#prongspower writes

“Damian,” you say gently, “are you nervous?”

He pauses — that microfreeze he does when he’s caught.

“…No,” he lies.

Then softer, “…Perhaps.”

You kiss his cheek.

He melts instantly.

You don’t even make it through the foyer before things unravel.

Warm light spills across the marble floor, fireplaces crackling in distant rooms, the Manor smelling faintly of cinnamon, cedar, and wood polish—old money comfort wrapped around pure chaos.

Bruce greets you warmly, but Alfred is 0.2 seconds behind him scolding:

“Master Bruce, your tie is crooked. Do try to look like you’re hosting rather than being hosted.”

Tim walks by carrying three mugs of coffee and somehow spills from all three.

Jason calls from the kitchen,

“IF ANYONE TOUCHES MY ROLLS, I’M FIGHTING GOD.”

Dick runs through the hall wearing oven mitts, yelling,

“THE TURKEY IS ALIVE, THE TURKEY IS ALIVE—nope, wait, false alarm.”

Damian closes his eyes like he’s in pain.

“This is not how I wanted your introduction to go,” he mutters.

You squeeze his hand, heart fluttering despite the madness.

“Dami… this is exactly what I expected.”

He groans.

Dinner starts beautifully.

Golden light from the chandelier warms the long mahogany table, reflecting off crystal glasses and Alfred’s impossibly perfect place settings. The room smells like roasted sage, warm bread, and something sweet cooling on the counter — cinnamon, maybe.

For a heartbeat, you think: Wow, Damian really pulled this off.

Then the Batfam sits down.

Tim immediately nods off sideways against your shoulder, fork still in hand.

Jason swaps the regular butter for ghost pepper butter “as a treat,” and Bruce accidentally spreads it on his roll. His face does not change, but his soul briefly leaves his body.

Dick narrates the entire meal like it’s a Food Network special:

“And now, watch as Alfred delicately plates the mashed potatoes—look at that form, folks—”

Cass steals your napkin just to watch Damian react.

Stephanie asks loudly if you’re “planning to move in,” and in the chaos of everyone choking, no one notices Damian gripping his water glass like it personally offended him.

The silverware clinks, chairs scrape, someone knocks over the gravy boat, and Alfred appears beside you without a single sound to offer a fresh plate like a guardian angel.

Through it all, Damian sits beside you tense as drawn wire — but every time you glance at him, he meets your gaze immediately.

Checking.

Worried.

Hopeful.

Trying so hard.

You nudge his knee under the table.

His shoulders drop by a fraction.

He breathes.

“I intended something more dignified than… this,” he mutters under his breath.

You hide a smile.

“Dami,” you whisper back, “this is perfect.”

He groans again, but this time the corner of his mouth betrays him with the softest, smallest almost-smile — the kind he only shows you.

The kitchen is quieter than the dining room — dimmer, warmer, lit by the soft glow under the cabinets and the faint amber flicker of the stove light. The air smells like cinnamon, roasted vegetables, and the faint smokiness of something Jason definitely set on fire earlier.

Damian is attempting to “assist Alfred,” which really means he’s stalking around the countertops like a hawk, trying to prove he belongs in a domestic setting.

You’re drying plates when you see it happen.

He reaches for a pan fresh out of the oven — bare-handed.

“Damian!”

You drop the towel and catch his wrist just in time, fingers wrapping around his pulse. His hand is warm, too warm, and you instinctively cradle it in both of yours, checking for burns.

He freezes.

Not from pain — but because you’re touching him.

The tension in his shoulders spikes, then melts in a wave so visible you almost see it travel down his spine.

“You cannot,” he says softly, voice a little unsteady, “simply grab me like that without warning.”

“You were about to burn yourself.”

You tilt his hand, examining the skin with gentle focus.

“Are you okay?”

“Yes,” he says, too quickly, too low.

Then, quieter:

“I… am now.”

Alfred watches from the other side of the kitchen island, expression politely blank, eyes screaming finally before he drifts away like a benevolent ghost.

Damian shifts closer.

Not enough to crowd you — but enough to be unmistakable.

Your thumb brushes lightly across the heel of his palm, checking one last spot, and his breath catches like you pulled a thread somewhere deep.

“You’re shaking,” you murmur before you can stop yourself.

