. “Crap!” he hissed.
As smoke filled the air, he scrambled onto the counter, yanked the smoke detector from the ceiling, and tossed it across the room before it could betray him. The little device exploded against the wall. Probably a little overboard, but it got the job done.
He hopped down from the counter and poured a few glugs of olive oil into the pan as he turned down the fire. Slowly, things settled down. Crisis averted.
With a relieved sigh, Jason grabbed a few potatoes from a basket on the counter, hunted down something that seemed good for crushing, then started mashing—or trying to, at least. “Since when did you need metahuman strength to mash potatoes?” he grunted.
He wrestled with the spuds for what felt like an eternity, but they wouldn’t budge. Finally—with bruised palms and a newfound appreciation for potatoes—he admitted defeat. “Adapt and overcome,” he muttered, echoing one of Bruce’s favorite mantras.
He chopped the potatoes up and threw them into the oily skillet with the vegetables.
The chicken was next. He found some frozen pieces in the freezer, threw them in a bowl, and set to work with the seasoning. Alfred’s cooking always looked so colorful, so Jason pulled out every spice he could find, mixing them into the chicken with reckless abandon.
He was pretty sure he’d added too much salt, but no big deal. If they didn’t like it, he could always pretend it was a "bold flavor profile" or something. Into the oven it went.
Now it was time for dessert. Alfred didn’t keep many sweets on hand, so Jason was stuck with some leftover Halloween candy. But he was up for the challenge. He melted down some chocolate and caramel and stirred it on the stove, watching closely as it started to bubble.
That was until an acrid burning smell drew his attention back to the vegetables—which he’d completely forgotten about. He lunged and turned off the fire, then went to move the skillet and cursed. A stark red line bloomed across his palm where he’d grabbed the handle. Jason snatched an oven mitt from a hook and used it to carefully pour the somewhat-blackened mixture of peppers and potatoes onto a serving dish.
A little crispier than he was going for, but probably still fine.
Then a new smell filled the air—sickly sweet and bitter with burning. Cursing with new passion, Jason ran back to the melting candy. Somehow in the last few seconds it had turned into a ghoulish, tar-like substance.
How did Alfred manage to cook every day without completely losing his mind? Wiping sweat from his brow, Jason hunted down the discarded mitt and pulled the chicken out of the oven. It looked browner—browner seemed good.
“Alfred, what in the world is—” Bruce began, then he paused. For the first time in almost a week he didn’t look pissed. He did, however, look deeply confused. Jason decided that counted as an improvement.
“Ta-da!” Jason said, throwing his arms wide.
“Did you call for me, sir?” Alfred asked, appearing right behind Bruce. He faltered slightly at the sight of the kitchen.
Jason followed their eyes across the scene—dirty dishes, spilled food, seasoning containers everywhere. Bruce blinked. Alfred’s eye twitched, though his expression was relentlessly neutral. Jason shot them an apologetic grin. “I thought you both seemed stressed, so I made dinner.”
Alfred and Bruce exchanged a look. Bruce cleared his throat and said, “That’s very thoughtful, Jay.”
“Sit!” Jason said, pulling two seats out from the kitchen table. “I’ll bring the food over.”
“I actually still have a lot of work to—”
“Gladly, Master Jason,” Alfred said, shooting Bruce another pointed look, which Bruce returned coolly.
Jason grabbed silverware and brought the food to the table. “What drinks do you want?”
“Water would be lovely,” Alfred said, his gaze glued to the table, not daring to look back at the kitchen.
When they sat down, an uncomfortable silence stretched between them. No one moved toward the food. Alfred fiddled with his napkin. Bruce stared at his water glass like it held the secrets of the universe. Finally, Jason said awkwardly, “Uh, dig in?”
“Yes, of course,” Alfred said, his voice oddly strained. He spooned a modest helping of the slightly charred potato mixture onto his plate, and Bruce followed suit.
Jason watched their every move. When Alfred took a bite, his eyes widened before he looked up at Jason and smiled. “Mm. Very...innovative technique, sir.”
Bruce, barely eating enough to count as a nibble, offered a mild, “Agreed.”
“Really?” Jason beamed. “I didn’t even look at a recipe!”
“Oh?” was all Alfred said in response. As they continued eating, their bites got smaller and smaller. By the time Bruce finished, his expression was nearly pained, and Alfred had refilled his own water glass three times.
Slowly, Jason began to wonder if perhaps he’d missed the mark a little. “What about the chicken?” he asked, clinging to hope.
Alfred and Bruce looked at him then at their plates then at each other, bracing like men going to war, then began cutting into the meat. Suddenly, Alfred paused and set down his knife. “Master Jason?”
“Yeah?”
“What did you use to cook the chicken?”
“The oven.”
“For how long and at what temperature?”
“I dunno. Like 400 degrees for ten minutes?”
Alfred’s mouth twitched. “And by any chance, was the meat still frozen when you put it in?”
“Yeah. Why?”
Alfred let out a short breath that morphed into quiet, helpless laughter. He put a hand over his eyes, giggling as Bruce made a weird, snorting sound. Jason stared, dumbfounded as Bruce's lips curled into a smile and his snorts swelled into open, head-back laughter.
“I apologize, sir.” Alfred snickered as he caught his breath. “I don’t mean to laugh, it’s just…”
“What?” Jason asked. He grabbed his own knife, cut into a piece of chicken, and was about to shove it into his mouth to see what the fuss was about when both Alfred and Bruce shouted, “No!”
Amused, Bruce said, “Look at it, Jay.”
Jason looked. The inside of the chicken was very, very pink. “It’s medium-rare,” he tried, but Bruce shook his head.
Jason dropped his fork onto his plate and slumped back in his seat with a groan. “Sorry. This was supposed to be a cool surprise, and instead it was just biological warfare. You guys can go. I’ll clean up.”
He got ready to stand, but Alfred said, “Now, hold on. I believe a fair amount of this can be salvaged. How about you and I give it another go, and I’ll show you some of my secrets?” His eyes flicked to Jason’s bandaged fingers and the slightly puffy burn along his palm. “And safety practices.”
“I'll join you,” Bruce said, standing and rolling his sleeves. “I’ve gotten a little rusty around the kitchen, myself.”
“‘Rusty’ implies you were ever in fit shape to begin with,” Alfred deadpanned, but his eyes twinkled with playful mischief.
Bruce raised an eyebrow at him as he carried the inedible food back toward the stove and counters. “Are you saying you don’t enjoy my cooking?”
“How could I possibly know when you do it so infrequently?”
Jason looked back and forth between them as they bantered. At one point, Bruce dropped his head back again, laughing while Alfred chuckled and pressed his forehead into Bruce’s shoulder.
The heaviness of the past few days evaporated with Jason’s relieved exhale. “Jason?” Bruce asked abruptly, frowning into a saucepan. When he dragged a spoon across the bottom, there was a dry, brittle scrape. “What is this?”
Jason thought for a moment then winced, remembering the burnt chocolate and caramel concoction he’d abandoned. “Um. Dessert?”