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Dick Grayson had survived countless near-death experiences. He'd scaled buildings with no safety line, disarmed bombs with seconds to spare, and once taken down five armed thugs using only a broom handle and a can of expired root beer. But somehow, none of that prepared him for the sheer psychological warfare of trying to bake a pavlova.

Not that he expected it to be a challenge. Honestly, it had all started out pretty innocently.

After a grueling double shift at the Blüdhaven PD, followed by a long night patrol as Nightwing, Dick came home mentally fried and emotionally soggy. His usual remedy for nights like this involved a hot shower, loose sweatpants, and letting a soothing British accent talk him down from the ledge of burnout.

Normally that meant David Attenborough, narrating penguin migrations or leafy jungle frog facts.

But tonight, fate—or the remote—had other plans.

He had flopped onto the couch and absently clicked through channels until a warm, cheerful theme song caught his attention.

“Welcome to The Great British Baking Show! Today, our bakers are facing a tricky classic: pavlova.”

He blinked. Tilted his head. Watched a contestant carefully pipe glossy meringue onto a tray, explaining her flavor choices with the reverence of a nuclear physicist.

By the end of the episode, Dick had consumed one (1) lukewarm cup of tea and three (3) episodes of amateur British bakers emotionally unraveling over egg whites and whipped cream.

By the fourth episode, he was sitting bolt upright, muttering, “It’s just sugar and air. I do gymnastics for a living. How hard can this be?”

*******

Hard. The answer was hard. Stupidly hard.

Two days later, his apartment kitchen looked like a baking-themed crime scene. There were broken eggshells in the sink, hand-written notes taped to the cabinets (“do NOT overbeat”), and at least one spatula stuck to the ceiling with what he could only describe as caramelized despair.

Dick wasn’t a bad cook. He could grill, sauté, even deglaze. Alfred had taught all of them the basics under threat of “learning or starving.” But the thing was—he never cooked. He didn’t need to. He was constantly on the go, and honestly? Takeout was faster.

So this whole baking thing? It was new. And maddening.

"Stiff peaks," he read aloud from his crumpled recipe card, standing in the middle of the kitchen like a man losing a chess match to a chicken. "Not soft. Not dry. Not… weeping? Eggs can weep now?"

He turned back to the bowl of egg whites and frowned. They looked... frothy. Angry. Untrustworthy.

“You know what, it's fine. I’ve seen the show. I’ve got this.”

He turned on the mixer.

Immediately, the bowl shifted, the beaters caught, and egg whites slingshotted across the room. A blob of sugar foam landed squarely on the fridge.

Dick stared at it. Then at the bowl. Then back at the fridge.

“I’m not losing to eggs,” he said grimly.

----------

Attempt One had collapsed in the oven. He had opened the door too early—Paul Hollywood would be disappointed, his brain whispered.

Attempt Two had come out looking decent… but tasted like sweetened cardboard. He forgot the vinegar and cornstarch. Apparently chemistry mattered.

Attempt Three? Burned. The meringue burned.

“How is it even possible to burn air?!” he shouted to no one, hands in his hair, apron now featuring something that might’ve once been passionfruit curd but looked more like a crime scene photo.

He stepped back to survey the damage.

Flour on the walls (even though pavlova didn’t need flour). Eggshells everywhere. One piping bag exploded mid-squeeze and was now leaking whipped cream like a punctured tire.

The fire alarm was suspiciously silent, but only because he’d yanked the battery after Attempt Two.

Dick stood in the middle of it all, breathing heavily, the whisk in his hand slightly bent from stress. He had icing sugar in his hair. He was barefoot. At some point, he’d removed his shirt, and he wasn’t entirely sure why.

“This is fine,” he said.

His left eye twitched.

-----

Eventually, he slumped down onto the floor, back against the cabinets, legs stretched out in front of him like a puppet with cut strings. A single mini spatula was balanced on his knee. His latest “pavlova” sat nearby like a sad beige pancake.

He looked at it with the resigned expression of a man who had tried his best. And failed. Three times.

All because of one stupid, smiling baking show.

Dick wiped at his cheek. His fingers came back dusted with powdered sugar. He sighed.

“Maybe it’s the kitchen,” he muttered. “Tiny counter space. Weird oven. Bad egg vibes.”

He sat up slowly, energy returning with a dangerous glint of determination.

What he needed was a real kitchen. Space. Tools. A proper mixer. A fridge that didn’t smell vaguely like old Chinese food. Somewhere with a marble countertop and a full spice rack alphabetized by Alfred himself.

Somewhere like…

His eyes narrowed.

The manor.

Alfred was out of town for a charity gala all weekend. The kitchen was open. The house was empty. No witnesses.

And the eggs in that fridge were probably ethically sourced and blessed by Michelin-starred monks.

Dick stood.

He grabbed a kitchen towel, slung it dramatically over his shoulder like a cape, and stalked to the fridge to collect his remaining eggs.

He fired off a quick text:

Using the manor kitchen. No one panic.
I swear I’ll clean it.
PS: Where does Alfred keep the fancy vanilla?

An hour later, the gates of Wayne Manor opened for one man, three bags of groceries, and the sort of reckless optimism usually reserved for cartoon animals walking off cliffs before realizing there's no ground beneath them.

Dick Grayson stepped into Alfred’s immaculate kitchen like a knight returning to the sacred battleground.

He cracked his knuckles. Stared down the stand mixer.

“This isn’t over.”

He was going to make that pavlova.

Even if it killed him.

********

Tim Drake didn’t ask for much.

A quiet morning. A strong cup of coffee. Maybe some toast if the kitchen wasn’t occupied by one of his siblings doing something insane, illegal, or emotionally ill-advised.

That was his bar.

Unfortunately, that bar was currently buried under a metric ton of granulated sugar.

He blinked slowly from the threshold of the manor kitchen, still in sleep-rumpled sweats and a faded Gotham U hoodie, hair sticking up like he’d fought his pillow and lost.

And there, dead center in the crime scene of the kitchen, stood Dick Grayson, barefoot, flour-dusted, and talking to a bowl of egg whites like they were personally responsible for every bad thing that had ever happened to him.

“Come on, stiff peaks. Work with me. We are so close. You want this. I want this. This can happen for us.”

Tim blinked again.

“…Are you seducing your meringue?”

Dick startled and spun, nearly elbowing a measuring cup off the counter. “Tim! Hey! Good morning! Did I wake you?”

“No,” Tim said, shuffling toward the coffee machine like a zombie with a caffeine addiction. “But I regret being awake now.”

Dick, looking far too energetic for someone who appeared to have been baking since dawn, offered him a dazzling smile and gestured vaguely at the counter, where a new pavlova base was currently forming.

“I’m just working on something.”

“Working on a disaster?”

“It’s a pavlova,” Dick said proudly. Then, frowning, “...Or it will be. Eventually. Once I crack the egg-white code. Which I will. Probably.”

Tim reached for the coffee canister. It wasn’t where it should be.

Neither was the French press. Or the sugar. Or, for that matter, any of the cabinet contents, which had apparently been moved around by someone chasing the elusive meringue muse.

Tim stared at the empty shelf.

“Why is the olive oil where the coffee lives?”

“I needed it to prevent sticking.”

“…Sticking what?”

Dick opened his mouth. Closed it. Pointed toward the oven like that would explain anything. It didn’t.

Tim gave up and started searching through every cabinet with the dead-eyed determination of someone in survival mode.

Meanwhile, the stand mixer whirred violently.

The bowl wobbled.

Dick lunged to steady it, and in the process, knocked over a bottle of lemon juice, a whisk, and a stray spoon that had somehow made it all the way to the windowsill.

“Okay. Okay. We’re good. This is good,” Dick muttered as he held the bowl in a half-hug like a hostage negotiator. “Just gotta keep things stable.”

“You're baking like you're disarming a bomb,” Tim noted.

“It’s the same principle! Pressure, timing, delicate internal structure, consequences if I mess up—”

“Only one of those results in delicious desserts.”

“When it works, this will be amazing,” Dick insisted. “Crisp outer shell. Soft inside. Whipped cream. Fresh fruit. It’s like an edible cloud.”

He gestured toward the whiteboard Alfred kept near the pantry—usually for grocery lists and polite reminders. Dick had repurposed it into something that looked suspiciously like a conspiracy wall, complete with arrows, notes like “TOO MUCH WHISKING??” and “IS THE VANILLA CURSED,” and a single line underlined three times:

YOU WILL NOT BE DEFEATED BY EGGS.

Tim finally found the coffee supplies inside the baking drawer, because of course that’s where they were, and started brewing.

“I’m still asleep,” he mumbled into his mug. “This is a stress dream. Next you’ll tell me you’re on Bake-Off.”

“Funny you should say that,” Dick said, turning off the mixer and giving the egg whites a cautious look, like they might punch him.

Tim turned around slowly. “Oh god, you applied, didn’t you.”

“No! Not officially.”

“‘Not officially’?”

“I’ve just been watching it. A lot. And then I thought—hey, I fight crime, I can do this! It’s just baking!”

Tim sipped his coffee. “Did it ever occur to you that maybe there’s a reason Alfred doesn’t let any of us use his kitchen unsupervised?”

Dick paused. Then pointed at Tim with a spatula. “That’s why I’m doing it while he’s gone. See? Planning.”

“The planning part would’ve been not doing this at all.”

“Your lack of faith is hurtful.”

“My lack of sleep is terminal,” Tim grumbled, flopping onto a stool and watching as Dick attempted to spoon the glossy meringue mixture onto parchment paper in a delicate swirl.

It was not a delicate swirl. It was… more of a blob. Like an angry sea creature that had given up halfway through forming a shape.

Dick stared at it, offended. “That’s not how it looked in the picture.”

“You're not using a piping bag.”

“They ran out at the store. I’m improvising.”

“With a soup spoon.”

“Artisanally.”

Tim took another sip of coffee. He was quiet for a moment.

Then, slowly, he set the mug down and stood up.

Dick blinked. “Wait. What’re you doing?”

“Fixing this.”

“You said you weren’t going to help.”

“I lied,” Tim said, already halfway to the hall.

Dick blinked again.

Tim returned two minutes later with:

1. A notebook
2. A calculator
3. Measuring spoons
4. Lab goggles

“Where did you even—?”

“Don’t ask.”

Tim snapped the goggles on over his hair with the resigned professionalism of someone about to commit science. “Let’s analyze this like a chemistry experiment. What was your sugar-to-egg ratio?”

“I don't know, like... a few spoonfuls?”

Tim froze. “…Spoonfuls?”

Dick looked faintly guilty. “Big spoonfuls.”

Tim exhaled like someone trying not to throw hands in a flour-coated room.

He took over the next batch like a one-man SWAT team. Precise measuring. Ingredient temperatures logged. He adjusted the oven rack height by two inches with terrifying confidence.

Dick watched him, part impressed, part terrified.

“I feel like I’ve summoned a baking demon.”

“You invited me,” Tim muttered. “You get what you get.”

After ten more minutes, they had a new meringue base ready. Tim even showed Dick how to draw a template circle on the parchment for consistency.

“Now, we bake low and slow. 225 degrees. One hour. No opening the oven. No peeking.”

Dick held up his hands. “Got it. Hands off. Total restraint.”

They both stared at the oven.

There was a long beat.

“…I kind of want to check it,” Dick admitted.

Tim didn’t even look up from his notes. “If you touch that door, I will sedate you.”

“You’ve done that before.”

“Don’t test me.”

Dick huffed and flopped dramatically onto the stool. “I miss when baking was just me and my delusions of competence.”

“You were never competent.”

“And yet I still fed you once when you were concussed.”

Tim shrugged. “Yeah. And you used Gushers in place of vegetables.”

“They’re fruit-adjacent!”

“You put them in a salad.”

“Anyway,” Dick said loudly, “team effort now, right?”

Tim rolled his eyes. “God help us both.”

*******

The kitchen smelled like hope.

Well—hope and sugar. And maybe a little bit like burnt lemon curd, but mostly hope.

Dick and Tim were huddled around the island counter like mission control engineers. Tim had three timers set on his phone, one on the stove, and a backup on the microwave “in case the others failed.” Dick was pacing in a tight loop like a general waiting for battle reports, occasionally peeking over Tim’s shoulder and muttering things like, “Should we pray?” or “Can pavlova sense fear?”

The meringue was still in the oven. Round four. Their cleanest attempt so far. It hadn’t collapsed. It hadn’t cracked. The top wasn’t browning like a forgotten marshmallow. It looked right. Or, at least, not wrong.

That alone was progress.

“Okay,” Tim said, voice hushed like he was performing a surgery. “Five minutes left on the bake. Then one hour in the oven with the door cracked open to cool slowly. That’s the plan. No deviations.”

“I won’t touch it,” Dick promised, hands in the air. “I’ve learned. I’m enlightened. I fear the egg.”

Tim side-eyed him. “I’ll sedate you if you twitch.”

Dick was still barefoot, powdered sugar in his hair, and a smear of passionfruit on his jaw from an earlier “plating test.” But somehow, he was also grinning. Tired, yes. Slightly delirious. But genuinely proud.

“Hey,” he said quietly, nudging Tim with an elbow. “Thanks. For helping. You didn’t have to.”

Tim gave a shrug that somehow still managed to be fond. “You looked like you were spiraling. And I do enjoy judging your life choices.”

“Aww. Bonding.”

“Don’t push it.”

They stared at the oven window.

Inside, the pavlova base looked glossy. Puffy. Just starting to turn a delicate off-white at the edges.

Dick exhaled slowly, like the oven was full of explosives. “Okay. We can do this. We just need to be patient.”

“Patience is a virtue,” Tim murmured, sipping his third cup of coffee. “And a pain in the ass.”

-----

They left the meringue in the oven to cool, cracked the door, turned off the heat—and backed away like it was a sleeping bear.

While they waited, they moved on to prepping the toppings. Dick was happily slicing strawberries into unnecessarily precise fan shapes while Tim weighed whipped cream ingredients on a kitchen scale Alfred had labeled “DO NOT TOUCH.”

Tim was using it anyway.

“I think we’re actually pulling this off,” Dick said.

“You know, if this works, Alfred might let you live.”

Dick grinned. “If this works, I might forgive the meringue for being my nemesis.”

“You’re giving a dessert a redemption arc?”

“Everyone deserves a second chance,” Dick said solemnly.

Then the crack happened.

Loud. Sharp. A clear, almost snapping sound from the oven.

Both of them froze.

“…No,” Dick whispered, staring at the oven door like it had personally betrayed him. “No no no—no.”

Tim whipped around, dropped the spatula, and crouched to look through the oven window.

“…It split.”

Dick sank to his knees. “It split.”

Tim squinted. “And it sank. A little.”

“It betrayed us. We trusted it. We gave it our all.”

“I gave it my math.”

Dick leaned his forehead against the cabinet. “We were so close.”

Tim stood and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Okay. Okay. It’s fine. It’s salvageable. Maybe.”

Dick tilted his head. “Can we glue it with whipped cream?”

“Don’t say that out loud again.”

“Emergency fondant stitching?”

“You’re making it worse.”

“Meringue cast system—”

“Stop talking.”

They pulled it out of the oven together, gently, like it was a bomb about to go off. The top had collapsed in the center, like a sad soufflé that had given up halfway through life. Cracks ran across the surface like dry earth. One edge was slightly over-baked and tinged a soft beige.

Tim didn’t say anything for a solid ten seconds.

“…Okay,” he said finally. “We start again.”

Dick looked at him. “You want to?”

Tim’s eyes glinted behind the goggles. “We’re in too deep to quit now.”