“I am not—”

He swallows.

“…Perhaps.”

You look up.

He’s already looking at you — eyes soft, guarded walls cracked just enough to see the truth underneath.

“You fluster me,” he admits, and the honesty in it hits you like warm air from the oven behind him.

No sarcasm.

No defensiveness.

Just Damian, raw and startlingly sincere.

You lean up just enough for your forehead to brush his — a small touch, a quiet promise.

His hand, the one you saved from the pan, curls slowly around your waist like he’s learning how to hold something precious.

The chaos of the Manor continues somewhere down the hall: laughter, arguments, something that sounds like Dick falling off a chair.

But in here, in the dim kitchen light, it’s just the two of you suspended in a calm, warm pocket of domestic peace.

The Manor is loud behind you — laughter echoing down the hall, the scrape of chairs, the familiar chaos of a family that’s never been quiet a day in their lives. But the balcony is still.

Cool night air wraps around you, smelling faintly of woodsmoke from distant chimneys and the crisp sweetness of fallen leaves. The grounds stretch out in a dark gold sprawl beneath the moonlight, the trees shifting like slow waves.

Damian stands at the railing, hands clasped behind his back, posture perfect even now — except for the way his shoulders soften when he hears your footsteps.

“I apologize for earlier,” he says quietly, without turning.

“For what?” you ask.

“For the… disorder. For the lack of decorum. For Jason’s… existence.”

He exhales, jaw tightening. “I wanted your first holiday with my family to be dignified.”

You step beside him until your shoulders brush, gently.

“Dami,” you say softly, “this is your family. And I love every loud, messy part of it.”

His breath catches.

He turns his face toward you, and under the soft balcony lights, he looks younger somehow — open, hopeful, trying so hard not to show it.

“I have never brought someone home for this,” he murmurs.

“Not like this. Not someone who…”

He swallows.

“…matters.”

Warmth blooms in your chest so quickly it almost steals your breath.

Your hand finds his — tentative at first, then sure. He lets you take it, fingers curling around yours with a quiet kind of reverence.

“Damian,” you whisper, “you don’t have to make it perfect.

You just have to be here with me.”

His eyes drop to your mouth then, and the shift is palpable — a subtle pull, like gravity reorienting itself.

He steps closer, enough that the edge of his coat brushes your legs, enough that the heat from his chest seeps through your sweater. One hand lifts, cautious, fingers hovering just at your jawline.

“May I…?” he asks, voice low and breathless.

You smile — soft, certain.

“Yes.”

He kisses you like he’s memorizing something.

Slow.

Steady.

Warm as the golden lights glowing behind the balcony doors.

His other hand comes up to cradle the back of your head, pulling you just a little closer, as if he’s afraid you might drift away with the breeze. The world narrows to the taste of autumn air, the warmth of his breath, the way he exhales against your lips like he’s finally releasing a truth he’s held too tightly.

When he pulls back, your foreheads rest together, breaths syncing in the quiet.

“I am grateful for you,” he murmurs — so soft, it almost disappears into the wind.

Your hand slides down his lapel, fingertips brushing the stitching he never lets anyone touch.

“I’m grateful for you too,” you whisper back.

Below the balcony rail, a gust of wind sweeps across the grounds, scattering the last leaves like glowing embers in the moonlight — a perfect echo of the warmth blooming between you.

The Manor has finally begun to quiet.

The laughter fades room by room, replaced by the soft click of doors, the shuffle of Alfred tidying what doesn’t even need tidying, the faint hum of the old heater kicking on for the night.

You and Damian linger outside the balcony doors, unwilling to break the moment. When you step in from the cold, he stays close — not quite touching, but hovering in that way he does when he wants to reach for you but hasn’t yet learned how to ask.

Inside, the lights have softened to a gentle amber glow. The long dining table is half-cleared, pie plates pushed to one end, napkins folded with compulsive Alfred precision. You can hear Dick and Jason arguing over who gets the last slice of pecan pie; Tim sleepwalks past holding a mug that is absolutely empty.

For the first time, you see it the way Damian must:

The Manor isn’t a museum.

It’s alive.

Messy.

Chaotic.

Full of love he pretends he doesn’t need but craves in every bone.

He walks you toward the foyer slowly, as if each step risks shaking something loose in him. At the doorway, he hesitates — not ready to let the night end.

