Author's Note:

IN AN AU WHERE EVERYBODY LOVES EACH OTHER, AND THEY ALL LIVE IN WAYNE MANOR OR SOMETHING, THINGS ARE GOING SWIMMINGLY... AND THERE IS FLUFF. AND PANCAKES. WHAT HAVE I DONE?

My characterisation is going to be sub-par, considering I've only written, like, one fic for the DC Universe. Essentially, don't even bother with the criticism (which is always appreciated, by the way!), as this is just shameless crack. And fluff. Flack. Cruff?

(Quick little edit: There are hints of TimKon and DickJay, but you don't have to see it that way if you don't want to.)

Light filters in through the windows, casting a golden hue on the blankets. It's a pleasant way to wake up, Jason supposes. Better than what he's used to.

He rubs a hand through his hair and shakes himself awake. He's got a long day ahead of him, now that he lives here. It's been a little awkward, reintegrating with their strange, makeshift family, but it hasn't been as bad as he expected.

There's a pleasant smell wafting through the door, which is slightly ajar, as if someone's been peeking inside his room. He figures they have. It was probably Dami, the nosy bastard.

Silently, he descends the stairs, waiting for his chance to pounce at breakfast. Knowing his luck, Damian will have cooked it, made only one portion, and eaten it all himself.

When he reaches the kitchen, he finds that it is indeed Damian cooking, but the brat has luckily made enough to feed the entire family twice over. He's probably exhausted.

"Good morning, Jason," Damian greets, surprisingly amicably. "The pancakes are on the table, and there's a vast array of syrups in the fridge."

Jason blinks a few times and rubs his eyes. Is this real life? Or is this just fantasy?

"Thanks," he manages, after a few seconds pause. Damian raises an eyebrow at his hesitance, but lets it go. Thankfully.

As if beckoned by the alluring smell of breakfast food, Dick and Tim practically slither down the stairs. They're awful without their morning coffee, and Jason praises the universe that Damian has already turned on the coffee maker.

"Morning," he offers. Tim makes a few awkward grumbling sounds, and Dick raises a hand, which he tries to wave.

They must have had a long night.

"The coffee is ready," Damian informs. He makes no attempt to prepare it, but at least he'd turned the damn machine on.

Dick grabs a cup, fills it, dumps a few sugars in, and drinks it scalding hot. Jason would be impressed, if he had the time to, as Tim repeats the process immediately, this time with a lot more milk.

Their relationship with caffeine is dysfunctional, he notes. Perhaps worryingly dysfunctional. Then again, he's not one to speak. He has a terrible and mildly depressing addiction to the fancy, milky, whipped cream-covered shit they sell at Starbucks.

It's just damn good, okay?

Dick practically drools onto his food, covering his plate in disgusting amounts of maple syrup. Tim gives him this look of pure horror and then pries the maple syrup bottle cautiously from his hands.

"I think you have a problem, Dick," he says.

Dick answers him by shoving dripping pancakes into his mouth and chewing loudly. Jason wrinkles his nose and pretends his adoptive family isn't filled with freaks. Syrup-dependent freaks.

Damian finally joins them at the table. He doesn't look all too pleased.

"Did you have to use quite so much maple syrup?"

Dick stares at him, level, and replies, "Yes."

Damian opens and closes his mouth a few times, then huffs and goes back to pouring from the now nearly-empty bottle. When he finally gets around to eating, he does so emphatically and with a malicious bite. It's like he's somehow getting revenge for the wasted maple syrup now sliding down Dick's chin. Which, also, gross.

"Did nobody teach you manners as a kid, Dickiebird?" Jason ventures.

"I grew up in a circus," Dick states. He doesn't wipe away the syrup.

Jason kind of wants to wipe it away for him, but he doubts Dick will appreciate that. At all. Not only does he like still being alive, he also kind of doesn't want to get any of it on his fingers. It's probably been in Dick's nasty morning mouth.

"A napkin would be of use to you," Damian says. He looks visibly traumatised. Poor boy and his fragile sensibilities.

Tim snorts loudly and chokes a little on his coffee. He snaps a quick picture on his phone (and where the hell did that come from?), and taps a few times at the screen. "Kon's going to love this."

"Please, please don't send our embarrassing family photos to your boyfriend," Jason pleads.

Tim laughs some more.

Jerk.

Dick doesn't even seem to care. "Dami, these pancakes are godsend. Who taught you how to cook?"

Damian preens a little, slightly smug. "I taught myself."

"Really? I tried to cook pancakes once," Dick begins.

Jason cringes. He'd once foolishly tried to get Dick to make breakfast. It had gone well enough until the pancakes. Suffice to say, not even Bruce could stomach the lumps of coal Dick had somehow summoned from the very depths of Hell itself.

"No," Jason interrupts, "those weren't pancakes. Pancakes don't taste like tar and look like the gum you find stuck to the paving of Gotham's darkest alleyways."

Dick huffs a little, indignant. "They weren't that bad, Little Wing! I liked them."

"You gagged. They were your own creation, and you gagged and spat them out like the hellspawn they were. Don't play pancake social justice with me, Golden Boy."

Tim scoffs. "Pancake social justice?"

"Yeah. Look at him, getting all up on his high horse. Your cooking could do with a little improvement, don't deny it."

"The first step to solving your problem is to acknowledge you have one!" Damian cuts in. Snarky little shit.

Dick trails his eyes from one brother to another. "Are you staging a cooking intervention? You liked dinner last night. You don't want me to cook you dinner again?"

Damian's eyes widen in shock and soon, remorse. He backtracks. "I didn't mean to insult your cooking. It's perfectly acceptable."

Oh, he knows what he's just gotten himself into. Jason resists the urge to cackle with glee, but then Dick's cold, calculating eyes meet his own.

"You better not be enjoying this, Jaybird. You called my pancakes hellspawn."

Ahh, shit. Maybe he should have kept his mouth firmly closed.

Tim is the only one who can rightfully revel in this. Which he is. Very obviously. He's also equally as obviously texting Kon, who's probably similarly revelling in this. Just as rightfully.

Batfamily Rule #1: Don't insult Dick. Or his cooking. Especially not his cooking. Especially not if you value your life, or your home cooked dinners, for that matter.

He'll blame this on Damian later. He started it, what, with his preening and all.

"You better not blame this all on Dami," Dick begins. Sometimes it's a shame he knows Jason so well.

"I won't!" he says, faking a smile and raising his hands, placating.

"Okay. Glad we got that covered. Now, who wants the last of the maple syrup?"

There's a collective groan from all around the table.

"Really? Nobody? I'll just help myself, then."

FIN.