“Brother, we ride.”

They reset the counters like professionals. Tim cracked eggs with the precision of a lab tech. Dick separated yolks like he was performing heart surgery. They were just about to restart the sugar syrup when—

“What in the seven hells is this culinary travesty?”

Both of them flinched.

From the doorway, arms crossed, expression positively withering, stood Damian Wayne.

Tim didn’t even look up. “It’s a pavlova.”

“It’s a war crime.”

Dick sighed. “Morning, Damian.”

“I have been awake for less than an hour,” Damian said coldly, stepping fully into the kitchen, “and yet I am already burdened with your incompetence.”

He glanced around the kitchen, expression becoming more disgusted by the second. “Why is there a sticky trail of sugar on the hallway floor? Why is the dog bowl full of whipped cream? Why is the fire extinguisher in the dishwasher?!”

“That was one time!” Dick shouted.

“I genuinely do not believe you should be left alone with kitchen appliances,” Damian added, turning on the sink like he might start hosing everything down. “Alfred is going to smite you.”

“Joke’s on you,” Dick said brightly. “Tim’s helping now.”

Damian stared at Tim.

Tim, still in his goggles, stirring a bowl with hyper focus, muttered, “We’re so close. Just need to stabilize the sugar temperature before the egg whites peak.”

“…You have both lost your minds,” Damian said, stepping back like the air was contagious.

Dick held up a spoon. “Want to taste test the passionfruit curd?”

Damian stared at the spoon. Then at the two of them.

Then he turned on his heel and walked out.

“I will return when the fire department arrives.”

“I disabled the alarm this time!” Dick called after him.

“That does not fill me with confidence!”

-----

Damian Wayne did not wake up intending to participate in a group baking project.

He had one goal. One mission. Feed his animals. Get in. Get out. Avoid whatever self-inflicted disaster was currently echoing through the manor like culinary Armageddon.

But unfortunately, the kitchen was located directly between the staircase and the door to the conservatory where Titus, Bat-Cow, Alfred the cat, and the two chickens currently lived.

And Dick and Tim were still in the middle of their pastry-fueled breakdown.

Damian entered like a reluctant emperor inspecting the ruins of a once-great empire. Arms crossed. Lip curled. Expression scathing.

“I see the chaos has evolved into codependency,” he said dryly, stepping around a mixing bowl on the floor. “Touching.”

Tim, still in his goggles, didn’t even look up. “Hand me the sugar thermometer.”

Dick tossed it across the counter without turning around. “It’s at 238—go now!”

Damian watched, baffled, as the two oldest in the family worked in perfect, synchronized disaster. Egg whites whipped in one bowl. Sugar syrup bubbled in another. A timer beeped. Dick shut it off with his elbow while pouring lemon juice into something else.

Tim added the syrup to the egg whites in a thin stream like he was crafting a chemical weapon.

“…What is happening here,” Damian muttered.

“We’re doing an Italian meringue this time,” Tim said without missing a beat. “Sturdier structure. Better for topping.”

“I have read field reports with less intensity than this.”

“It's an art and a science,” Dick said cheerfully, splashing vanilla into a bowl.

“You have passionfruit in your hair.”

“I’m aware!”

Damian sighed and tried to edge around the perimeter of the kitchen, hoping to escape without being drafted into this sugar-dusted madness. But just as he reached the fridge to grab the goat milk for Bat-Cow, a slime trail of passionfruit puree caught his boot mid-step and he skidded.

He caught himself, of course. But now he was annoyed. “Grayson,” he growled, “did you spill this on the floor and leave it?”

“First of all, it wasn’t a spill. It was a design choice. Second of all—yeah, probably.”

Damian glared. “You are a menace to food safety.”

Dick grinned. “You say that like it’s new.”

Tim finished beating the meringue and stepped back to admire the peaks. They stood tall, glossy, and gleaming like a whipped tower of triumph.

“…It’s good,” he said cautiously. “Actually good.”

Damian peered into the bowl like it had personally offended him. “Your egg whites are slightly over-stiff. Did you stabilize with cream of tartar?”

Dick blinked. “You know about that?”

“I read.”

“You read baking chemistry textbooks?”

“I read everything,” Damian snapped. Then, reluctantly, “And I do not like seeing things done poorly.”

He reached out and adjusted the angle of the whisk. “You’re folding too aggressively. You’re going to knock out the air.”

Dick and Tim both stared at him.

“…You want to help?” Dick asked, holding out the spatula.

“No,” Damian said instantly.

“You already are helping.”

“I am correcting,” Damian growled, taking the spatula anyway.

Within minutes, he was hovering at Dick’s elbow like a judgmental pastry ghost. He inspected the next meringue nest with the critical eye of a food critic who had never once eaten food he hadn’t criticized.

“Your piping technique is sub-par,” he said to Tim, snatching the bag out of his hands. “You’re overfilling and your pressure is inconsistent.”

Tim blinked. “Since when do you pipe?”

“Since none of you can do it correctly.”

Dick watched, a little awed, as Damian formed perfectly shaped rings of meringue on parchment paper, each one identical, each one somehow smug.

“Okay,” Dick said slowly. “So you’re good at this.”

“I am good at everything.”

“You’re such a joy to have in group projects.”

Damian didn’t reply, focused entirely on the symmetry of the third nest.

Dick handed him a bowl of fruit. “Want to do the topping?”

Damian looked at the strawberries. Then at the mangled pile of ones Dick had tried to carve earlier.

“…You’re banned from knives for the remainder of this process.”

“You say that every holiday.”

“And it remains true.”

Tim started prepping another batch of whipped cream while Dick took over assembling the pavlovas again—this time carefully, gently, under Damian’s hawk-eyed supervision.

It was… peaceful, in its own weird way.

Tim measuring. Dick arranging fruit. Damian slicing with surgical precision and grumbling under his breath about “fools with too much optimism and not enough kitchen sense.”

And yet, no one left.

The next meringue went into the oven.

The kitchen was still a wreck. There were at least six bowls in the sink, a bag of powdered sugar had exploded under the counter, and someone (probably Dick) had left a passionfruit rind balanced on top of the light switch.

But the energy had shifted.

Damian was still scowling—but now he was in it. Not just supervising. Not just fixing.

Helping.

Dick leaned on the counter beside him, arms crossed, flour on his cheek.

“You know,” he said, “this might actually work this time.”

Damian glared at the oven. “That depends entirely on whether you touch anything before it’s finished.”

“Tim said he’d tackle me if I tried.”

“I will, too.”

“Sibling support,” Dick said with a grin. “So heartwarming.”

“Don’t test me.”

********

Jason Todd wasn’t expecting a crime scene when he walked into the manor kitchen.

He had one task: drop off Alfred’s dry cleaning and maybe steal a scone if the pantry hadn’t been locked yet. He wasn’t planning to stay more than three minutes.

But then he opened the kitchen door.

And stopped cold.

At first, he thought maybe the manor had been robbed. Or possibly hit by a sugar-fueled hurricane.

Bowls were stacked precariously in the sink, still covered in frosting, syrup, and something orange and sticky. The floor looked like a bag of flour had exploded and been mopped up with regret. There was a faint whirring coming from somewhere above—was that a piping bag dangling from the ceiling fan?—and on the kitchen island sat four separate failed meringues, each worse than the last.

Jason blinked.

Took one step inside.

He wasn’t noticed.

Tim was at the stove, muttering to himself and fiddling with the sugar thermometer like he was about to bring something to life. Damian was slicing strawberries with military precision, jaw tight, shoulders squared like he was defusing a bomb, not prepping fruit. And Dick—barefoot, wearing a t-shirt that used to be black but was now flour-gray—was leaning over a mixing bowl and whispering to egg whites like they were an old friend he was trying to coax back from the brink.

The three of them were locked in, hyper-focused, buzzing with energy that was far too intense for something involving whipped sugar.

No one looked up.

Jason stepped further in, quietly.

His boots squelched on something.

He looked down. Stepped over what might’ve once been lemon curd. Or possibly egg yolk. Or both.

The oven was cracked open slightly. A fifth meringue—collapsed in the middle like a sad pastry implosion—was cooling inside.

On the counter was a whiteboard, previously reserved for Alfred’s tidy shopping lists. It now read:

PAVLOVA ATTEMPT #6 – THIS IS THE ONE
DO NOT SCREW THIS UP
STOP YELLING AT THE EGGS

Jason didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just stood there, helmet under one arm, and stared.

This was his kitchen.

Well—Alfred’s kitchen, technically. But when Alfred wasn’t home, he was the only one allowed to use it. The others knew that. Even Damian respected that boundary.

No one cooked in here but him and Alfred.

And now...

Now there was whipped cream on the ceiling.

Jason’s eye twitched.

His silence stretched so long it became its own entity.

Still no one noticed him.

Dick was now mid-monologue about sugar humidity.

Tim was frowning at his measurements like the sugar had lied to him.

Damian was adjusting each berry slice by hand for “visual consistency.”

Jason finally spoke. Deadpan. “…What the fuck is going on in my kitchen.”

Three heads snapped up at once.

Tim jumped like he’d seen a ghost. Dick spun, spatula still in hand. Damian turned, calm but cautious, like someone expecting to be interrogated.

“Jay!” Dick said, voice too cheerful, too fast. “Hey, you’re early. Or, uh, not early. What time is it?”

Jason stared.

No one moved.

He looked at the counter again. At the absolute graveyard of egg whites. At the meringue grave in the oven. At the dozen mixing bowls. At the flour on the windows.

“You broke it,” Jason said flatly. “You broke the whole kitchen.”

“It’s not broken!” Dick said quickly. “It’s... heavily used.”

“We’re almost there,” Tim added, holding up a bowl like proof. “Attempt six. This is the one.”

Damian didn’t say anything, but he did twitch slightly when one of his strawberry slices slipped a millimeter out of alignment.

Jason stepped forward.

They tensed.

“You used all the eggs,” he said.

“Not all,” Dick said. “We’ve got just enough left for one more try.”

“One,” Jason echoed.

The word hung in the air like a guillotine.

Then, like a spark hitting gasoline: “ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR ACTUAL FUCKING MINDS?!”

The shout hit like a shockwave.

Dick flinched and dropped the spatula, which bounced off the counter and landed with a splat on the floor.

Tim jolted, knocked over the bowl, and sent a puff of powdered sugar into the air like an emergency smoke bomb.

Damian’s hand twitched so hard he nearly sliced his own perfect strawberry in half.

Jason pointed wildly. “There is fruit fused to the tile! Why is the fire extinguisher under the table? Why are there sticky notes on the fridge that say ‘BELIEVE IN THE MERINGUE’—?!”

“That one was mine,” Dick offered helpfully.

Jason ignored him. “You destroyed everything. The floor. The air. My peace of mind. Do you know how many baking utensils you’ve broken?!”

“Three,” Damian muttered.

“Four if you count the one that got fused to the whisk,” Tim added, brushing sugar out of his hair.

Jason let out a sound like a dying kettle and dropped his helmet onto the counter.

Then he ran both hands through his hair and took a breath so deep it was almost a growl.

“Okay. Fine. I’m here now. Clearly none of you are capable of pulling this off without setting the oven on fire or summoning a sugar demon or whatever else this has become.”

He pointed at them like a drill sergeant calling out recruits.

“Tim — measurements. No math experiments. Just precision.”

“Copy that,” Tim muttered, already wiping down the scale.

“Damian — slicing and plating. Knife stays in your hand. No stabbing people who misalign fruit.”

“Tt. Only if they deserve it.”

“And you—” He turned to Dick, eyes narrowed. “You are on whipping duty. And only whipping. No more whispering to the egg whites.”

Dick held up both hands. “No promises.”

Jason exhaled slowly. “We’ve got one shot. One last try before someone has to go to the store, or Alfred comes home and ends all of us.”

There was a pause.

Then, quietly, Dick asked, “So... you’re helping?”

Jason rolled up his sleeves.

“God help me. Yes.”

*******

The kitchen, for the first time in thirty-six hours, was quiet.

Not silent—there was still the occasional tap of a spoon against a bowl, the gentle hum of the mixer—but the frantic energy that had defined their past attempts was gone.

Because Jason was here now.

And Jason didn’t do panic. He did control.

He stood at the counter, sleeves rolled up, arms dusted in flour, and moved with the calm, deliberate rhythm of someone who knew what he was doing—and trusted the process.

“This is not a democracy,” he said, adjusting the heat on the stove with surgical precision. “You do exactly what I say, when I say it.”

“We know,” Tim muttered.

Dick grinned, perched on a stool beside the island. “We’ve seen your chili nights.”

“Chili doesn’t crack and collapse if you sneeze wrong,” Jason replied. “This is worse. This is war. A sugar war.”

“Then lead on, General.”

Jason didn’t smile, but something in his shoulders relaxed.

As he worked, he talked—not like he was teaching a class, more like someone keeping pace with his thoughts.

“There’s three kinds of meringue,” he said, pouring sugar into a pot without looking. “French is quick, but unstable. Collapses easily. Good for batters, not structure.”

He turned to the stove, flame low, letting the sugar melt into water with practiced ease.

“Italian’s more precise. Boiling syrup into egg whites while they whip. Stronger, glossier. Good for pipes, shells, anything you want to stand tall.”

“And Swiss?” Dick asked.

Jason reached for a metal bowl and began cracking eggs—clean, efficient. Not a single shell in sight.

“Swiss is steady,” he said simply. “You heat the egg whites and sugar together over steam. Brings it up slow. Smooth texture, holds up better to filling. It doesn’t fight you as much.”

“And that’s what we’re using?” Tim asked, checking the thermometer in Jason’s sugar syrup.

“For the filling,” Jason confirmed. “The shell’s Italian meringue. Needs the structure. But Swiss goes inside.”

They were only making one pavlova this time.

But it was going to be a showstopper

----

The operation ran like a mission.

Jason handled the hot syrup, pouring it into the mixer as the egg whites spun into soft peaks. His hand never wavered. Not too fast. Not too slow. His voice low and steady, narrating more to himself than anyone else.

Tim was on prep — measuring ingredients with the cold-eyed focus of someone who once hacked a G7 server between sips of lukewarm coffee.

“Sugar to egg ratio is perfect,” he murmured. “This might actually work.”

Damian had taken over plating duty. He arranged fruit—strawberries, kiwi, blueberries, raspberries—in precise symmetrical circles. His hand paused above each piece, making micro-adjustments. The platter looked like a Renaissance mosaic by the time he was done.

Dick had one job: whip the Swiss meringue for the filling.

And he did it.

No commentary. No jokes. Just watching the egg whites swirl and thicken into silk, following Jason’s cues exactly. Beat. Fold. Rest. Beat again.

Even he looked a little stunned when the texture came out just right.

“...This is actually kind of magical,” he whispered, poking it gently with a spoon.

“Don’t overmix it,” Jason warned without looking.

“Sorry, Mom.”

-----

The pavlova shell was piped in a tall, sturdy ring—glossy, perfect peaks lining the outside. Jason left a deep well in the middle, then piped a separate lid next to it: a perfect dome with a decorative swirl on top.

When they pulled it from the oven—after holding their collective breath for an entire hour—it was beautiful.

No cracks.

No leaks.

Crisp, clean lines and a marshmallow-soft center.

They let it cool.

Jason didn’t rush.

When it was finally ready, they all gathered around like scientists at a breakthrough.

He spooned in the Swiss meringue gently, folding it into the shell’s center. Then fruit. Then more meringue. Then more fruit. A swirl of passionfruit pulp. A final dollop of cream.