You brush your hand against his.

He takes it immediately.

“Thank you,” he says again, voice quiet, steady now. “For today. For… navigating my family.”

“They’re wonderful,” you say.

Then, teasing: “Terrifying. But wonderful.”

A soft huff of laughter escapes him — that rare, unguarded sound you’ve learned to treasure.

Damian lifts your hand, kisses your knuckles gently — an old-world gesture, tender and deliberate.

“Then… I hope you will consider returning.”

He hesitates, breath catching just slightly.

“For Christmas.”

The words land with the warmth of a lit hearth — unexpected, earnest, vulnerable in a way Damian rarely allows.

You rise on your toes and kiss the corner of his mouth — a promise.

“I’d love to.”

He closes his eyes for a moment, as if letting the answer settle into places that once expected nothing good. When he opens them again, he looks at you like he’s memorizing the sight.

Outside the tall windows, the last leaves drift across the Manor grounds, catching the moonlight like tiny sparks — bright for a moment, then settling quietly into the grass.

Damian laces your fingers together as the door shuts behind you, the echo warm and certain.

“Come,” he says softly. “Let me walk you home.”

And for the first time all evening, he looks completely at peace.

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You blink.

“…did a villain escape?”

“Worse,” he mutters. “Tim texted. They’re low on the 75% off air fryers.”

“…Jason… baby… why do you care about air fryers?”

He freezes. Looks at you. Looks away.

“I don’t,” he admits. “But Tim does. And I refuse—REFUSE—to let that nerd beat me at Black Friday again.”

You stare at him.

“Are you in a rivalry?”

He’s already stuffing a thermos in your hands.

“We are ALWAYS in a rivalry.”

You sip it—immediately cough.

“Jason—what IS this?”

“Caffeine,” he says. “Like… all of it.”

He shoves your shoes at you.

“Put these on. I’m parked illegally.”

“You WHAT—”

“Not the time, sweetheart. MOVE.”

You swing your legs out of bed because apparently this is happening, and Jason beams like you just agreed to elope.

He grabs your hand on the way out the door, warm and certain and absolutely vibrating with chaotic purpose.

“We’re getting you the good candles,” he promises.

“And if anyone stands between us and that table of three-wick autumnals, I will throw hands. Holiday spirit my ass.”

Outside, Gotham is cold and dark, the world still asleep.

But beside you, Jason is buzzing with mischief, adrenaline, and love he’s trying very hard not to make obvious.

He squeezes your hand once.

“For real. I got you. And I got this.”

You laugh, breath fogging in the air.

“This is insane.”

He winks.

“Welcome to Black Friday with the Todd.”

The moment Jason pulls into the massive strip-mall parking lot, you realize something vital:

You are absolutely, 100% not prepared for whatever this is.

Because there, in the pre-sunrise gloom, is a crowd—a rumbling, shivering mass of caffeine-fueled Gothamites clutching coupons like sacred scripts. People pace in coats. Someone has a tent. A teen is playing hype music on a portable speaker. And—oh god—is that an entire family doing jumping jacks?

Jason whistles low.

“Rookies,” he mutters. “Stretch all you want, Janet—you’re still too slow.”

You turn to him slowly.

“…Did you just trash talk a middle-aged PTA mom?”

“Damn right I did,” he says, grabbing your hand. “She elbowed me last year. Broke one of those little bones in my hand—I think. I didn’t check. But I FELT it.”

You blink.

“You two have… history?”

“Blood feud,” he says seriously. “She knows what she did.”

He steps out of the car and the temperature drops approximately ten degrees. Not because of the weather—because Jason Todd has entered the arena.

He adjusts his beanie. Cracks his neck. Breathes in.

You swear you can hear boss-battle music start.

A man near the front—double stroller, tactical diaper bag—eyes Jason suspiciously.

“You here for doorbusters?” he grunts.

Jason nods once like a seasoned warrior acknowledging another.

“You going for electronics?”

The man nods back.

“You going for housewares?”

Jason squeezes your hand.

“We’re here for everything.”

There is a ripple in the crowd.

Even the PTA mom looks up from her coupon binder.

Jason leans toward you, voice low.

“Okay, sweetheart. Rules of engagement.”

“You have RULES for this?”

