Fact #1: I am not going to make my self-imposed writing deadline this weekend due to work-related things.

Fact #2: I have started the Bruce/Jason mini series that explains their backstory.

Fact #3: It may be the cutest fucking thing I’ve ever written.

Fact #4: I can’t write a public Bruce Wayne without laughing.  

—-

Jason grinned when their eyes met; the pants and striped polo shirt Alfred had picked out for him that morning were torn and stained with dirt and blood. A darkening bruise on his left cheek gave his mentor a pretty good indication as to why he had been called out of the office on such short notice. Slouched in the chair, his arms throw over the side, Jason’s attitude was outwardly belligerent. He waved his hand.

“Hey, Bruce.”

The billionaire gave his slacks a small tug as he sat in the other chair.

“Jason. I’m pretty sure you didn’t look like that when you left home this morning.”

The boy snorted, swiping a hand under his nose. “I fell off my bike.”

The principal cleared his throat, resuming his position behind his desk. Jason spared him the barest of glances.

“I fell off my bike into a bunch of a-holes.”

Bruce was polite enough not to smile past the plastered playboy expression he’d worn into the room. But Jason could see the amusement flicker at the corner of his eyes. Shifting forward, he looked to the principal.

“So what appears to be the problem, Mr. Randall? My boy says he fell off his bike. Has he been to see a nurse?”

The best part of being a passenger with a borrowed laptop is the ability to type on the road.  The best part of the modern age is the free wi-fi at every rest stop between point A and point B.

This is too cute.  Hopefully, I’ll have it done for the weekend.

—-

“Hey, can I drive?” he asked eagerly, meeting a few steps from the curb. Bruce pulled the keys from his pocket and Jason’s face lit up.

“No,” he replied, bypassing him completely and popping the driver’s side door.

Jason’s heart sank. “Aw, come on. You never let me drive this car. It’s not made of gold, or nothing—”

“Anything,” Bruce corrected, closing his door.

“—and it’s not even the most expensive one you own. What gives, Bruce?” the boy demanded, walking toward the passenger side as his mentor revved her engine. He grinned, hopping the door, landing easily beside him. “I’d treat her nice.”

“Seat belt,” Bruce said simply.

Jason fumbled with his belt. “So when are you gonna let me drive her?”

“When you learn to work a stick,” his mentor quipped a second before he manipulated the clutch, squealing out of the high school parking lot.

If the writing bug sticks with me and I can continue to channel the snarky voice of Jason Todd, I just might have more 81 for this weekend.  Fingers crossed.

——

Bruce looked up, blinking sleep out of his eyes. He frowned. “Jason?”

The boy smiled, waving a wet hand, sticky with juice. It dripped down his wrist and into the rolled sleeves of his shirt

“Hey, Bruce.” He smiled, wiping black hair out of his eyes with the back of his hand. Flour was smeared across his nose and over the fading bruise on his cheek. Taking another peach from the bowl of water beside him, he went back to peeling the fruit with slow, awkward deliberation.

Bruce’s brow dipped further. He drank deeply from his mug, then refilled it from the pot. Alfred hummed quietly to the jazz on his little black radio as he manipulated the rolling pin with an effortless skill.

The man blinked, running a hand through his tousled hair. Something wasn’t right. He drank more coffee, wincing as it finally hit his stomach. Sighing, he walked between the two bakers to the refrigerator, reluctantly lightening the coffee with creamer. The door fell shut when he released; he stared out the window at the bird feeder and drank. The sun crawled lazily toward its zenith.

Bruce lowered his mug and looked at his ward. “Shouldn’t you be in school?”

“Wow. Batman’s observation skills are crap after dawn, huh?” Jason joked.

“Bats, Master Jason,” Alfred said, transferring the bottom layer of crust to a glass dish. “Work best in the dark.”

“No kidding,” the boy said with a grin, putting down a peeled peach and picking up another. He caught the slippery fruit as it slid out of his hands, licking juice off his fingers. Bruce stared, the mug paused halfway to his lips. Shaking his head, he lowered it with a frown.

“Robin, why aren’t you in school?”

Jason’s brow shot up and he whistled. Even Alfred’s motions halted.

“Geez, Bruce. You’re not just tired, you’re a dead man walking. Why don’t you go back to sleep before you accidentally give the mailman the access code for the Batcave?”

Because you all were awesome enough to help a guy out, have some preview.  I’m pretty confident this thing’ll be up some time this weekend.  I love writing these two…

—-

“Blast,” Alfred swore. Bruce’s grip loosened and Jason reclaimed his wrist as they broke their gaze. “A gentleman of my background and disposition is at a distinct disadvantage in this country. I do believe the colonies invented their own system of measurement specifically out of spite to the empire.” The butler squinted at the fine print in his cookbook, glancing at the pot simmering on the stove. “’Pour twenty-four ounces of the mixture into egg base’…bloody ounces. I suppose it would be far too much trouble to put this into good Queen’s English.”

Jason lowered his head, rubbing his wrist. “It’s a pint and a half,” he muttered. Bruce gave him an inquisitive look as Alfred turned. He shook hair out of his eyes, looking from one to the other. “Twenty-four ounces is a pint and a half. Or forty-eight tablespoons.”

The butler smiled. “Ah, very good, Sir. That’s most helpful.”

Bruce’s expression was thoughtful. “And if he made three batches?”

Jason didn’t blink. “He’d need seventy-two ounces, four and a half pints, or a hundred and forty-four tablespoons.”