And then—like the final stroke in a painting—he crowned it with the baked lid and dusted the whole thing with powdered sugar.

It looked like something out of a patisserie window.

A snowy sugar castle.

Their pavlova.

There was a long silence.

Then Tim said, “...I feel like I just watched a documentary on trust.”

“I’ve never seen anything so beautiful,” Dick murmured. “And I’ve been to Themyscira.”

Damian crossed his arms, but there was no heat in it. “Tt. I suppose there is merit in a properly executed group effort.”

Jason just raised an eyebrow. “Well, don’t all cry at once.”

He set out four forks.

They each took a bite.

And for a long, stunned moment, no one said a word.

It was light. Crisp. Creamy. Tangy. Sweet. Balanced in every way their previous disasters had not been.

Dick groaned. “This is illegal.”

Tim nodded slowly. “I forgive you for yelling at me.”

“I didn’t yell at you.”

“You wanted to.”

Damian took another bite. “This would be better without your voices in the background.”

Jason smirked faintly.

He took one more forkful, leaned back against the counter, and just let the room breathe.

For the first time in what felt like forever, they weren’t fighting, or stressed, or falling asleep standing.

They were just… together.

And full of sugar.

*******

The front door of the manor clicked shut with quiet finality.

Alfred Pennyworth stepped inside, removed his gloves, and set down a canvas bag containing groceries, dry cleaning, and several jars of the good marmalade only he seemed to know how to find.

He toed off his shoes with practiced grace, adjusted his cuffs, and exhaled. He’d been gone for less than two days.

Two days.

A perfectly reasonable amount of time for a man to enjoy a relaxing retreat in Sussex and leave his thoroughly adult charges to fend for themselves. Yet as he rounded the corner into the kitchen—

He stopped walking. Paused. Took it all in. The kitchen was technically clean. The counters were wiped. The floors were swept. The stove was turned off. The sink was no longer overflowing, and someone had even bothered to squeegee the backsplash.

But Alfred could smell what had happened.

Burned sugar. Egg whites. Something that had definitely been caramel at some point and then, perhaps, caught fire. And—was that kiwi?

And then he saw them.

Four grown men frozen in place like children caught mid-heist.

Jason, arms crossed, clearly pretending not to care.

Tim, leaning casually against the fridge, trying too hard not to look nervous.

Damian, straight-backed and stoic, hands behind his back like he was in front of a commanding officer.

And Dick—Dick who was smiling just a little too wide, like if he grinned brightly enough it would distract from the powdered sugar on his ear.

And then, in the center of the table:

A single, stunning pavlova.

A crisp white shell, domed and swirled like a snow fortress. Its lid rested neatly on top like a crown, dusted with powdered sugar. Inside, a glossy pillow of cream, layers of fruit, golden passionfruit pulp glistening like treasure.

Alfred stared at it for a long moment.

Then at them.

Then back at the pavlova.

“…I see,” he said.

Jason cleared his throat. “It’s structurally sound.”

Tim piped up, “Swiss meringue inside. Italian for the shell.”

“It was a collaborative effort,” Damian added.

Alfred raised one eyebrow. “And the original objective?”

“...To make one that didn’t die on contact with air,” Dick admitted.

Alfred set down his bag without a word.

Then he stepped forward, hands behind his back, inspecting the pavlova with the same expression he’d once used to assess Bruce’s tuxedo before a gala. He leaned slightly. Took in the texture. The color. The piping work.

He circled it. Nodded slowly.

“Hm.”

Jason leaned sideways to whisper to Tim, “He’s going full Mary Berry.”

“He’s going to use the word ‘scrummy,’” Tim muttered.

“No,” Dick said solemnly. “He’s Paul Hollywood. We’re waiting on the handshake.”

Alfred picked up a dessert fork with dramatic flair. The room held its breath.

He sliced into the side of the pavlova.

Crack.

The shell gave way perfectly. No crumbling. No collapse.

He spooned out a piece, inspecting the inner layers. Meringue. Fruit. Swiss cream. More fruit. Structure intact.

Then he took a bite. The brothers all leaned in a fraction of an inch. Alfred chewed slowly, eyes narrowed. He swallowed and set down the fork.

And finally spoke. “…The shell has an excellent snap. Crisp exterior, soft interior. Not overly sweet.”

They straightened a little.

“The cream is balanced. No separation. You whipped it too long initially—”

Jason let out a tiny noise of defeat.

“—but you fixed it,” Alfred continued. “Fruit distribution is thoughtful. Passionfruit adds brightness. Kiwi was cut a touch too thick—” (Damian frowned slightly.) “—but otherwise, a commendable flavor profile.”

He stepped back, steepling his fingers.

“Plating could use refinement. And next time… avoid using the immersion blender near the bonsai. It’s traumatized.”

Jason visibly grimaced.

“But,” Alfred concluded, letting a faint smile touch the corner of his mouth, “I am, on the whole, impressed.”

And then—

He extended a hand toward the table. A single, graceful motion. The butler’s version of the Hollywood handshake.

They stared at it for a second.

Then Dick let out a small, triumphant whoop and high-fived Jason hard enough to rattle the forks. Tim looked stunned. Damian merely nodded, as if it was expected.

Alfred moved toward the kettle. “Tea, Master Richard?”

“Yes,” Dick said brightly. “And, uh, please don’t ask about the fan.”

Alfred paused. Looked up at the ceiling.

“…Why is there a piping bag hanging from the fan, Master Richard?”

“...Science?”

“Mm.”

Alfred said nothing more.

The kettle whistled.

Five forks dug back into the pavlova.

And for the first time in what felt like days, everything was just right.

Chapter Text

Bruce was already suspicious by the time he reached the top of the stairs.

Wayne Manor was never quiet in a good way. Silence in this house meant someone was plotting, unconscious, or both.

So when he stepped into the second-floor hallway and heard nothing but the faint hum of the TV drifting up from the sitting room, he slowed his pace.

Not because he thought something was wrong.

But because something was off.

Bruce pushed open the double doors to the east parlor.

And froze.

There were four of them—Dick, Jason, Tim, and Damian—spread across the room like a panel of food critics at a Michelin-star showdown. The giant flatscreen blazed with pastel colors and rolling shots of sponge cakes.

“Whipped too fast,” Tim muttered. “See that? Her peaks are breaking. That’s gonna collapse in the tent.”

Jason scoffed from the armchair. “It’s the curd that’s gonna get her. You don’t plate citrus on a wet sponge unless you want it to turn into soup.”

“She’s going for a Genoise, you imbeciles,” Damian snapped from the window seat, slicing into a mango with his knife for no clear reason. “The acidity is balanced by the structure—assuming she didn't overbake. Which she did. You can see it.”

Dick was sitting on the floor with a blanket around his shoulders and a fork in one hand—eating what looked like leftover pavlova straight from the serving platter.

He glanced up and beamed. “Bruce! You're back just in time. Quarterfinals. They’re doing patisserie week!”

Bruce just stared at them.

At the empty dessert plates on the coffee table.

The sugar-dusted throw pillows.

The spreadsheet open on Tim’s tablet labeled “Technical Rankings - Series 5.”

“…What the hell is happening here.”

Jason waved a fork in his direction. “You’ve seen Bake Off, right?”

“I—what?”

“It’s basically the Olympics of gentle baking,” Dick said cheerfully.

“With the added tension of emotional devastation when someone forgets gelatin,” Tim added.

“They are weak,” Damian said, taking another bite of mango. “Only three contestants remain.”

Bruce blinked slowly.

“Did I miss a memo?” he asked finally. “Last week, you were fighting assassins in Prague. Now you’re watching people cry over custard.”

“Yeah, and it’s awesome,” Dick said. “We started as a joke, but then we actually made a pavlova—successfully, I might add—and now we’re emotionally attached.”

“They made it wrong,” Damian said.

“You didn’t even taste it.”

“I didn’t need to. The piping was irregular.”

Bruce looked at the screen.

A kind-eyed woman named Sheila was sobbing into a tart shell while Paul Hollywood nodded gravely.

He looked back at his sons.

Tim’s jaw was tight with secondhand stress.

Jason had a notebook in his lap and was sketching out a croquembouche tower with intimidating accuracy.

Damian was sharpening his fruit knife like he was preparing for pastry war.

And Dick had frosting on his sock.

“…This is fine,” Bruce said, mostly to himself. “Everything is fine.”

--------

He walked into the kitchen.

There was a faint smell of vanilla extract and a banana in the microwave for no discernible reason.

He opened the fridge. Inside: fruit, labeled containers of “Swiss meringue (do not eat),” and a sticky note that just said “Don’t. Seriously. - Jason.”

He closed the fridge. Returned to the parlor. Sat down wordlessly on the edge of the couch. The room went still for a second.

Then Jason reached over and passed him a clean fork. “You’re going to want to try this.”

Bruce took the fork and tasted the pavlova. Paused. “…That’s actually good.”

“We know,” all four said at once.

He watched the screen as the bakers scrambled to plate mille-feuille on wobbly stands.

Dick leaned against his arm with a pleased sigh. “You’re gonna love biscuit week.”

Bruce nodded faintly, then sighed. “…I’m going to regret this, aren’t I?”

Tim passed him a scorecard template. “You already do.”

Chapter Text

It began, as all Wayne family escalations did, with a completely innocent statement.

It was the start of a new season of The Great British Bake Off. The brothers had reconvened, pavlova disaster and success still fresh in their memory, ready to casually binge and bicker as they'd been doing since the Incident.

And this time, they had company.

Cass curled up on the couch beside Damian, barefoot and alert, eyes locked on the TV as if she were analyzing combat footage.

Steph was sprawled across Dick’s lap with a tub of frosting and a spoon. “I don’t know how you nerds are this into this. It’s just cake.”

“You hush your mouth,” Tim said, dipping a spoon into her frosting tub.

Jason handed her a laminated chart labeled GBBO Judging Criteria: A Breakdown. “It’s never just cake.”

Steph read it upside down, then arched an eyebrow. “You guys made this?”

“We made a pavlova,” Dick said proudly.

“And it was edible,” Jason added.

“Barely,” Damian muttered.

By the end of the episode, where they all had commentary about the cakes made over the weekend challenge. Cass tilted her head at the screen. “I could do that.”

Everyone turned to her.

“…What?” Steph asked.

Cass shrugged. “I watched. I understand. Easy.”

Jason blinked. “You’ve never even baked before.”

“Watched you.”

“Oh no,” Tim whispered. “She’s doing the thing.”

“What thing?” Steph asked.

“She absorbs skills like a pastry sponge. One watch, and it’s over.”

Steph narrowed her eyes. “Okay, well, I know how to bake. I had a birthday cake side hustle in middle school. I could wipe the floor with this show.”

“Oh yeah?” Jason asked.

“Yeah.”

Cass smiled slightly. “Dare.”

And that was how it happened.

Right there, in the middle of Pastry Week, as two strangers on screen tried to wrangle pâte à choux, Stephanie Brown and Cassandra Cain declared war.

And the others?

Never ones to ignore a competitive challenge, they did the only logical thing.

They joined in with declarations.

----

48 Hours Later

Bruce stood in the kitchen with Alfred, watching as Dick gestured wildly with a spatula in one hand and what might’ve been laminated puff pastry in the other.

“…And then she said my galette was ‘flaky like my patrol schedules,’ and I don’t know what that means, but I will be avenged.”

Tim and Damian were on the far end of the counter furiously piping rosettes onto cupcakes like their reputations depended on it.

Steph, in full chaos mode, was making something with a blowtorch and possibly edible glitter.

Cass, entirely silent, had already baked two batches, discarded the inferior one, and was now building what looked like a cake shaped like a fox.

Jason had a knife in one hand, a whisk in the other, and was threatening to knock over someone’s sugar cage if they got too close to his ganache.

Alfred, arms crossed, was observing all of it like he was hosting the final round of an international culinary deathmatch.

Bruce sipped his tea. “…So,” he said, “I assume this means you’re banning them from the kitchen again?”

Alfred didn’t blink. “Sir, I banned them yesterday. They broke in through the garden window at 2:17 this morning.”

Bruce nodded slowly. “And you didn’t stop them?”

“I’m not God, Master Bruce. I do not control the tides.”

A loud crash rang out behind them, followed by Damian yelling, “I said who touched my pâte sucrée!”

“I moved it to make space for my molds!” Tim shouted.

“That dough was at rest temperature!”

Jason chimed in without turning around. “I swear, if anyone touches my truffles, I’m going to turn this into Hell’s Kitchen.”

Bruce stared at the ceiling. “I suppose I’ll need to build them one.”

“A kitchen?”

“A baking arena. Separate stations. High-end equipment. Ventilation.”

Alfred nodded slowly, clearly already drafting blueprints in his mind. “Steel worktables. Marble for tempering. Surveillance to prevent sabotage.”

“Soundproofing.”

“Absolutely.”

They stood in silence for a moment longer.

“I want no part in this,” Bruce said. “I’m not judging.”

“You’ll taste, though,” Alfred said without looking at him.

“…Of course.”

----

Three Weeks Later

WayneTech contractors had stopped asking questions after the third Bat-shaped coffee bar was ordered.

The “Wayne Family Culinary Education Annex” — or, as everyone else called it, The Bake Cave — had been built beneath the east wing, fully kitted out with:

• Eight separate baking stations, each labeled with chalkboard nameplates.
• Double ovens, stand mixers, and personal fridges per station.
• A judging table, three feet higher than the baking floor (Alfred’s demand).
• Lockable drawers for “secret ingredients and culinary espionage prevention.”
• A small lounge where Bruce could sit and watch the chaos unfold with a cup of tea and the deeply tired expression of a man who’d made peace with being outnumbered.

Each of them had aprons.

Each had assigned colors.

Each had rivalries.

And none of them were backing down.

Alfred adjusted his cravat as the first challenge was about to begin. “Welcome,” he said, “to the inaugural Wayne Family Bake-Off.”

They all cheered.

Except Bruce, who just sipped his tea and looked quietly, almost dangerously, proud.

***************

"Alright, contestants," Alfred announced from the elevated judging platform, immaculate clipboard in hand, "you have ninety minutes to prepare and present twenty-four identical cupcakes of your own signature flavor. They must be uniform in size, topped with a buttercream swirl, and may be filled or decorated as you see fit. You will be judged on flavor, execution, and presentation."

He paused.

"And yes—uniform means all the same. Not roughly. Not ‘sort of.’ All. The. Same."

From his lounge chair in the corner, Bruce raised an eyebrow and took a sip of tea. “You’ve been waiting years to say that, haven’t you?”

“I live in a house with six grown children who believe the words ‘close enough’ apply to cooking,” Alfred said without looking at him. “Yes. I have.”

A buzzer sounded.

The competition began.

---

0:00 – 15:00

Chaos. Immediate chaos.

Oven doors slammed open. Flour exploded. Whisks clanged. Cass knocked a mixer attachment onto the floor, didn’t flinch, and just kept going.

Dick had two different Spotify playlists going because he “needed motivational music and kitchen ambience.”

Jason wore noise-canceling headphones and glared at everyone like this was a black-ops mission. He turned a little and keeping his back to the others while he measured out ingredients into his mixing bowls and one pot.

Tim immediately began weighing flour by the gram and checking his oven’s calibration with a laser thermometer.

Steph, of course, was dancing. To her own music. Out loud. “♪ This girl is on fireeeeee ♪”

“You’re gonna be on fire if you keep heating sugar that high,” Jason snapped.

---

15:01 – 45:00

Problems began almost immediately.

Cass's batter was too thick. She adjusted by instinct—no measurements, just reading texture like she was reading someone's movements in a fight.