“Absolutely.”

He lifts your chin gently with his knuckle — a soft, grounding gesture that shouldn’t make you melt in the middle of a Walmart parking lot, but it does.

Rule #1: “Stay close to me. People get wild over air fryers.”

Rule #2: “If things get chaotic, let me handle it. You don’t need to be a hero today.”

Rule #3: “If Tim appears, do NOT let him distract me. That’s how he beat me last year.”

You snort.

“Tim tricked you?”

Jason scowls darkly.

“He used a coupon book as a shield and rolled under a cart! It was psychological warfare!”

You pat his bicep.

“You poor thing.”

He narrows his eyes, leans in close, murmuring:

“Don’t pity me. I’m winning this year. For us.”

You open your mouth to make a joke—

But the automatic doors clunk. Lights flicker on. An employee steps forward with a megaphone.

“GOOD MORNING SHOPPERS! Please form an orderly—”

But the sentence is lost, drowned instantly by the roar of hundreds of bargain-hungry Gothamites surging forward like a stampede.

Jason grins like a man with nothing to lose.

“Showtime.”

His hand clamps around yours and suddenly you’re running, swallowed by the tide —

Jason’s laughter echoing like thunder as he barrels confidently into the chaos, tugging you close, protective and reckless and entirely in his element.

The automatic doors open and the crowd floods inside like Gotham’s own reenactment of The Purge.

You barely make it two steps before Jason plants himself like a human riot shield in front of you.

“Stay behind me,” he commands, all gravel and determination.

Then, plaintively, “People get stabbed over towels.”

You open your mouth—

But someone immediately sprints past screaming,

“THEY HAVE DUTCH OVENS FOR $12.99!”

Jason nods grimly.

“See?”

He grabs a cart with the confidence of a man who is about to dominate several home goods aisles.

It squeaks loudly—

He whips around, glaring.

“No. Not this janky-ass cart.”

He finds another. Spins the wheels.

“I will not be defeated by alignment issues.”

There’s a wild, terrifying competence in his eyes.

⸻

Then you see her.

Coupon Lady.

Forties.

Hair clipped back.

Athleisure that means business.

Binder thicker than a college textbook.

Her eyes lock on Jason.

Jason’s jaw tightens.

“Janet,” he mutters.

She smiles sweetly. Too sweetly.

“Jason.”

You blink.

“Oh my god, she’s real.”

Janet tuts.

“I see you brought backup.”

“I see you brought… whatever that is,” Jason shoots back, angling his chin at her binder.

“This?” She pats it like a beloved pet.

“Just every discount code in the tri-state area.”

Jason’s nostrils flare.

“She laminated them.”

“Of course I laminated them,” Janet says sharply. “I’m not sloppy.”

Jason grinds his teeth.

You can feel his hand trembling slightly.

This is war.

⸻

Then suddenly—Tim Drake materializes.

Literally materializes.

You blink and he’s just there, sliding between carts like a sleek little raccoon in a hoodie.

He’s holding a cup of coffee in one hand, a barcode scanner in the other, and a tiny notebook tucked under his arm.

“Tracking inventory fluctuations,” he mutters.

“Also hi. You two look cute.”

Jason wheels on him.

“NO. Tim. You can’t be here. You’re my natural predator.”

Tim sips his coffee innocently.

“Oh? I’m just browsing.”

Jason hisses like a feral cat.

Tim’s eyes flick to Janet.

“We doing this again?”

Janet cracks her knuckles.

“I was born ready.”

Jason groans.

“This is my nightmare.”

Janet is fast—shockingly fast—mom strength combined with retail bloodlust.

But Jason?

Jason Todd is vengeance.

Jason Todd is the night.

Jason Todd is here to get you a damn Dutch oven.

He grabs one off the shelf—

Janet snatches another—

You swear they pause mid-lunge, staring into each other’s souls.

Tim scans one with his handheld scanner.

“Actually that one’s discounted more if you—”

“TIM. STOP HELPING HER,” Jason snaps.

Janet smirks.

“You snooze, you lose.”

Jason steps in front of you protectively.

“Oh you wanna play dirty? Fine. I play in the dirt.”

“I bet you do,” Janet retorts.

You choke on air.

Tim raises an eyebrow.

“Wow.”

