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The kitchen smelled like something that belonged in a restaurant, not Wayne Manor. The duck chowder simmered low in a heavy pot, steam curling up in lazy swirls. Jason stirred it with one hand, the other deftly slicing fresh basil into thin ribbons. The smell of garlic butter clung to the air, mixing with the faint citrus of the salmon marinating on the counter. He wasn’t rushing; cooking was a game of patience, and right now, he was winning. Every so often, he’d tilt his head, listening to the way the chowder bubbled—like the dish was trying to tell him something. He adjusted the flame without looking.
The salmon was then inserted to the oven, skin crisping in an instant. Jason didn't even bother glancing up when the kitchen door creaked open. The duck broth had reduced to a velvet-smooth consistency, thick enough to coat the back of a spoon, and he let himself smirk. Not bad for a Thursday night. Outside the kitchen, the faint thump of footsteps meant someone was coming, and Jason knew that meant trouble—not for him, but for the peace in the house.
“You can’t seriously think you’re his favorite,” Tim’s voice cut sharp through the air, as if the scent of dinner had done nothing to mellow the tension in his shoulders. He leaned against the counter, arms crossed, that trademark smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You’re too much trouble for that.”
"Speak of the devil", Jason thinks
“Please.” Dick, perched on a stool, was already laughing. “I was the first. Obviously, that means I win by default.”
“That’s not how it works,” Damian said flatly, the word idiot practically dripping from his tone. He sat at the far end of the island, cutting an apple with unnecessary precision. “Father’s favorite would be the one who best embodies the mission. Which, by obvious logic, is me.”
Jason tasted the chowder with the sort of quiet confidence only someone completely uninterested in their bickering could manage. “Needs more thyme,” he muttered, mostly to himself, before tossing in a handful of fresh sprigs. The scent bloomed instantly, drawing Bruce’s shadow into the doorway before anyone even noticed him.
“Smells incredible,” Bruce said, voice low but warm, stepping in like he’d been listening for a while. “What’s the occasion?”
“No occasion,” Jason replied, giving the pot another stir, “just feeding the strays.”
“See?” Dick pointed a finger, grinning. “That’s favorite talk. He doesn’t cook like this for us .”
Tim rolled his eyes. “Cooking isn’t proof. He probably feels guilty for something.”
Jason smirked without looking up. “I don’t feel guilty. I just know none of you can feed yourselves without burning water.”
Damian sniffed. “I can prepare meals perfectly well.”
“You mean reheating frozen dumplings?” Tim shot back.
Bruce had made his way around the island, lifting the pot lid to breathe in the steam. “Duck chowder?”
“And salmon,” Jason said, nodding toward the oven. “Both should be ready in ten. If you can all keep your claws off each other until then.”
“Not likely,” Dick said, leaning back in his chair with a smug grin.
Jason pulled the salmon from the oven, its skin crisp, the flesh beneath blushing pink and flaking at the touch of a fork. The table filled—Bruce at the head, the others sliding in with varying degrees of sulk and banter.
The argument didn’t stop, of course—it shifted, twisted, became softer in volume but sharper in wit, The simmering chowder was ready, a faint curl of steam twisting up like it was trying to escape the conversation. The salmon, crisp-skinned and glistening, waited on its platter. Jason slid both onto the center of the island without ceremony, like a referee tossing the ball in mid-fight.
“That smells amazing,” Bruce said, leaning in like he might actually take a breath and enjoy it. “Did you use lemon zest?”
Jason didn’t look up from ladling soup into bowls. “Maybe I did. Maybe I didn’t. Maybe I’ll tell you if they stop fighting.”
Dinner ended with the rare peace of full stomachs, the earlier bickering left in the wreckage of empty bowls and salmon bones. Jason started stacking dishes, only to have Alfred materialize and all but shoo him out of the kitchen. He escaped to the back patio, the cool night air cutting through the lingering warmth of the stove.
The sliding door clicked open behind him. Bruce stepped out, hands in his pockets, the glow from inside catching only the edge of his expression. For a moment, neither spoke. Just the muted hum of voices from the dining room drifting out.
“You cook like that every night,” Bruce said quietly, “and they’ll start fighting over you instead of me.”
Jason huffed, glancing away toward the garden. “Not my problem.”
Bruce stepped closer, voice dropping even lower. “You know you’re my favorite, right?”
Jason froze for half a beat, then let out a low chuckle. “Don’t let them hear you say that, old man.”