Dick forgot to preheat his oven and didn’t realize until his liners were filled.

Tim made his batter too exact and ended up with precisely 23.75 cupcakes.

Jason burned his first batch, yanked them out, and had a second batch in the oven within four minutes like he’d planned for it all along. Then went back to mixing up his fillings.

Damian attempted a saffron-orange blend and spent five minutes locked in a flavor debate with Titus, who’d wandered in and tried to eat a paper liner.

Steph tried to flambé her cherry compote. The lighter clicked six times. Then: WHOOMPF. “I meant to do that!” she yelled, waving away the smoke.

Bruce didn’t even blink.

“Cupcake pan, not a skillet,” Alfred said calmly over the intercom.

“I said I meant to!”

---

45:01 – 75:00

This was when things got personal.

Jason’s buttercream was too soft.

Dick’s was too stiff.

Steph over-whipped hers and tried to save it by adding whipped cream. It sort of worked. In this could be a mousse if I lie about it kind of way.

Cass had perfect consistency—but couldn’t figure out the swirl. After three awkward attempts, she scraped it off and started again. By the time she hit her rhythm, it looked like she’d been decorating cupcakes since birth.

Tim made his into tiny top hats.

Damian made each swirl mathematically identical using a stencil, a ruler, and a laser level.

“Is that cheating?” Dick asked.

“No,” Bruce said. “That’s engineering.”

---

75:01 – 90:00

Steph dusted hers in edible glitter and gold leaf and then very nearly dropped the tray.

Tim filled his with passionfruit curd and added dehydrated flower petals on top.

Dick soaked his lemon cupcakes in a rosemary syrup and added candied peel.

Jason’s were chocolate hazelnut with a surprise cherry center and piped-on bat symbols.

Cass’s were matcha with a black sesame filling and precision buttercream foxes on top.

Damian’s final product was a saffron-orange cupcake, filled with almond cream, and garnished with hand-sculpted sugar koi.

As the buzzer rang, they all stepped back.

They were breathing hard.

Flour was in their hair. There were dollops of buttercream on the floor. Several bowls had been broken.

But every single one of them had twenty-four decorated cupcakes on their stations.

And they all looked good-ish.

Alfred descended from the platform, gloves on, expression unreadable.

“Presentation round,” he announced. “Please step back from your workstations.”

They all obeyed.

Alfred walked slowly down the row.

No clipboard now.

Just his hands folded behind his back.

---

He examined Steph’s first—cherry cola cupcakes with vanilla buttercream, a cherry tucked on top of each like a bow.

“Lively,” he said. “But the sugar work is inconsistent.”

Steph smirked. “So am I.”

Tim’s were pristine. Technically perfect. A little too perfect.

“These look like something you’d find in a curated bakery window. Do they taste like something worth eating?”

“…We’ll see,” Tim said.

Cass’s were quiet, neat, oddly elegant. The fox detail was charming. The flavors smelled strong.

Alfred gave a tiny nod. “Clean work.”

Jason’s had a rough edge, but they were bold. Decadent. Chocolate buttercream piped in thick, swooping swirls.

“You attempted tempering?”

Jason nodded.

“It shows.”

Dick’s were citrus-forward, bright and homey, with spirals of sugared zest on top.

“Unpretentious,” Alfred said. “A rare trait in this household.”

Damian’s were, of course, perfect. But a little too perfect.

“These look like they were made by a robot,” Alfred said dryly.

Damian narrowed his eyes. “Then the robot deserves to win.”

---

Alfred took his time. He tasted each one in private at the judging table, palate cleansers and all.

The family waited behind the glass, watching him like this was a medical drama.

Even Bruce looked tense.

After fifteen minutes, Alfred stood.

“…You may re-enter the arena.”

They did—slowly, expectantly.

He looked them over one by one.

“You all passed. Barely.”

Steph pumped her fist.

Alfred held up a single cupcake—the matcha one with the sesame filling and the tiny buttercream fox.

“Miss Cassandra, your cupcake displayed balance, creativity, and excellent flavor. Well done.”

Cass smiled, quiet and proud.

Jason clapped once.

Tim muttered, “I knew it.”

Alfred added, “They are slightly overbaked.”

Cass didn’t even flinch. “I’ll fix it next time.”

Steph groaned dramatically. “Ugh, now I have to try.”

“You were trying,” Tim said.

“No, I was having fun. Now I have to be good at it. That’s work.”

Jason just grinned. “Let her win the cupcake round. I’m saving my vengeance for biscuit week.”

Bruce sipped his tea and watched them dissolve into light bickering and leftover cupcake trading.

Alfred straightened his gloves and said, “And now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be sterilizing this facility for five hours.”

*********

They arrived for the Technical Challenge expecting another dessert, especially as the previous one was a cake. The knowing gleam in Alfred’s eye should’ve tipped them off.

“Welcome back,” he said, standing at the front of the arena, gloved hands behind his back. “Today’s challenge is a departure from the sweet. You’ll be preparing a classic Cornish pasty—golden shortcrust pastry, folded and crimped by hand, filled with beef, potato, onion, and swede.”

There was a beat of collective silence.

“…What’s a swede?” Dick asked.

“Isn’t that a person from Sweden?” Steph added.

“It’s a rutabaga,” Tim said, rubbing his temple.

“I thought that was a turnip,” Jason said.

“No,” Damian sighed, “you are the turnip.”

Cass leaned toward Bruce and whispered, “Is swede poison?”

Bruce shook his head slowly. “Not… usually.”

Alfred, entirely unfazed, continued, “You will produce four identical pasties. They must be hand-crimped, uniformly golden, with cooked filling and no soggy bottoms.”

He gestured to the sheets of paper at each station.

“I’ve stripped the recipe of some of it’s instructions. This is a true test of your instincts, knife skills, and understanding of traditional British fare.”

Steph picked up her sheet and blinked. “‘Make dough. Fill. Bake.’ That’s it?! That’s the entire recipe?!”

“Correct.”

“…Is this revenge?”

Alfred’s smile was slow.

---

0:00 – 20:00

Everyone immediately ran into problems.

Tim tried to scale the butter-to-flour ratio with lab-level precision, only to realize the ambient heat of the kitchen was softening the dough faster than he could work it.

Dick misread the “shortcrust” part and somehow ended up halfway through a puff pastry.

Jason grunted and just started mixing. His dough came together like it owed him rent.

Cass stared at her ingredients with deep concentration, then began combining things based entirely on how they felt between her fingers.

Damian attempted lamination, which was not the assignment, but he didn’t care.

Steph made her dough too wet, then tried to fix it by adding more flour, which made it chalky. “…This is fine,” she muttered, lying to herself and the dough.

---

20:01 – 45:00

Now came the filling. Alfred’s sheet said: ‘Chop vegetables finely. Season. Layer with beef. No precooking.’ This unleashed a wave of existential dread.

Jason diced everything like he was in a food prep montage from a Tarantino movie.

Tim got out a ruler.

Steph’s knife skills were passable but her vegetables were slightly uneven.

Cass, on the other hand? Precise cuts. Perfect cuts. Like she’d been training under Gordon Ramsay in secret. But she layered her ingredients in the wrong order.

Damian layered them like he was building a miniature battle formation.

Dick… tried to season with “vibes.”

He blinked at the spice rack. “Do British people even use spice?”

---

45:01 – 75:00

Then came the crimping. True Cornish pasties are crimped along the side—not the top—and must seal in the raw ingredients to steam inside the pastry. No one knew that except maybe Damian, who claimed it was obvious and that ‘food architecture’ was a neglected field.

Tim’s crimping was mathematically even but barely sealed.

Jason overstuffed his and had to duct tape the edge with leftover dough.

Steph did hers like empanadas. Not quite right, but cute.

Dick’s ruptured in the oven.

Cass forgot the egg wash and stared at her pale pastry in horror when she saw the others turn golden.

Damian’s were… aggressive. Each pasty looked like it had been armored.

---

75:01 – 90:00

The last stretch was full of burned fingers and last-second egg wash attempts.

Dick panicked and tried to torch his top crust.

Jason screamed at Tim to “shut the oven!” while Steph tried to air out the smoke alarm with a baking tray.

Cass quietly tried to fix her mistake with powdered turmeric for color.

Bruce watched the chaos from his corner, sipping tea like it was the most relaxing Saturday of his life. “Cass and others are faltering. Good. They need to learn.”

---

Judgment Time

They filed in their pasties anonymously again, laid out on silver trays numbered 1–6.

Alfred examined each with a small paring knife and a face that made hardened vigilantes feel like nervous schoolchildren.

Pasty #1: Burned edge. Decent filling. “Acceptable, but angry.” (Jason)

Pasty #2: Beautiful crust. Raw potato. “A betrayal in layers.” (Tim)

Pasty #3: Even bake. Undersalted. “Safe. Not memorable.” (Dick)

Pasty #4: Pale. Crimping broken. “Filling seasoned well. Presentation lacking.” (Cass)

Pasty #5: Overbaked. Crunchy pastry. “Technically a weapon.” (Damian)

Pasty #6: Slightly messy. Perfectly seasoned. Fully cooked. “The winner.” (Steph)

Steph blinked. “I won?”

Alfred nodded. “You seasoned properly, crimped creatively, and didn’t burn the crust.”

Steph immediately did a victory lap.

Jason groaned. “I was robbed.”

“You were angry crimping.”

Cass stood very still beside her pale, failed pasties.

Alfred passed her as he left and quietly said, “You’ll do better next time.”

She gave the tiniest nod.

Bruce, watching them all clean up, smiled behind his mug.

*******

Saturday morning in the Bake Cave started unusually quiet. Well, as quiet as anything got in a custom-built, underground baking arena housing seven overly competitive vigilantes with fondant in their hair.

Dick was stretching. Tim was double-checking oven temps. Steph was already smudged with cocoa powder and didn’t know how. Cass stood in front of a blank sketchpad like a sculptor about to chisel a masterpiece. Damian had an actual blueprint.

Jason had a second cup of coffee and the thousand-yard stare of someone who’d spent the morning tempering chocolate and dodging sabotage attempts from his younger brother.

Then the elevator dinged.

Two new voices echoed down the steps.

“...You guys were serious about this?”

“Deadly.”

Barbara Gordon strolled into the arena in jeans and a Batgirl hoodie, one eyebrow arched and a travel mug in her hand. Beside her, Duke Thomas froze halfway down the stairs.

He blinked. Then stared. "...This is a war zone," Duke said, slowly scanning the frosting stains, baking charts, and laminated piping guides.

Bruce, already seated in his corner with a tea tray and what might’ve been a judge’s scorecard he wasn’t supposed to have, simply said, “Welcome.”

Duke’s eyes landed on Damian’s station, where a three-tier cake pan was being sanded smooth with an actual power tool.

He nodded once. “Nope. I’m not helping.”

“Smart,” Babs said.

Steph waved a spatula. “Babs! Help me sabotage Tim’s station!”

“I’m here to observe and maybe judge,” Babs said, sipping her coffee. “And also to not get powdered sugar in my hair.”

Tim was already defending his pastry sketch like it was a patent.

Jason muttered to Duke as he passed, “Bet you five bucks someone cries by the end of the day.”

Duke raised both hands. “I’m just visiting, man.”

But by the end of the hour, he was pacing between stations, making commentary like a sports announcer. “Strong flavor profile from Steph. Weak structural integrity. Cass going for minimalism, bold choice. Damian’s already calculated gravity. Jason’s cake looks like it wants to fight you.”

Dick grinned. “You’re in too deep already.”

“I refuse.”

“You sure?” Bruce asked mildly from his corner. “Alfred’s preparing the next challenge. Still time to join the ranks.”

Duke scoffed. “I don’t bake.”

Tim looked up. “Neither can Jason, and he’s winning.”

“I’m the only one who does—” Jason began to shout, but Alfred entered at that exact moment with a silver tray and a glittering sense of finale energy.

“Ladies and gentlemen. Master Duke. Miss Gordon.”

“Not competing,” Babs said immediately.

Alfred smiled like a man who was used to children protesting and still winning the argument.

“Today is your Showstopper Challenge—and it is a test of creativity, structure, and storytelling. You will have four hours to complete… an edible, sculptural tribute to Gotham at Night.”

Everyone stared.

Jason blinked. “Wait, like… the skyline?”

“Or the spirit of the city,” Alfred said smoothly. “Up to interpretation. But it must be entirely edible. No support structures allowed. Solo work only. No team-ups.”

“Four hours?!” Tim cried.

“I built a croquembouche in two,” Damian said smugly.

Duke looked at Bruce. “They’re going to fight.”

“They always do.”

Cass tilted her head. “Skyline or symbol?”

“Your call,” Alfred said. “Just don’t present crumbs on a plate and call it art.”

Tim sighed, tore up his first design, and started again.

Steph whispered, “What if I make the GCPD building but it’s actually a cake?”

Dick, already sketching, said, “I’m gonna do the Blüdhaven Bridge with sugar glass. No one stop me.”

Cass, now fully in the zone, nodded to herself. “Fox in Gotham.”

Everyone stopped and turned.

“…What?” Duke asked.

“Like a fox. But here.”

“…Okay.”

Barbara crossed her arms and leaned back against the wall beside Bruce, who offered her a chair and a second cup of tea.

“So,” she said, watching Steph already drop a bowl, “how many fire extinguishers do we have ready?”

/

“Three,” Bruce said calmly. “And I doubled the insurance on the marble counters.”

They clinked mugs in solidarity.

******

The Bake Cave was quiet.

Not silent—there was the low whir of mixers, the precise snick of knives against fondant, the crackle of sugar heating—but it wasn’t chaotic.

Not today.

Today, they were focused.

Alfred had laid down the gauntlet: "Create an edible, sculptural tribute to Gotham at Night. Four hours. No teams. No excuses."

Now, each Batkid stood at their station, sleeves rolled, timers set, minds racing. No more side-eye sabotage. No more musical interludes. No more yelling across the kitchen about who stole the lemon zest. Only the sound of work.

---

Hour One

Jason was first to dive in. His station was an explosion of dark chocolate, black cocoa, and smoked caramel. He wasn’t building the skyline.

He was building Crime Alley.

A layered chocolate sheet cake served as the street. Figures were molded from modeling chocolate—two parents, a child, a splash of strawberry reduction beside a pearl-white fondant necklace.

Duke hovered near Bruce and muttered, “Is he okay?”

Bruce: “He’s coping creatively.”

Jason sculpted silently, hands steady. His jaw was set, but his eyes were calm.

Tim had gone full architectural. He was building the Gotham Clocktower—Cass and Babs' old haunt. His structure was sponge cake, but the gears? Sugar glass, molded and carefully dyed. Every piece was measured twice, balanced with stabilizing ganache, chilled just enough to hold its weight.

Duke peered closer. “That’s a functioning sugar mechanism.”

Barbara blinked. “He better not be recreating my windows.”

Tim, without looking up, said, “The east-facing ones, yes.”

Steph was building the GCPD building… except she was flipping it on its head.

A lemon and blueberry cake base with edible marzipan cop cars, fondant barricades, and an upside-down fondant Batman clinging to the side of the building. It was chaotic, a little messy—but full of heart and ambition. Her buttercream skyline had neon piping. Her clock read 3:17 a.m.

“Is that an inside joke?” Babs asked.

Steph grinned, cheeks flushed. “Yup.”

Dick’s build was pure grace: the Blüdhaven Bridge at midnight.

The base was sturdy—almond sponge layers filled with blackberry compote—but the artistry was in the sugar glass work. He was spinning caramel into cables. Hand-painting black and blue food gel into an ombré night sky. His fingers moved like a gymnast mid-routine.