Jason lunges, kicks the cart into motion, and whispers,

“Sweetheart—brace. We’re going in.”

You clutch his jacket.

He smirks like this is foreplay.

This aisle is carnage.

Two employees hide behind a pallet display.

Someone is crying.

Someone else is filming for TikTok.

A 12-year-old has climbed the shelf like it’s a rock wall.

Jason assesses the battlefield with soldier-like seriousness.

“We need the Bluetooth speaker for Alfred,” he murmurs.

“And the headphones for Dick. And the night-vision dash cam for Bruce.”

You blink.

“Bruce is getting a dash cam?”

Jason shrugs.

“Man drives like he’s playing Mario Kart. Yes.”

Then you see Tim again—

Holding FIVE items already.

“Timothy,” Jason growls.

“How are you doing that?”

“I have a route,” Tim says gently.

Jason looks moments away from throwing a shoe.

⸻

But then—Jason remembers something.

You.

Your hand in his.

Your smile.

The fact you’re laughing and trying not to.

And something in him settles.

He steps behind you, hands on your shoulders, leaning close enough for the warmth of his breath to tickle your ear.

“Hey,” he murmurs.

“We’re doing great. You’re doing great.”

The chaos fades a little.

He kisses the side of your head, quick but grounding.

“Not losing you in this madness,” he says.

“Not losing you anywhere.”

It knocks the air out of you.

Janet shoves past with a victorious,

“MOVE I NEED A VACUUM.”

Jason squeezes your hand.

“Okay. Maybe I’ll lose my temper, though.”

The checkout line is a battlefield.

It snakes around displays, past screaming toddlers, and through a minefield of holiday-themed impulse items designed to destroy morale and wallets.

Jason eyes the line, the carts, the blinking lights overhead.

“…This is worse than Arkham,” he mutters.

You pat his arm.

“It’s not that bad.”

Someone coughs behind you.

Someone else drops a glass ornament.

A child shrieks over a blue Nerf gun.

Jason sighs heavily.

“Okay. It’s a little bad.”

⸻

Tim reappears like a ghost.

He slides into line beside you both, holding… one small basket.

Jason narrows his eyes.

“That’s it? That’s all you’re buying?”

Tim sips his coffee.

“I planned my route. I optimized my selections. I moved efficiently.”

Jason’s eye twitches.

“None of that should be allowed.”

Tim shrugs.

“Some of us thrive under pressure.”

You hide your smile behind your sleeve.

⸻

Then betrayal happens.

Tim glances at your cart.

“Oh hey—do you want me to check those out at self-checkout? I’ll be done in like two minutes.”

Jason gasps.

NOT exaggerated.

Actual gasp.

“Don’t you dare steal my partner in the eleventh hour—”

But it’s too late.

Tim is already pulling the lighter items from your cart with swift, efficient motions.

“Faster for them, faster for you,” he says to Jason, tone far too peaceful.

You shrug at Jason helplessly.

“Tim’s… helpful?”

Jason stares at the diminishing pile.

“This is mutiny.”

⸻

Line Chaos Escalates.

The woman in front of you is arguing over coupons printed in 2017.

Jason mutters under his breath,

“Janet’s influence.”

Behind you, a man loudly recounts his high school football career into the void.

Nearby, a display sign falls over.

Jason’s spirit visibly leaves his body.

⸻

Then—something beautiful.

Jason notices the tiny items near the registers:

lip balms

cheap earbuds

seasonal candles

stress balls

mints

holiday socks

weird Pop-Tarts flavors

It’s like watching a feral cat become curious.

He picks up a candle.

“Says here it smells like ‘Crisp Autumn Woods.’”

You sniff it.

“It smells like a lumberjack trying too hard.”

Jason’s eyes light up.

“Oh my god, it DOES.”

He grabs another.

“‘Winter Hearth’? What the hell is that—cozy trauma?”

You wheeze.

He grabs a third candle.

“This one straight-up smells like regret.”

And then he picks up a bag of holiday gummy bears.

“Should we…?” he asks, soft.

Like a kid.

You smile.

“Put it in.”

His grin blooms, warm and boyish.

⸻

Then—the soft moment hits.

The chaos dulls around you.

Jason shifts the cart aside, steps closer, gently nudging your shoulder with his.

“You okay?” he asks quietly.

You blink.

“Me? You’re the one fighting for your life.”

He bumps you again, warm and solid.

“I’m serious. You holding up?”

Your chest softens.

“I’m good. Because you’re here.”

Jason swallows.

Something in his expression goes tender—unguarded.

“Good,” he murmurs.

“‘Cause I am, too.”

For a second, the world is soft, safe.

Just the two of you.

⸻

THEN THE COUPON WOMAN EXPLODES

“THAT DISCOUNT APPLIES IF YOU CHECK THE WEBSITE!”

she shrieks at the cashier.

Jason jolts.

“JANET. NO. WE TALKED ABOUT THIS.”

Tim, three registers away, deadpans,

“She’s right, though.”

Jason yells back without looking,

“NOBODY ASKED YOU, TIMOTHY!”

⸻

Finally—you reach the front.

Your cashier looks like she wants to dissolve into the air behind her.

Jason sets down the Dutch oven like it’s a sacred artifact.

“We worked hard for that,” he tells her gravely.

She blinks.

“Oh honey, everyone works hard today.”

Jason nods solemnly.

“Fair.”

⸻

Everyone exits victorious.

Tim is waiting at the front with two plastic bags.

“I finished ten minutes ago.”

Jason glares.

“You’re a menace.”

Tim smiles serenely.

“You say that like it’s news.”

The parking lot is still chaos behind you—car alarms, shopping carts rolling like tumbleweeds, one man loudly swearing about air fryers. Jason opens your door first, muttering something about “civilization crumbling,” then circles to the driver’s side and drops into the seat with an exhausted groan.

He pulls the door shut.

Silence.

Warm, golden silence.

Just the hum of the heater and the faint thud of your hearts coming down from war mode.

Jason slumps back, head thudding against the headrest.

“Sweetheart,” he mutters, “if I ever suggest this again, tase me.”

You laugh, handing him the still-warm bag of cider doughnuts.

“Noted.”

He tears into one like it personally wronged him, powdered sugar dusting his hoodie. He looks over at you mid-bite—cheeks a little pink from the cold, hair mussed, eyes brighter than they should be after battle—and something in him softens so visibly it almost hurts to look at.

He exhales slowly, turning toward you in the dim cabin light.

“You good?” he asks.

You nod. “You?”

He hesitates.

Then melts.

Actually melts.

Jason shifts closer, one hand sliding across the console to find your thigh—not possessive, not intense, just warm. Steady.

“You made this fun,” he says quietly. “You always do.”

Your breath catches.

His thumb brushes a slow arc over your jeans, and he watches the motion like he’s memorizing it. The windows fog gently with the heater, turning the world outside soft and distant.

Jason swallows.

“I’m—” a sigh, a little embarrassed, “I’m really glad you came with me today.”

You smile. “Even with Janet?”

“Especially with Janet.” He grins, lopsided and boyish. “You and me against the world, baby. Or against middle-aged coupon generals. Same thing.”

He leans in then—slow, deliberate—not rushing, not teasing, just letting the moment breathe. His forehead rests against yours, warm and grounding.

“Can I…?” he murmurs, his voice low enough to blend with the heater.

You nod.

The kiss starts soft—gentle pressure, warm breath, the faint taste of cinnamon sugar. His hand comes up to cup your jaw, thumb sweeping your cheek with a reverence he’d deny if anyone else asked.

Then the kiss deepens just enough to say I missed you even while you were right next to me.

Not rushed. Not greedy.

Just… right.

When he finally pulls back, his forehead rests against yours again, breath warm and unsteady.

“Yeah,” he whispers. “I could get used to this.”

Outside, the streetlights blur in the fogged windows.

Inside, everything is warm.

Jason squeezes your hand once more before shifting the car into drive.

“C’mon,” he says softly, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Let’s go home.”

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Gotham’s rooftops are slick with late-night rain, the kind that makes the city look almost clean if you don’t stare too hard. Your boots land silently beside Jason, the faint thud absorbed into the hum of distant traffic. He doesn’t look at you right away—eyes locked on the next rooftop, jaw tense under the edge of his helmet.

You’re half a step behind him, Red Hood’s broad silhouette cutting through the mist. It’s a comfortable rhythm—him scanning the streets, you checking the alleyways. The two of you have been doing this long enough that words aren’t necessary.