Cass passed by once, paused, nodded.

He grinned. “Yours looks amazing too.”

Cass didn’t reply—she was already gone.

Cass’s creation wasn’t a building.

It was an idea.

Her project: Fox in Gotham.

At the center, a sculpted fox made from molded spiced cake and burnt sugar fur. It crouched low, poised atop a rooftop of chocolate-covered shortbread, shadows trailing from its paws.

Around it: stylized fondant buildings, their windows glowing with painted gold dust.

It was eerie. Elegant. Quietly stunning.

Damian was in his own world.

He wasn’t building a scene—he was building a statue.

His structure: a towering sugar sculpture of the Bat-symbol made from sharp angles of tempered chocolate, gold-dusted fondant gargoyles at the base, and carefully piped Latin script etched into the foundation. Underneath it all?

A surprise.

His cake, once sliced, would reveal a Gotham skyline hidden in the layers. Chocolate for the shadows. Vanilla for the lights. Hints of saffron and blood orange for depth.

He said nothing. He had earbuds in.

Duke mouthed, “He’s insane.”

Bruce just nodded, sipping his tea.

----

Hour Two

Cass broke her sugar window. Didn’t react—just started again.

Tim’s sugar gears slipped out of alignment. He recalibrated without blinking.

Jason’s necklace string snapped. He remelted the sugar, set it again, quieter than usual.

Steph ran out of pink dye halfway through her police lights. She muttered, “It’s fine. I’ll make it rain.”

Dick’s sugar bridge cables snapped mid-spin. He stared at them for three seconds, exhaled through his nose, and began spinning again.

Even Damian burned a tray of accent cookies, removed them, and without comment, moved on to his next step.

No one complained.

No one cracked jokes.

Even Duke stopped trying to narrate.

He and Babs watched in silence.

Babs leaned in to him. “This isn’t a bake-off. It’s an art show.”

Duke nodded. “Yeah. And it’s getting personal.”

---

Hour Three

Ovens roared. Chocolate cooled. Sugar shattered and reformed.

Cass stepped back, tilting her head at her fox. She narrowed her eyes, reached out, and brushed powdered sugar across its nose.

Jason painted a gold streak across his strawberry "blood" with the side of a knife.

Tim triple-checked the alignment of his tower.

Steph sang softly under her breath while airbrushing her fondant Bat-signal.

Damian, the only one still with energy, added a final layer of gold leaf to his gargoyle’s eyes.

Dick placed his final sugar streetlamp.

No one spoke.

But the feeling in the air was thick. Focused. Powerful.

It was Gotham at night.

It was their Gotham.

---

Final Hour

The last thirty minutes were tense.

Fondant details flew. Piping bags burst. Buttercream was repiped and sugar glass edges were polished like diamond.

The timer ticked down.

Five minutes.

No one spoke.

One minute.

Bruce stood.

Babs leaned forward in her seat.

Duke whispered, “They’re gonna collapse.”

Alfred walked in, gloved and composed.

The buzzer sounded.

Every station froze.

Six edible sculptures stood gleaming under the lights.

Gotham.

Each one different.

Each one perfect in its own, chaotic way.

-----

The Bake Cave was silent again—but now, it was the hush of expectation.

The bakes stood in a glittering row, six edible monuments to Gotham at night, each wildly different. Each intensely personal.

And at the front of it all, calm as a surgeon in the operating room, stood Alfred, silver tasting fork in hand, tea untouched beside him.

Bruce, Babs, and Duke observed from the sidelines, now quiet themselves.

“I feel like I should be holding a scoring paddle,” Duke whispered.

“You should be holding your tongue,” Barbara replied.

---

1. Jason’s Crime Alley Cake

He stood with arms folded, a quiet challenge in his posture.

Alfred approached, eyes scanning the scene—the rich chocolate textures, the dark cocoa gravel, the modeling chocolate figures. The tiny shattered fondant pearls nestled in a perfect splash of strawberry glaze.

He took a bite. The silence stretched.

“Bold,” Alfred said. “Layered. The ganache could have been tempered more smoothly, but the flavor is… mournfully beautiful.”

Jason blinked. “You just called my cake mournfully beautiful.”

Alfred continued on.

2. Steph’s GCPD Tower

Her upside-down Bat was clinging to the frosting with two fondant grappling hooks. There were tiny fondant coffee cups near a fondant breakroom window.

Alfred turned the cake slowly, nodding once.

He took a bite, then another.

“The lemon is bright. The blueberry pairs well. The structure is a bit unstable, but the narrative is clear. Gotham in absurdity.”

Steph grinned. “Just like the real one.”

3. Tim’s Clocktower

A study in symmetry, precision, and edible architecture.

Alfred examined the sugar-glass gears, the elevation of the sponge tiers, and the neat piped Latin quote beneath the clock: Tempus Fugit.

He tapped one of the sugar gears. It spun, slowly.

Cass clapped once. Tim flushed.

Alfred tasted the cake and arched a brow.

“Remarkable flavor balance. Ambitious design. Crumb could be finer. But this is… meticulous work.”

Tim lit up like someone had complimented his encryption skills.

4. Cass’s Fox in Gotham

Alfred paused longest here.

The fox perched on its chocolate rooftop seemed alive—ready to leap, its sugar eyes glinting in the light. Around it, the city loomed, sharp-edged and painted in edible shadow.

He knelt slightly to view it from Cass’s eye level, then cut a slice from the base.

“Cardamom,” he murmured after tasting. “And ginger. Spiced with restraint. Textures well-balanced. Presentation is... striking.”

Cass nodded once.

Steph whispered, “She’s going to destroy us next round.”

5. Dick’s Blüdhaven Bridge

The sugar-glass cables shimmered in pale blue. Under the arch of spun sugar, a fondant Nightwing stood balanced mid-leap between streetlamps.

Alfred tilted his head, admiring the line of the build before cutting into the almond sponge.

He chewed slowly, then gave a thoughtful hum.

“Sponge is delicate. Compote is well-set. Cables are fragile but cleanly spun.” He looked up at Dick. “This speaks of home.”

Dick beamed like a kid getting a gold star. “Thanks, Alfie.”

6. Damian’s Bat-Symbol Tower

The sculpture stood defiant, balanced entirely on itself—chocolate and sugar and artistic hubris.

Inside the cake, the skyline revealed itself with each slice—layers dyed and positioned so Gotham emerged in the cross-section.

Even Alfred paused a moment before cutting in.

He tasted.

“The technique here is… highly advanced. Flavor choice bold. Crumb structure solid. The skyline interior is…” he looked again, almost startled, “…brilliant.”

Damian gave a small, satisfied smirk.

Jason muttered, “Of course he put a secret surprise skyline in the cake.”

---

Alfred stepped back, hands behind his back, gaze sweeping over all of them.

“All of you,” he began, “surprised me.”

No one spoke.

“I expected passion. I did not expect excellence. And yet, I saw it in every dish—every sculpted rooftop, every sugar-dyed shadow. You have all, in your own ways, told the story of Gotham through flavor and form.”

He paused. “However… there must be one winner.”

The silence deepened.

“Today’s Showstopper Champion is…” He turned. “…Cassandra.”

Cass blinked once.

Steph gasped, then clapped for her. Tim nodded, impressed. Jason raised his brows and gave a slow, respectful tilt of his head. Dick whooped. Damian made a noise that might’ve been a grumble or approval—hard to say.

Cass, still quiet, offered a soft, “Thanks.”

Alfred looked at her with something close to pride. “Your work was restrained. Elegant. And evocative. You did not just bake a tribute. You whispered Gotham.”

Cass tilted her head. “Foxes don’t shout.”

“Exactly.”

---

As everyone relaxed, cleaning up or tasting bits of each other’s cakes, Duke wandered over to the table again.

He popped a piece of Jason’s cake into his mouth and muttered, “That’s criminally good.”

“Right?” Dick said.

“You guys seriously went off,” Duke said, still chewing. “Kinda wish I’d joined the competition, actually.”

Four heads swiveled.

Tim’s smile turned shark-like.

Steph leaned forward. “You what?”

Cass pointed. “He said it. Witnessed.”

Jason crossed his arms. “He said he wants in. You all heard it.”

“I was just—”

“You’re in now,” Alfred said, appearing at his side with a clean apron and a terrifying glint in his eye.

Duke stared at him. “Wait—no—this is entrapment—”

Alfred held out a mixing bowl. “Welcome to the game, Mr. Thomas.”

Barbara nearly fell off her chair laughing.

Bruce simply sipped his tea.

Chapter Text

The Bake Cave smelled like butter, flour, and raw ambition.

Alfred stood once more at the head of the now-infamous judging table. The banner above read Pastry Week in elegant script, the “P” slightly crooked because Steph had done it in frosting while laughing too hard at a croissant meme.

Behind him, the six returning contestants stood in formation—Tim, Jason, Dick, Damian, Steph, and reigning showstopper champion Cassandra Cain, who now had a tiny silver spatula pinned to her apron like a medal.

Standing a little further off, adjusting his apron and trying to look casual while not panicking, was Duke Thomas.

He’d spent the last two days rewatching baking tutorials on 3x speed, doing dough-stretching hand exercises, and texting his auntie about laminated dough.

He was ready.

Probably.

Maybe.

Alfred’s voice, calm and lethal:

“Welcome to Pastry Week. This morning’s challenge is your Signature Bake: A selection of six sweet breakfast pastries.”

Everyone straightened.

“You may make croissants, danishes, turnovers, or a combination thereof, so long as your lamination is clean, your flavors intentional, and your pastry fully baked.”

Jason muttered, “So no raw dough in the middle like last time, Tim.”

Tim didn’t even look up. “That was one time.”

Alfred continued, “You have three hours. Begin.”

----

Hour One

It started with butter. So much butter.

Jason, going classic, began folding dough with the kind of intensity usually reserved for fight choreography.

Tim had his dough rolled out in a perfect rectangle by the twenty-minute mark. His butter square was within half a millimeter of precision. He looked like he was solving a puzzle rather than making food.

Steph had glitter on her dough somehow. “I’m making sparkly raspberry pinwheels,” she said cheerfully. “Gotham needs joy.”

Damian was muttering about savory superiority and aggressively folding duck fat into his dough instead of butter.

Cass, quiet and focused, was already shaping small spiral danishes with cardamom and orange zest. No big builds today—just subtle, elegant flavor.

Dick, ever the optimist, was making hazelnut chocolate croissants, but he was singing as he rolled and his dough was already uneven.

Duke… was taking it slow.

He worked silently, remembering how his mother had always told him “you can’t rush layers.”

He chose honey and black pepper for his filling.

Tim peered over. “That’s… bold.”

“I like it,” Duke said simply. “Sweet and heat.”

Jason looked impressed. “Spicy breakfast pastry? Big swing.”

----

Hour Two

Steph’s glittery raspberry pinwheels kept unfolding themselves. She calmly re-folded them with more jam and muttered affirmations at the dough like it was a toddler.

Cass’s spirals were baking evenly, and the scent of citrus filled the room like sunlight.

Tim had started making two types—croissants and matcha-cream cheese pinwheels—because of course he was.

Damian’s duck-fat turnovers were filled with caramelized onion and goat cheese. They smelled amazing. They looked like they'd punch you in the mouth.

Dick’s croissants were… a little sad. His chocolate was leaking out. His ends didn’t hold their shape. But he was vibing.

Jason, somehow, had created a batch of espresso-pecan sticky buns with laminated dough that had no right to be that good.

And Duke?

He’d gotten past the lamination. He’d kept his folds clean. His honey-black pepper butter was whipped and cooled. He piped it into the folds just before shaping them into tight spirals, topped with candied orange peel and brushed with egg wash.

He wasn’t confident, exactly—but he was proud.

----

Hour Three

Ovens roared.

Pastries rose.

The smell of actual heaven filled the air.

Even Bruce, seated with Babs at the judging table, tilted his head. “This is… actually impressive.”

Babs nodded. “I’d break my diet for literally all of this.”

Alfred walked the line, quietly peeking into ovens and nodding or frowning. No words. Just doom.

Duke rotated his tray with care.

Damian muttered something about “civilian instinct,” but he was glaring at his own batch, not Duke’s.

Steph dropped her first tray—saved it with a midair spin and only screamed a little.

Time!

Alfred’s voice rang out like a gunshot. “Step away from your stations.”

Everyone froze.

Six contestants. One newcomer.

A judging table full of the most decadent, chaotic pastries the Wayne family kitchen had ever seen.

---

The Judging

Alfred walked down the line again.

Cass’s spirals:

“Bright. Fragrant. Perfect lamination.” (Cass nods. Nothing more.)

Jason’s sticky buns:

“Flaky. Buttery. Bold espresso. Slightly heavy on the syrup.” (Jason shrugs like that’s a win.)

Steph’s pinwheels:

“Messy. Fun. Glitter unnecessary.” (“You’re unnecessary,” Steph mutters with a smile.)

Tim’s croissants and matcha pinwheels:

“Excellent shaping. Matcha is strong. Croissants could use five more minutes.” (Tim doesn’t take it personally. He’s already thinking about the next bake.)

Damian’s duck-fat turnovers:

“Savory. Sophisticated. A touch dry.” (Damian frowns. He knows. He already has notes.)

Dick’s croissants:

“Underproofed. Chocolate burnt. Flavor salvageable.” (Dick gives a thumbs up anyway. He’s proud he didn’t set the oven on fire.)

Duke’s honey-black pepper spirals:

Alfred pauses.

He takes a bite. Chews. Then another.

“Unexpected. Slight heat. Subtle sweetness. Balanced and memorable.”

Duke raises an eyebrow. “Is that… good?”

Alfred turns to the table.

“Very.”

---

The Winner

“This round’s Signature winner,” Alfred says, “is…”

Everyone leans in.

“Duke.”

“What?!” Steph shrieks.

Jason chokes on a bite of his own sticky bun.

Cass smiles and claps softly.

Tim gives a low whistle. “That was fast.”

Dick grins and slaps Duke on the back. “First time in the fire and you pulled it off.”

Duke looks slightly stunned, then smiles. “I’ll take it.”

---

As everyone relaxes, Duke stretched and spoke without thinking: “Honestly? I kind of want to try laminated pastry again.”

Every head turned.

Barbara’s eyes widened. “Duke, no—”

Alfred set down his fork. “Excellent,” he was already producing a recipe card from somewhere.

Duke realized his mouth had betrayed him. “…I regret everything.”

********

After the whirlwind of baking, judging, and a few scattered exclamations of disbelief at Duke’s win (“Beginner’s luck, my butt,” Steph muttered), Alfred finally gave them the all-clear: “You may now sample each other’s work.”

That was all it took.

In seconds, every sibling surged toward the cooling racks like kids at a birthday party, plastic knives and dessert forks in hand. Plates were stacked. Crumbs flew. It was a buffet of butter and ambition.

“Okay, these are amazing,” Dick said around a mouthful of Tim’s matcha pinwheel. “Like… rude-level amazing. What the hell.”

Tim smirked but didn’t look up from spooning jam onto a piece of Cass’s orange spiral. “Precision pays off.”

“You say that like you didn’t nearly cry when your butter leaked.”

“It was strategic despair.”

Jason tossed a piece of one of Damian’s duck-fat turnovers into his mouth and raised a brow. “Alright, demon. These are criminally good. What cheese is that?”

“Goat. Aged.”

Jason nodded. “Could’ve used a touch of rosemary.”

Damian narrowed his eyes. “Are you offering critique or asking to copy me?”

Jason smirked. “Bit of both.”

Steph bounced between plates like a sugar-powered tornado. “Okay, so. Best filling? Cass’s. Best shape? Tim’s. Most likely to destroy my insides in a good way? Damian. Prettiest? Probably me, because glitter is always correct.”

“Your pastries bled sparkle,” Duke said. “I don’t think that’s natural.”

“Gotham isn’t natural,” Steph replied, holding up a half-eaten pinwheel. “It’s aesthetic.”

Cass had settled quietly with a plate full of exactly one bite of each person’s bake. She chewed slowly, eyes calm, thoughtful.

She tapped Duke’s shoulder. “Yours… woke up my nose.”

Duke blinked. “Is that good or bad?”

“Good.” She pointed to her nose. “Heat. Then sweet. Then… warm. You remember it.”

He grinned, ducking his head. “That’s what I was going for.”

Bruce sat off to the side with Babs, both sipping fresh tea from Alfred. He was watching them—not with the tactical scrutiny he gave his team in the field, but with something softer. Easier.

“They’re starting to relax,” Babs noted.

“They earned it,” Bruce replied.

“Duke especially.”

Bruce nodded. “He’ll be sore tomorrow.”

“From baking?”

“No. From the emotional whiplash.”

Eventually, the plates were down, the pace slowed, and the group migrated to the large center table—less as competitors, more as siblings. Feet up. Elbows on wood. Crumbs everywhere.

“Okay,” Dick said, stretching, “real question: why is baking so much harder than cooking?”

Jason, who’d been lounging with a slice of sticky bun in one hand, looked up. “Because cooking’s flexible,” he said. “You can taste, adjust, fix. Baking’s a science. It’s math with heat. If you mess it up, it’s already done by the time you realize.”

Steph pointed. “Yeah, but you make it look easy.”

“That’s ‘cause I do it when no one’s watching and I’m not surrounded by espresso-sweaty lunatics,” Jason said. “Also? I don’t bake fancy. I bake good. There’s a difference.”

Tim raised an eyebrow. “So… are we the fancy ones?”

“Tim, you laminated your dough with an infrared thermometer and a spreadsheet.”

Tim frowned. “…Fair.”

Duke leaned forward, arms on the table. “Okay, but seriously—what’s the key to a good pastry? Like, good-good. Not just technically right.”

Jason took a beat. “The pastry,” he said slowly, “is just the structure. It’s the feeling that matters.”

Everyone glanced over.

He shrugged, looking down at what was left of his sticky bun. “Like… Cass made something that felt quiet. You made something that surprised us. Steph’s stuff sparkled even when it fell over. If you only focus on technique, you miss the soul of it.”

Dick let out a low whistle. “Damn, Jay. That was borderline poetic.”

“I’ve had a lot of carbs today,” Jason muttered.

“Still counts.”

Cass nodded solemnly. “His pastry is the soul.”

“I’m putting that on a shirt,” Steph said.

As the laughter died down, the room went a little quieter. The kitchen, for once, felt… like home.

Not a battlefield. Not a test. Just theirs.

The room where they learned to measure joy in tablespoons, weigh effort in grams of flour, and express themselves one bake at a time.

As the conversation lulled, Alfred reappeared in the archway like a butler-shaped ghost—immaculate, tea in hand, and holding a small clipboard.

Everyone groaned instinctively.

Jason narrowed his eyes. “Why do I suddenly feel like the comfort is over?”

“Because it is,” Alfred replied smoothly.

Steph ducked under the table. “Tell my mom I love her—”

Alfred cleared his throat. “Your next challenge will begin shortly. Please clean your stations, hydrate, and return to your marks in twenty minutes.”

Tim froze. “What kind of challenge?”

“Technical,” Alfred said. Nothing more.

The siblings stared at him.

Jason pointed. “You’re not gonna tell us what it is?”

“No.”

Duke whispered, “Why is that scarier than if he had?”

The Wayne kids scattered like startled pigeons, armed with dishcloths and theories, hearts full of carbs and fear.

*******

The kitchen had gone quiet.

Too quiet.

The type of silence that only happens when everyone knows something terrible is coming but no one knows what exactly it is. Flour was swept. Dishes were cleaned. Butter wrappers filled the compost bin like fallen soldiers.

And then Alfred returned, clipboard in hand, the quiet thunder of doom in his polished footsteps.

He placed a covered silver tray at the front table.

Tim leaned in toward Steph. “How much you wanna bet it’s a soufflé?”

“Please, I don’t need that kind of emotional damage today.”

“Or ever,” added Jason.

Alfred cleared his throat. “Your Technical Challenge begins now.”

He pulled the cloche away with the drama of a stage magician revealing a loaded pie.

On the tray sat three perfect, golden-brown croissants—the lamination practically glowing under the kitchen lights. Layers visible. Ends evenly curled. Shiny, crisp crusts that flaked with the slightest touch.

Tim let out a long, low exhale. “Yep. Emotional damage.”

Alfred placed a slim recipe card beside the tray.

“Your challenge: produce six traditional, all-butter croissants using laminated dough. You will follow the instructions exactly—no outside assistance, and no recipes beyond what is written.”

He passed each of them a printed card.

The recipe was terrifyingly brief but precise.

---

The Ingredients Table:

• Flour
• Yeast
• Water
• Salt
• Sugar
• A terrifying amount of butter

Damian scanned the instructions, jaw tightening. “This is sabotage. There are no temperatures listed.”

“Or times,” Tim added. “Or shaping diagrams.”

Dick blinked. “Wait, what the hell is a beurrage?”

Jason cackled. “Welcome to the technical, circus boy.”

Alfred, now seated comfortably with tea and a fresh notepad, waved one gloved hand.

“You have four hours. Begin.”

Hour One

It began, as it always did, with dough.

And butter.

So much butter.

Dick was hyper-focused this time, the failure of his chocolate croissants in the Signature driving him like a man possessed. His dough was even. His chill times exact. His butter block a perfect, brutal square.

“I’ve trained for this,” he muttered under his breath. “I did a folding tutorial twice before bed.”

Jason, already banging his dough with a rolling pin like it owed him money, grunted. “That’s the spirit.”

Steph was talking to her butter. “You and I have a good thing, okay? I respect you. You don’t leak. We stay chill. We rise together.”

Cass, silently shaping her détrempe dough, nodded in approval.

Tim had already drawn a butter-temp graph on a sticky note and was alternating between dough chilling and calculating chill-to-warm ratios like he was launching a croissant into orbit.

Jason leaned over. “You know the oven doesn’t care how many spreadsheets you made, right?”

Tim didn’t look up. “You don’t care, which is why your last croissants came out with the texture of a tire.”

Jason raised a single finger. “One of those tires won.”

Duke, newly emboldened from his Signature win, was rolling with a confident rhythm—until he misjudged the size of his butter block and ended up with a smear instead of a fold.

He stared at the mess. “…We’re calling that a design choice.”

And Damian—who had clearly planned to bow out until reminded that no one escapes competition in this household—was visibly furious.

“My butter is melting,” he hissed.

“You’re radiating rage-heat,” Steph said. “Calm your chi.”

“My chi is calibrated for battle, not baking.”

“Then bake like it’s war,” Jason offered with a grin.

Damian glared but started chilling his dough between each step like a soldier following formation orders.

Hour Two

Butter block inside. Fold. Chill. Fold. Chill. Fold again.

It was rhythmic, almost meditative—except for the panic, the ambient kitchen heat, and the fact that Alfred occasionally coughed pointedly when someone rolled unevenly.

Cass folded with delicate, perfect precision. Her layers were thin, spaced like clockwork.

Dick was right behind her—his earlier baking chaos nowhere to be found. “Look at those layers,” he whispered reverently. “Look at them.”

Steph, on the other hand, was losing a layer every time she rolled.

Jason glanced over. “Did your croissants… melt?”

“No, they’re just evolving into a new species.”

Duke was silently sweating. His layers were there, but the shaping instructions? Vague at best.

“What’s a crescent fold supposed to look like?” he muttered, squinting at the card.

“Like a bat in flight,” Cass whispered.

“…You just made that up.”

She smiled. “Maybe.”

Hour Three

The shaping phase began with quiet focus.

Tim’s were uniform—clinical, even. But he’d over-proofed the dough. Again.

Jason’s were… enormous. More like croissant bricks. He didn’t care. “Bigger is better,” he muttered. “More layers, more glory.”

Cass’s were sculptural perfection, each curl intentional, symmetrical.

Steph had panic-piped jam into one. No one knew why.

Duke’s looked wonky, but held.

Damian’s were furious-looking, as if they’d risen out of spite.

And Dick’s?

Dick’s were perfect. Uniform. Golden. Tension in the curl. Seam on the bottom. A sheen of egg wash so even it could’ve been airbrushed.

Jason squinted at them. “Okay, who are you and what have you done with Dick Grayson?”

“I’m a man of layers,” Dick said smugly, watching them rise in the oven with a proud smile.

Hour Four

As croissants puffed up in their final proof, everyone stood back. Sweaty. Flour-covered. Silent.

Except Steph, who whispered, “Rise and slay, little pastries. Rise and slay.”

Alfred stepped forward, hands behind his back, expression unreadable.

He moved down the line, inspecting each croissant with surgical precision.

Cass: “Excellent lamination. Slightly underbaked at the core.”  Cass nodded in acknowledgment.)

Tim: “Precise shaping. Over-proofed. Lacks structure.” (Tim accepted the blow with stoic pain.)

Steph: “…You filled this with jam. The challenge was plain croissants.”
“Technically still a croissant.”
“Technically still wrong.”

Damian: “Surprisingly well-shaped. Butter distribution inconsistent. Aggressively baked.” (“It mirrors my soul,” Damian said without irony.)

Duke: “Respectable layers. Lacks flake. Good flavor. Very slight bitterness in the crust.” (Duke looked both relieved and personally attacked.)

Jason: “Too thick. Outer crust excellent. Underdone inside.” (“So… edible?” Jason asked. Alfred did not answer.)

At Dick’s, Alfred paused. Picked one up. Flaked it open. Counted visible layers. Took a slow, deliberate bite. “…Exceptional. Even layers. Gentle flake. Subtle, buttery finish. This is what the technical requires.”

Dick blinked.

Then grinned.

“Let’s gooo—”

He turned and bowed like he’d won a ballroom competition.

Steph slow clapped. “Look at you, Mr. Golden Layers.”

“I am become butter,” Dick said dramatically, “destroyer of doubt.”

Tim rolled his eyes. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

“It’s already there.”

As they collapsed at the table again, groaning and laughing and full of flaky triumph and mild despair, Alfred cleared his throat once more.

“One final challenge remains.”

Everyone froze.

He raised a brow. “Tomorrow. Your Showstopper. No partners. No shortcuts. You will work alone.”

Damian folded his arms. “Finally.”

Jason cracked his knuckles.

Steph grinned. “Oh, it’s on.”

********

“No teams. No backups. No mercy.”

The next morning dawned far too early.

Somewhere deep inside the manor, an alarm buzzed.

By the time the sun peeked over the hedges, the Bat-kitchen-turned-baking-arena was already alive—buzzing with nerves, clattering with equipment, and thick with the scent of sugar, citrus zest, and raw determination.

Alfred had said only one thing at breakfast: “Today, you must create a showstopping bake that represents your baking journey. Any form. Any flavor. But it must be ambitious, artistic, and polished.”

“You’ll have six hours. You will work alone.” The silence after that had been absolute. Then chaos hit like a mixer on high speed.

Stations were stocked. Timers were synced. Ingredients were ready. Each contestant had claimed a workbench with the territorial energy of a nesting osprey. No one was allowed to hover or sabotage. Not even for “just a peek.”

Bruce had wisely positioned himself far from the action with a coffee and a portable monitor feed. Babs sat beside him with a notepad, tracking the madness like a scientist observing hyper-intelligent raccoons.

Hour One

The air was thick with ambition.

Plans were sketched out on napkins. Timings scribbled on whiteboards. Someone had taped a thermometer to the fridge (it was probably Tim).

Dick’s showstopper was his own personal redemption. A two-tiered pavlova tower—swirled with raspberry, topped with fresh fruit, filled with Swiss meringue buttercream. Winning the last challenge had gone to his head. “I will be one with the eggs.” He muttered.

He was in his element now, having finally redeemed himself in the technical. Focused. Calm.

Until he dropped an entire carton of egg whites on the floor and froze like he'd just triggered a bomb.

Jason handed him a towel without looking. “I’ll pretend I didn’t see that.”

Dick nodded, solemn. “It never happened.”

Tim had blueprinted his bake two days ago though hadn’t been planning to try it this soon in the competition. A layered entremet cake with precise mousse layers, tempered chocolate accents, and a mirror glaze.

He was operating like he was in a lab—beakers, thermometers, multiple timers, and a backup plan for every step.

Then the mousse didn’t set. Cue quiet panic.

He didn’t scream. He just muttered “no, no, no,” under his breath like a horror movie scientist as he rapidly recalculated the gelatine ratio.

Steph was going full spectacle. A lemon-lavender croquembouche shaped like a tiara. “Because I’m the queen of chaos and I want to make something that could kill someone if it falls over.”

Her choux was solid. Her caramel was questionable.

When her first spun sugar attempt burned, she just stared at it.

“I’ve made lava,” she announced. “This is my villain origin story.”

Cass went simple in concept, beautiful in execution. A hand-folded peach galette bouquet, each petal made from pastry and poached fruit.

Her dough was already chilling, and she was humming under her breath while shaping fruit slices like flower petals.

Steph peeked over and muttered, “Okay, hers is gonna win on vibes alone.”

Cass offered her a poached peach slice like a peace offering.

Jason didn’t even explain his plan. Just muttered something about bourbon, coffee, and chocolate, and got to work.

Whatever it was involved dark sponge cake, whiskey-soaked ganache, and a blowtorch.

It smelled amazing. It also smelled flammable.

“Jason, are you baking or building an explosive device?” Tim called.

“Both,” Jason replied without looking up.

Duke’s bake: A sweet-and-savory southern tea cake tower, with each layer flavored differently—one with spiced peach, one with chili chocolate, one with bourbon maple.

He was calm, confident... until he over-salted his first batch.

“Okay,” he muttered. “No one panic. I’m just doing a completely new batter. From scratch. Forty-five minutes lost. It’s fine.”

Babs, from the corner: “It’s not fine.”

The most dramatic plan, naturally, went to Damian. A pistachio and pomegranate mille-feuille with hand-painted fondant falcons perched on top.

No one had asked him to go that hard.

He was silent, precise, and full of judgment for the rest of them. At one point he sneered at Tim’s mousse and muttered, “Slurry masquerading as structure.”

Tim flipped him off with a piping bag.

Hour Two

Flour dusted every surface. A stand mixer hit the floor and bounced (no one confessed). Someone yelled “WHERE’S MY GELATIN?!” and three voices answered, “WHICH KIND?”

Cass’s galette was shaping up like a painting.

Jason’s chocolate sponge layers were out and cooling, and he was carving them like wood.

Duke had recovered and was testing glazes.

Steph nearly glued her hand to the counter with caramel.

Tim whispered to no one, “This is fine,” as he triple-checked his glaze.

Dick was finally building his tower with careful hands and a hopeful heart.

And Damian? Damian’s mille-feuille was crisping in the oven as he hand-painted fondant birds like it was an art gallery.

Bruce watched it all from a safe distance with the look of a man who was proud, impressed, and deeply afraid for his sanity.

“They’re doing well,” he said to Alfred.

Alfred, watching via monitor, merely sipped his tea.