It isn’t until you crouch by the ledge, pulling your grappling line from your belt, that his attention shifts. The movement makes your gloves slide back just enough to reveal the sharp curve of your nails—deep crimson with that unmistakable black detailing. A perfect match to the symbol across his chest.

Jason stops mid-step. “The hell is that?” His voice is low, roughened by the modulator, but there’s something warmer under it.

You glance up at him, confused for a second, then realize he’s not staring at your face—he’s staring at your hand. “What?”

He tilts his head slightly, like the angle will help him figure you out. “Are those… Red Hood nails?”

You smirk, curling your fingers just enough to flash the glossy designs in the dim light. “Maybe. Why? You jealous?”

Jason steps closer, his boots silent on the rooftop. The rain catches on the curve of his helmet, sliding down in little rivers. “Jealous? No. But now I gotta know if you did that for me… or if you’re just a really committed fan.”

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” you shoot back, already hooking your grapple.

Before you can fire, his hand wraps gently but firmly around your wrist. You feel the heat of him even through the armor. “I’m serious,” he says, voice softer now. “You don’t get it… nobody does stuff like that for me. Not without an angle.”

You pause, reading the subtle shift in his stance—the way his shoulders drop a fraction, like you’ve caught him off-guard. Slowly, you turn your hand in his, the rain making the red shimmer darker. “Then maybe it’s time someone did.”

Jason’s silent for a beat too long, the city stretching out around you in wet neon. Then he lets out a quiet huff—half laugh, half disbelief. “You’re trouble, you know that?”

“Only the best kind,” you answer, stepping past him and firing your line.

When you swing off into the night, you don’t have to look back to know he’s smiling under that helmet.

pic at the end: My actual Red Hood nails that inspired this whole thing—complete with tiny helmet art and Bat symbols because subtlety is overrated.

Inspo. Find them here thank you HibouNails😍

From her wheelchair at the end of the island, Barbara spins her tablet toward the group. “If we’re doing this, we’re doing it right. I already made a shared grocery list and picked a recipe Alfred actually likes—vanilla genoise with lemon syrup.”

Damian frowns and crosses his arms over his chest. “That is a sacred dessert. You are unworthy.”

“Yeah, sure kiddo you are," Steph says with a wink while pulling on an apron that read ‘Trust the Process, Not Jason’.

“Hey!” Jason protested. “I can follow directions.”

“No, you improvise directions,” Duke said, grinning as he carries in grocery bags. “There’s a difference.”

⸻

Step One: Chaos

The family divides tasks like a well-trained unit—on paper.

In practice, it becomes a sitcom caper.

Cass quietly takes over whisking eggs, methodical and calm.

Tim is supposed to start the timer app but gets distracted calculating altitude adjustments for baking time in relation to the type of baking dish etc.

Dick tries to lead while clapping. “Teamwork makes the dream work, people!”

“Please never rhyme again,” Damian says flatly, cutting parchment into perfect concentric circles.

Steph turns the mixer on high and instantly hits the room with a sugar blizzard.

Barbara lifts an eyebrow without looking up from her tablet. “Steph. Mixer speed. Half of Gotham can hear that.”

“Consider it confetti!” Steph says cheerfully, now dusted head to toe in white.

Jason squints at the recipe. “What’s the difference between baking soda and baking powder?”

“About one explosion and like a cookie vs a cake,” Duke says with a smirk.

⸻

Step Two: Disaster

“Smells like victory,” Dick announces with a power pose as the first layer goes into the oven.

Two minutes later, smoke comes curling out.

Bruce opens the oven door slowly. “…It’s not supposed to do that, is it?”

Tim coughs into his elbow. “Whose job was temperature control?”

Jason points a thumb at the oven. “The knob said bake.”

“Broil, Jason,” Barbara says and face palms. “You had it on broil.”

“Hey! Some of us didn’t finish school! Give me a break.”

“Yum…..charcoal,” Damian mutters.

They start again. Cass gently cracks new eggs, the motion calm and sure. Damian sifts the flour with laser precision. Duke plays DJ, keeping spirits up with a playlist called ‘Kitchen Justice’. (The main song is ‘Gotta Do the Cooking By the Book’ Lazytown Lil Jon remix 💯)

This time, the cake layers bake evenly—no smoke, no alarms.