“They’re doing something, sir.”

-------

It started with a bang. Literally.

Jason’s blowtorch flared up so suddenly that Steph screamed and nearly flung a bowl of cream at Tim.

“DUDE! Warn us before you light a miniature flamethrower!” Steph yelped.

Jason, unbothered, adjusted the flame. “If I warn you, it’s not dramatic.”

“You’re not supposed to be dramatic with propane,” Tim muttered, shielding his entremet like it could absorb trauma.

“Shut up, Mousse Man,” Jason replied.

At Station Cass, things were eerily calm. Her peach galette bouquet was already in the oven. She was now carefully painting sugar flowers with edible dye, humming like she didn’t exist in the same dimension as the others.

Dick leaned over from his pavlova tower, voice low. “Cass is doing the ‘final boss’ thing again.”

“She’s glowing with competence,” Duke agreed from across the room, “It’s terrifying.”

“I like it,” Steph said dreamily. Then immediately sliced her finger on a sugar shard. “OW. Okay. Pain. I like less.”

Meanwhile, at Tim’s station: panic. “Okay, okay, okay,” he muttered, eye twitching slightly. “We pivot. Mousse failure? Cool. Plan B. Double-layered sponge, stabilized chantilly, remolded glaze—no problem. I’ve trained for this.”

Bruce, watching from the monitor, sipped his coffee. “He’s definitely not okay.”

Barbara scribbled: Observation: Tim has entered his ‘frantic repressed meltdown’ phase. Keep eyes on gelatin usage. Also check if that glaze is food-safe.

Steph’s croquembouche was… listing. A caramel tiara wasn’t supposed to lean, but hers was threatening to become the Leaning Tower of Death-By-Sugar.

She stepped back, hands on hips. “I’m not saying it’s bad, but if anyone breathes on it wrong, this becomes a crime scene.”

Cass passed by silently and handed her a brace of tempered chocolate rods.

Steph blinked. “Are these… edible support beams?”

Cass just winked.

Hour Four

Things got quieter. More focused. The kind of quiet before a thunderstorm—or a major Gotham crime wave.

Everyone was decorating now. Tension hummed like a mixer on its final legs.

Dick’s pavlova tower was mostly upright. He’d added a trail of gold-dusted berries spiraling up the tiers. He looked proud. Then one meringue base cracked audibly.

His face went gray.

Jason glanced over. “Breathe, golden boy. Just patch it with buttercream and pretend it’s rustic.”

“I don’t do rustic,” Dick hissed.

Duke was sculpting glaze like a renaissance artist with a palette knife. His southern tea cake tower had rebounded from the salt incident, now looking like a wedding cake that had gone to a jazz festival and come back wiser.

Barbara passed by and whispered, “It looks amazing.”

Duke grinned, then frowned. “One of these layers still tastes off. I know it does.”

Alfred—watching from the camera feed—smiled like a man who knew exactly which layer it was and would never tell.

Jason’s cake? Done.

Mostly.

What started as three layers of dark chocolate bourbon sponge had become a sculptural ode to Gotham after midnight—smoked chocolate ganache, spiced cherry reduction, and shards of caramel glass around the edges like shattered windows.

He spritzed it with a bourbon mist just for flair.

Steph, standing behind him, sniffed and said, “This smells like a crime scene and a cocktail bar had a baby.”

Jason just smirked. “You’re welcome.”

Tim was applying mirror glaze with medical precision. He had actual tweezers. Someone coughed behind him and he flinched like he’d been shot.

Damian—who had already finished his mille-feuille—drifted past silently like a judgmental phantom.

“Looks… sticky,” he muttered.

Tim didn’t even look up. “Your fondant birds look like judgmental pigeons.”

“Your mousse still looks like soup.”

“I’m calling Animal Control.”

Alfred stood before them, the ideal of a Bake-Off judge: poised, polite, with an eyebrow sharper than any serrated knife.

“An ambitious design, Master Richard,” Alfred said, inspecting the swirled tiers. “The fruit is fresh. The meringue… could have used five more minutes in the oven.”

Dick deflated just slightly.

“But the filling is excellent. You've grown.”

Dick smiled. “So I’ve earned… a pat on the back?”

Alfred gave him a small smile, “A nod. At most.”

He moved onto Tim’s towering dessert and stared at it in silence for a moment. “It appears fragile. Like it might collapse under pressure.”

“It’s a metaphor,” Tim said without emotion.

He tasted it. Paused. “…Remarkably layered. You recovered well.”

Tim blinked. “Did I just get a compliment?”

“Don’t let it go to your head.”

Alfred tilted his head. Stehp’s caramel structure wobbled. “You attempted something audacious.”

“I regret everything,” Steph whispered.

He took a bite. His brow lifted. “…Lemon-lavender and burnt sugar. Surprisingly well-balanced. If unstable.”

Steph grinned. “That’s basically me.”

Next was Damian’s mille-feuille. “Flawless,” Alfred said. “Truly. The birds are uncanny.”

Damian inclined his head. “Obviously.”

“…And yet,” Alfred added, “you didn’t take a risk. Technique perfect. But heart… perhaps less so.”

Damian blinked. Like someone had dared to critique a Renaissance painting. His hands curled into fists.

Everyone leaned in as Alfred approached Jason’s. It was dark. Beautiful. Slightly terrifying.

Alfred took a bite. Closed his eyes.

The room waited.

“This is…” he opened his eyes. “Unexpectedly refined. The bourbon is forward but not aggressive. The chocolate sponge is delicate. The cherry balances it.”

A long pause.

“…It is a masterpiece.”

Jason blinked. “Did I win?”

Alfred nodded.

Jason stared. “Wait, I won? Me?”

Steph, mouth full of choux, yelled, “WHAT.”

Damian snarled, “I demand a recount.”

Tim whispered, “This is how Gotham falls.”

Jason just stood there, wild-eyed and covered in ganache, as the others devolved into cake-fueled chaos behind him. “I can’t believe I won,” he muttered. “I’m gonna be insufferable for weeks.”

Bruce sighed. “He was already insufferable.”

Chapter Text

It started, as it always did, with Alfred setting down his teacup like a final judgment. The Bat-kitchen-turned-arena smelled faintly of lemon zest, tension, and competitive trauma. Seven contestants stood at their stations. All had been through this before. All knew it would end in butter, blood, or both.

Jason leaned against his bench like he owned it—arms crossed, brow cocked, and smugness radiating off him like heat from an overworked oven. He was still riding high off his unexpected win in the last challenge, and it showed in the way he sipped his coffee and didn’t quite listen to the rules.

“Your challenge,” Alfred began, his voice smooth and unflinching, “is to create a signature centerpiece featuring a non-laminated crust. Shortcrust, pâte sucrée, hot water, biscuit, graham cracker. Sweet or savory. Six hours.”

Steph raised her hand. “What about a pretzel crust?”

Alfred didn’t blink. “Only if it does not disgrace your family.”

“Cool, cool,” she muttered. “High bar.”

Cass didn’t say anything, but her eyes were already on the mise en place like she was calculating pastry-to-filling ratios in her head. Across from her, Damian was polishing his tart tin like it had offended his honor.

“No soggy bottoms,” Alfred concluded.

There was a beat of silence. Then Tim muttered, “That feels targeted.”

The chaos began immediately.

Cass’s station was eerily silent. Her dough was already in the freezer, resting like a meditation mantra. She moved with the kind of grace that made it look easy—measuring by eye, slicing lemons into perfect segments, the miso paste already portioned out for her lemon custard. When she poached her sugar petals and laid them on parchment with tweezers, even Duke paused mid-whisk to stare.

"She's not even trying," he whispered to himself. "She's just... like that."

Meanwhile, Jason's station looked like a battlefield and smelled like a barbecue. Hot water crust wasn’t for the faint of heart, but he was elbow-deep in it like it owed him money. A pot of bourbon-braised short ribs simmered behind him, filling the arena with the kind of smell that made Steph say, “Okay, I forgive you for existing. Temporarily.”

"That’s emotional growth,” Jason replied, carving tiny bat-symbol vents into the top of his hand pies with the delicacy of someone who once dismantled a bomb with a butter knife.

Tim was working like he was being surveilled by NASA. He had already baked three test shells, rejected two, and was blind-baking the third with the kind of precision that suggested he was absolutely not overcompensating.

"This is the one," he muttered, adjusting the oven temperature by half a degree. "This crust has integrity."

“Do you?” Dick asked, passing by with a bowl of sugared basil.

Tim didn’t answer. His tart shell was going to be filled with hazelnut ganache and covered in hexagonal chocolate panels, because why not risk madness and math?

Steph, by contrast, was covered in marshmallow within the first ninety minutes.

"Is this supposed to happen?" she asked no one in particular, trying to unstick a meringue smear from her elbow. Her sweet potato filling was divine—Alfred had even nodded once, which was basically a standing ovation—but her graham cracker crust was already slumping in its tin like it had given up.

Cass peeked over and tilted her head.

“I know. It’s dying. Don’t look at it.”

Cass handed her a second tart ring, already greased and prepped.

“…Okay, you’re an angel,” Steph muttered, swapping tins like she was in a heist film. “A terrifying angel of pastry doom.”

Duke was calm until he wasn’t.

His buttermilk biscuit dough had risen beautifully—until he realized the oven he was using ran hot. His peach-blackberry filling bubbled like it was plotting against him. The top crust had browned too fast.

He stared at it. “I am being personally attacked by convection heat.”

“Switch to low fan,” Tim called across the room, not looking up.

“Switch your face to—” Duke stopped himself. “Thank you.”

Dick had gone rustic. A blueberry-basil galette, hand-folded and full of summery charm. Or at least, that was the idea.

Halfway through assembly, he realized he’d added too much lemon zest. And not enough sugar.

“Oh no,” he muttered. “Ohhh no. I’m about to serve Alfred a sour fruit bomb with flower garnish.”

“You’ve done worse,” Jason said.

Dick paused. “Have I?”

Jason shrugged. “I was being kind.”

Then there was Damian. His heirloom tomato and goat cheese tart was, objectively, stunning. The cracked black pepper crust was bold. The lattice on top—hand-cut falcon wings—was absurdly detailed. Every tomato slice had been blotted, salted, and arranged in a gradient. He had not spoken for three hours.

He also had not looked up. Not when Steph yelled, “Fire!” (false alarm). Not when Jason dropped a tray of hand pies. Not even when Babs walked in with a camera drone that hovered just over his head.

Tim peered at it from across the arena. “I think he’s summoning spirits.”

Cass tasted her custard and nodded once. “He’s in the Zone.”

Final Hour.

The tension was thick. The crusts, hopefully, were not.

Each baker plated with intense focus. Steph burned her hand on a blowtorch and immediately tried to pass it off like she meant to do it. Jason had bourbon mist in his eyes but refused to admit it. Duke was stress-garnishing. Dick was breathing like he’d just been through therapy.

Alfred returned. Teacup in hand. Neutral as the grave.

Cass presented first. A lemon-miso tart with a silky custard and a pâte sucrée crust that shattered cleanly under Alfred’s fork. He took one bite, paused, then nodded.

“Elegant. Balanced. Beautiful.”

Cass smiled. Damian scowled.

Tim’s chocolate-hazelnut tart had an engineering diagram next to it, which Alfred completely ignored. The ganache was rich. The crust? Just this side of overbaked.

“Technically brilliant,” Alfred said. “Emotionally distant.”

Tim looked personally offended.

Steph’s marshmallow-topped sweet potato pie leaned slightly to one side. The graham cracker crust was not holding up well.

“It’s campfire chic,” she said cheerfully.

Alfred blinked. Took a bite. Chewed.

“…Oddly nostalgic. Like sugar in a thunderstorm.”

“I’ll take it!”

Duke’s peach-blackberry cobbler pie hybrid drew a rare raised eyebrow from Alfred.

“Creative. The crust has texture. The filling… could have been reduced further.”

Duke sighed. “I knew it.”

Dick’s galette looked like it had been weeping fruit juice for hours. The crust, rustic. The flowers? Slightly wilted.

Alfred chewed. Then smiled—ever so slightly.

“…Reminds me of summers in France. Before things went terribly wrong.”

“…That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

Damian stepped forward with his masterpiece like a knight bearing a holy relic.

Alfred inspected it. Then tasted.

“…Balanced. Elegant. Nearly flawless. However…” he gestured to the lattice. “The falcon wings feel… prideful.”

“They are meant to honor my heritage,” Damian replied icily.

“Perhaps your heritage should be subtler.”

Finally, Jason stepped up. His hand pies were golden. Flaky. Uniform. The bourbon aroma was intoxicating. Alfred bit in, paused, and nodded once—slowly.

“…Satisfying. Bold. Well seasoned. Comforting. Well done Master Jason, this is excellent.”

Jason raised an eyebrow. “Did I just get praised without a death glare?”

“You did.”

“Did I win?.”

“You did.”

The groan that erupted shook the cooling racks.

“WHAT?” Tim shouted.

“This is a rigged system,” Damian said.

“I’m not even mad,” Steph muttered. “That pie was witchcraft.”

Jason held up a hand like a rock star. “Two for two, baby. Call me the Crust King.”

Cass handed him a “#1 Crust” apron she’d made in advance. No one knew when she had the time.

*********

By the time the contestants filed back into the Bake Cave the next day, the atmosphere had shifted.

Gone was the upbeat, frosting-flinging chaos of cupcake day.

In its place?

Suspicion. Strategy. The vague smell of flour anxiety.

Each workstation had been reset.

No personal tools.

No signature ingredients.

Just identical trays with perfectly portioned ingredients and one folded sheet of paper at each station.

Bruce sat back in his usual lounge chair with his tea, already looking forward to watching his children suffer.

Alfred stepped to the front, hands folded neatly behind his back. His expression was calm. Too calm.

“Good morning,” he said, voice like velvet over steel. “Today’s Technical Challenge is a classic British bake—one that tests timing, temperature, and your ability to work with treacle without panicking.”

Duke’s brows pulled together. “I don’t even know what treacle is.”

Alfred’s smile sharpened. “You will.”

He gestured toward the sheets.

“Your challenge: a traditional Treacle Tart. Sweet shortcrust pastry. Golden syrup filling infused with breadcrumbs and lemon. Served warm. Lightly dusted. No soggy bottoms.”

Dick raised a hand. “Did you just say ‘breadcrumbs’ in a dessert?”

“Correct.”

“…That’s not real.”

“It is. And it predates you by several centuries.”

Alfred nodded toward the paper. “You have your instructions. I have… removed any excessive guidance.”

Tim unfolded his. “‘Make the pastry’?” he read aloud. “That’s it? That’s Step One?”

“Correct.”

“That’s not a step. That’s an assignment.”

“You’ll manage.”

---

0:00 – 15:00

The challenge began.

And immediately, the struggle was real.

Steph stared at her flour. “Okay. Pastry. Like... crumble it?”

Tim was already muttering about fat-to-flour ratios and trying to remember if this needed chilling. Jason dumped his butter into the flour and attacked it like it owed him money.

Cass poked hers once and frowned.

Alfred, watching all of this from his office on the third floor via Bake Cave Surveillance, slowly lowered his teacup and whispered, “Oh no.”

---

15:01 – 45:00

The shortcrust was where dreams went to die.

Dick overworked his dough and had to start again when it crumbled like sandpaper in his hands.

Damian added too much water, cursed softly in Arabic, and tried to salvage it with a dry blend.

Cass, usually intuitive and focused, was clearly out of her depth. Her dough stuck to the counter, her cling film shredded, and her crust was pressed in unevenly like a battlefield.