When they pull it out, everyone actually cheers.

“Look at that,” Dick says eyes shining and wiping away tears “It’s beautiful.”

“It’s lopsided,” Tim deadpans.

“It’s character,” Dick wags a finger as he corrects.

⸻

Step Three: The Frosting Fiasco

While the cake cools, Steph and Jason volunteer for frosting duty.

Barbara glances up. “Are we sure that’s wise?”

Jason grinns. “What’s the worst that could happen?”

Five minutes later, they find the answer: a counter full of butter lumps and a broken whisk.

Duke leans over the bowl. “That’s… a bit… abstract.”

“It’s art,” Steph declares. “Postmodern butter movement.”

“Move,” Cass says, gently taking over. She whisks in clean, practiced motions. The frosting smooths like magic. “Fixed.”

Jason blinks. “How did you—?”

“She trained under Alfred,” Barbara says proudly.

Cass just smiles, tiny and smug.

⸻

Step Four: Decorating Duty

The team assembles around the island for final construction. Dick spins the turntable while Bruce carefully spreads frosting between layers.

“Try not to look so grim,” Dick teases. “You’re building a cake, not sending it to Arkham.”

Bruce says nothing. His brow furrows like he’s dismantling a bomb.

“Focus is focus,” Cass says, nodding approvingly.

Damian pipes a perfect border of icing roses, because of course he can. Duke writes ‘Happy Birthday, Alfred!’ in careful block letters. Tim adjusts spacing with mathematical precision. Steph adds edible glitter when no one is looking.

Barbara leans back in her chair, admiring the chaos. “Honestly, it looks pretty good. For eight people with the combined culinary grace of a toddler.”

Jason crossed his arms. “Excuse me, this is professional-level work. We could open a bakery.”

“Yeah,” Duke nodds approvingly. “and Call it Crumb Victory.”

Tim snorts. “That’s actually not bad.”

⸻

Step Five: The Reveal

The door swings open.

Alfred steps in, immaculate as ever, carrying a folded dish towel. His gaze sweeps across the room—flour-dusted counters, sticky utensils, the faint smell of something burnt but trying its best.

“I see,” he says mildly. “My kitchen has been conquered.”

Cass turns the cake toward him. “For you.”

“It’s your birthday!” Dick sings, his voice pitching slightly higher than intended. “Surprise!”

Alfred blinks. “Indeed. How… alarming.”

“Happy alarming!” Steph cheers and throws out her arms.

Alfred approaches, inspecting the cake with a practiced eye. The icing isn’t level, one corner droops, and a single sprinkle has rebelliously migrated into the frosting border.

He smiles anyway.

“You made this,” he whispers with warmth in his eyes. “Together.”

“Yup,” Duke smiles. “Whole squad effort.”

“With… only two casualties,” Tim adds. “R.I.P. the first batch.”

Alfred chuckles, the sound soft and warm like the oven cooling behind him. “My word. I am both horrified and deeply touched.”

Jason folds his arms. “Mostly touched, though, right?”

Alfred meets Jason’s eyes over the chaos. “Mostly,” he agrees.

⸻

Step Six: Candlelight

The family sings—off-key, loud, and with more enthusiasm than rhythm.

Alfred blows out the candles, straightens his tie, and cuts the first slice himself.

The cake may be uneven, but it’s still sweet. A miracle by Wayne standards.

“Not bad,” Alfred praises, tasting it. “A touch of overmixing, but quite respectable.”

Steph claps. “So you like it?”

He nods. “Very much.”

Then, with a twinkle in his eye he adds “And next year, perhaps, we’ll simply order one.”

The kitchen explodes in laughter. Even Bruce cracks a rare smile.

Jason leans against the counter, hands in his pockets. “You know it’s technically my birthday too,” he says with a crooked grin. “But this year’s yours, Alfie. You earned it.”

The pair embraces. Ever the Birthday partners. But tonight, Alfred gets the spotlight.

Awhile later Alfred sets his plate down in the sink, resting a hand briefly on Bruce’s shoulder. “Thank you,” he mutters, soft enough for only Bruce to hear. “For remembering.”

“Always,” Bruce whispers back.

And for one warm, messy night, Wayne Manor smells like lemon and sugar instead of patrol gear and adrenaline.

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