Duke’s looked okay—until he realized he’d forgotten to blind bake.“Wait, we were supposed to bake the shell first?!”

Steph screamed, “I told you!” from two stations over, brandishing her pie weights like a weapon.

Tim was already onto the filling, a determined glint in his eye and lemon zest all over his shirt.

---

45:01 – 75:00

The filling seemed deceptively simple: golden syrup, lemon juice, breadcrumbs. But Alfred had, of course, left out one crucial detail—the order mattered.

Jason dumped everything into the saucepan at once and got something that looked like sad oatmeal.

Dick added the breadcrumbs before the syrup, panicked, and stirred like a man possessed.

Damian tasted his. Made a face. Added more zest. Tasted again. Growled.

Cass stood completely still for a full minute, then began to wing it. She was absolutely winging it.

Tim’s filling was perfectly mixed, but he forgot to check if his shell was cooled.

It was not.

---

75:01 – 90:00

With the final fifteen minutes ticking down, chaos reached a rolling boil.

Somehow, everyone had something resembling a tart in the oven.

Dick’s was bubbling ominously.

Jason’s leaked. Onto the floor.

Steph’s looked good—except for the slightly burnt edge where she forgot to rotate it.

Damian’s was neat, but his lemon slices were perfectly arranged like a weapon.

Cass’s crust cracked down the middle. She patched it with more dough and covered it with powdered sugar. Lots of it.

Tim’s was… intimidatingly clean.

At the final buzzer, six tarts stood cooling.

Six slightly suspicious, sticky, steaming tarts.

---

Per Technical Challenge rules, the bakes were presented anonymously—tarts numbered, not named this time.

The siblings watched from the sidelines, waiting to see who would be devastated.

Alfred stepped forward with a fork and a poker face honed through decades of training in both war zones and wedding planning.

He started with Tart #1: clean finish, neat crust, slightly underbaked. “Good attempt. Lacks lemon punch.”

Tart #2: uneven crust, soggy center. “Unfortunate. Someone panicked.”

Tart #3: crust shattered on slicing. “Structural failure. But flavor balanced.”

Tart #4: golden color, crisp crust, tangy filling. Alfred paused. “Well-executed.”

Tart #5: nearly perfect—flaky base, bright flavor, no soggy bottom. “Excellent.”

Tart #6: dusted in way too much sugar, cracked crust, slightly burned edges. Alfred blinked, then carefully cut a slice. “...Unexpected. But not inedible.”

He ranked them in reverse order, one by one.

Cass’s was sixth.

She didn’t pout—but her eyebrows lowered just enough to signal internal vows of vengeance.

Dick was fifth. He accepted it with a dramatic bow and a “thank you for your honesty, kind sir.”

Jason came in fourth. “Acceptable,” he muttered. “Barely.”

Steph landed third. “Top three, baby!”

Tim got second—and immediately started taking notes on what cost him the win.

And Damian… stood there smug as Alfred announced, “First place goes to Tart #5.”

Damian gave a single, satisfied nod. “I am perfection.”

Jason snorted. “You forgot salt.”

“No, you forgot flavor.”

---

Afterward, the siblings huddled around the cooling rack, comparing fillings, textures, and where it all went wrong.

Cass quietly took two forks and began dissecting hers, tasting for mistakes.

Dick offered her half his tart. “Yours just cracked a little. Happens to everyone.”

Cass didn’t speak, just nodded.

Bruce stood near the edge of the arena, watching with a small smile. His kids. Covered in flour and lemon zest, arguing over pastry.

“Worth the renovations,” he said quietly.

Alfred passed by with a tray of tea and raised an eyebrow. “We’ll see how you feel after next week.”

*********

The kitchen buzzed with chaos and anticipation as Alfred laid down the challenge.

“A cookie box,” he declared, “entirely edible, fully functional, and containing five distinct types of cookies inside. You have two and a half hours.”

The Bat-siblings stared in disbelief, blinking like they’d just been asked to build a rocket.

Jason grinned. “I’m ready to turn this into a cookie fortress.”

Steph immediately sketched a heart-shaped tiara box. “Glitter and explosions, baby.”

Cass sighed, rolling her shoulders. “Just what I needed—something new to perfect.”

Tim, however, quietly pulled out his graph paper and rulers, already calculating angles.

Hour One

Cass started confidently, shaping delicate petals for a flower-shaped box. Flour dusted her hair, and she hummed softly.

But then her dough tore.

“Not again,” she muttered, panic flickering in her eyes. She looked up and saw Tim carefully measuring cookie thickness with a caliper.

“I’m fine,” she said, forcing a smile.

Tim glanced up. “You look like you’re about to invent a new kind of meltdown.”

Cass forced a laugh. “I’ve just been sailing along for too long. Maybe it’s time to hit a reef.”

Jason was crushing walnuts with brute force nearby. “Could use a reef myself—this sounds like a nightmare.”

Steph was already covered in caramel and glitter. “Worst idea ever. Best idea ever.”

Cass’s petals, once perfect, now looked brittle. She fretted over the structure, whispering, “Don’t fall apart. Please don’t fall apart.”

Tim, meanwhile, had designed a geometric hexagonal box with neat compartments and a chocolate “lock.” His cookies were less flashy but balanced and precise. “Technical but tasty,” he said quietly. “That’s the goal.”

Duke’s southern-inspired box smelled like a warm hug, but the layers weren’t quite holding.

Jason’s gothic cookie vault had a sugar glass window… that shattered spectacularly when he tried to move it.

Dick’s circus tent collapsed again, prompting a loud “nope” and a retreat to cookie eating.

Steph’s glitter heart was sparkling but sticky and prone to collapse.

Hour Two

Cass sat back, staring at her cracked petals, the weight of perfectionism finally pressing down.

“Maybe I am scared to fail,” she admitted quietly to Tim.

Tim smiled kindly. “Sometimes you have to break to build something better.”

Inspired, Cass started improvising, layering broken petals into a whimsical mosaic instead of the neat lotus she'd planned.

Jason raised an eyebrow. “Nice save.”

Tim’s box went together smoothly, all angles locked tight. His five cookie types—ginger snaps, lemon wafers, dark chocolate crescents, cinnamon stars, and buttery shortbread—were perfectly balanced in flavor and texture.

He focused on taste over flash but made the whole thing sturdy.

Cass’s box, now a mosaic of cracked but colorful cookies, looked messy—but beautiful in a lived-in way.

Jason’s box was a dark, dramatic vault with jagged edges but bold flavors.

Steph’s glitter and caramel heart wobbled dangerously.

Duke’s simple, soulful box smelled amazing but was a little uneven.

Damian was absent from the loudest spots, quietly making a sleek angular box of pistachio, pomegranate, saffron, and chocolate cookies—but it felt less confident than usual.

Alfred moved methodically between boxes, tasting with his usual patience.

Cass’s box: “A reminder that beauty isn’t always perfect. You embraced imperfection, and it suits you.”

Damian’s box: “Elegant. Precise. Almost clinical.”

Jason’s vault: “Bold flavors, but slightly unstable.”

Steph’s heart: “Charmingly chaotic.”

Duke’s southern box: “Comforting and inviting.”

Dick’s circus tent (now a pile): “Joyful... in theory.”

Then, Alfred paused at Tim’s. He bit into the buttery crust, then the spiced filling, then the lemon crisp. A slow smile spread. “This,” Alfred said, “is the balance of ambition and execution. Well done.”

The room fell silent.

Cass exhaled a relieved breath. Jason groaned. Steph looked surprised.

Tim just nodded, a quiet smile breaking through his usual intensity.

“You earned it,” Cass said, clapping him on the back.

Jason grinned. “Alright, Tim. You win this round. I’ll get you next time.”

Cass poured herself a glass of water. “It is good. To fail and keep going.”

Tim looked over at her. “We all do.”

Steph joined with a caramel-covered finger raised. “Next week’s bread better be easy.”

Dick laughed. “Easy? This is Gotham. Nothing’s easy.”

Alfred, quietly sipping tea, smiled to himself.

They’re growing.

******

The early morning light filtered through the reinforced skylights, soft and golden, catching faint glints of flour still suspended in the air from yesterday’s chaos. The kitchen — if it could be called that — was quiet now. No clattering pans. No shouts over caramel disasters. Just the hum of idle appliances and the low murmur of birdsong beyond the hedges.

Bruce stood with a mug of coffee in hand, his shoulders relaxed in a way they rarely were. No cape. No armor. Just a man in socked feet, leaning against the steel prep island he had custom-designed — not for crime-fighting, but for croissants.

Babs sat on a stool nearby, tablet in her lap, flipping through a gallery of screenshots she’d captured from past challenges. A sugar-sculpted skyline. Cass’s perfect galette bouquet. Damian’s borderline-operatic mille-feuille. Tim’s clinical precision. Jason’s chaos cakes. Duke’s soulful, spiced towers. Steph’s glittering, gravity-defying monstrosities. Dick’s… ambitious optimism.

She smiled, and Bruce noticed.

“You like watching them,” he said softly.

Babs nodded. “Of course I do. They throw themselves into this with the same energy they put into patrol — just with more sugar and fewer concussions.” She paused, then added dryly, “Well. Fewer head-based concussions.”

Bruce chuckled. It was a low, rare sound — one of those real laughs that hadn’t been weighed down by Gotham yet. “I wasn’t sure, at first. About the whole baking arena idea.”

Babs arched an eyebrow. “You mean the industrial-grade flour containment chamber disguised as a cozy baking tent?”

He shrugged, smiling. “It keeps Alfred’s kitchen intact. That was the bar.”

They sat in silence for a few moments. Not an awkward silence, but a comfortable one. Like the hush before a storm that you know — deep in your bones — is going to be wild and loud and full of flying chocolate shards.

Bruce sipped his coffee. “They’ve gotten better.”

“Some of them started this not even knowing how to fold egg whites,” Babs said, nudging a photo of Damian scowling at a whisk. “Now they’re debating gelatin bloom ratios and blowing sugar like it’s glass.”

“And somehow,” Bruce said, “they’re still more competitive about this than anything else we’ve done as a family.”

“Jason threatened to re-do the Gotham skyline in gingerbread if he didn’t win bread week.”

Bruce smiled into his cup. “Alfred looked… so tired.”

They shared a quiet laugh, and then Bruce’s face softened in a way he rarely let anyone else see.

“It’s good, though,” he said. “Seeing them like this. Together. Trying. Learning. Failing, and pushing through anyway.”

Babs glanced at him. “You’re enjoying this more than you thought you would.”

“I’m terrible in the kitchen,” he admitted. “But watching them? I’d sit through a thousand burnt croissants just to see them keep showing up.”

She leaned her elbows on the counter, voice lighter. “You ever going to try baking with them?”

He gave her a look that was all Batman. “I don’t think the fire suppression system could handle it.”

“Coward.”

“Realist,” he corrected.

She nudged his shoulder. “You know this ends with them pulling you into a challenge.”

“I’m counting on Alfred to protect me.”

They both looked over at the far end of the kitchen, where Alfred’s clipboard rested on the judging table like a sacred text.

Babs reached for her coffee. “You know,” she said thoughtfully, “the best part might be that they’re not doing it for any of us. Not even for Alfred. They’re doing it because they care about it now. About getting better.”

Bruce nodded. “They fight so much… but this makes them slow down. Watch each other. Respect each other’s skills.”

“They don’t admit it, of course,” Babs added, smirking.

“Of course not,” Bruce agreed.

More light poured in through the windows. A timer somewhere beeped softly — a leftover from last night, probably Tim’s. A mixing bowl clattered faintly in the distance.

Voices were coming.

Footsteps.

And with them, the storm.

----

The calm in the Bat-kitchen shattered like a burnt sugar sculpture under stress.

The kids arrived one by one — or in Jason and Steph’s case, like a thunderstorm and a glitter bomb respectively — each armed with a well-rehearsed plan, high expectations, and an almost alarming confidence.

Bruce took a step back. Babs leaned casually against the judging table, sipping her now-lukewarm coffee, trying not to laugh.

Alfred, clipboard in hand and expression unreadable, stood at his usual post beside the central island.

“Good morning,” he said, tone polite but stern enough to cut through the bickering that had already begun.

Eight heads turned to face him.

“Today’s challenge,” Alfred began, “is one you’ve had time to prepare for.”

Somewhere behind him, a bag of flour rustled ominously.

“A flavored, yeast-leavened loaf of bread. Baked freeform. No tins. No molds. Just structure, proofing, and your own skill.”

Tim immediately pulled a notepad from his apron pocket. Damian scoffed.

“You have four hours,” Alfred finished. “I expect you to use them well.”

Hour One

Dick clapped his hands together like a coach before a big game. “Okay, people. Let’s rise to the occasion—”

Jason threw a measuring cup at him. “You’re already dead to me.”

Dick ducked. “Hostile work environment!”

Jason, unfazed, got to kneading a dark rye dough infused with roasted garlic, black pepper, and bourbon-soaked caramelized onions. “I call it: the Gut Punch,” he muttered.

Tim, calm and clinical, prepped a laminated laminated dough (“It’s possible. Probably.”) folded with thyme, gruyère, and prosciutto. He’d mapped out proofing timelines down to the minute.

Duke was hand-stretching a sweet potato and chipotle dough that smelled like autumn. “I’m going for depth. Smoke. Earth. The soul of bread.”

Steph, meanwhile, was swirling freeze-dried raspberries and lemon zest into a vibrant magenta dough. “I’m calling it the ‘Punk Rock Picnic.’ I don’t know what that means. But it sounds like a vibe.”

Cass had quietly begun shaping a sunflower-shaped bread using turmeric, rosemary, and roasted garlic. Her movements were precise, her brow furrowed.

Damian looked at everyone’s dough with open disdain. “You’re all underestimating fermentation.” His was a spelt-and-honey bâtard scented with saffron and cardamom. “Bread,” he declared, “should be a weapon. In flavor. And density.”

“Density,” Steph echoed, “isn’t a compliment, Dami.”

Hour Two

The room warmed with the scent of yeast and ambition.

Doughs were rising. Tensions were, too.

Cass, for once, wasn’t entirely in control. Her sunflower loaf had over-proofed while she was focused on perfecting her pattern. The dough slouched like it had given up on life. She stared at it. Quiet. Frustrated.

Tim, passing by, offered her a new proofing basket without a word.

She nodded, once, and reshaped.

Jason was shaping knots like he was braiding a noose. “I swear if this thing flattens out, I’m gonna—”

“Try again like a normal person?” Duke offered.

Jason grunted.

Steph’s bread had started to look like an abstract expressionist sculpture.

“Mine’s bleeding,” she announced, gesturing to the raspberry streaks. “Emotionally.”

Hour Three.

Amidst the floured frenzy, Duke paused, arms folded, watching his dough rise. “You know,” he said thoughtfully, “on the actual show, they eliminate someone each week.”

Tim didn’t look up from his glaze spreadsheet. “We’re not eliminating anyone. This isn’t The Hunger Games.”

“I don’t want to eliminate anyone,” Duke said. “But like—stakes. Real stakes.”

Steph, up to her elbows in raspberry paste, nodded. “I mean, we’re already murdering each other emotionally.”

Jason snorted. “Eliminations would just make it official.”

Cass looked up from her reshaped loaf. “Who decides who leaves?”

They all turned toward Alfred, who raised an eyebrow. “I judge what you present, I will not remove anyone from their kitchen.”

Bruce, from the back with his arms crossed and a proud smile on his face, finally spoke up. “No eliminations. But consequences…”

Eight heads swiveled in unison.

“...like dishes,” he added, voice far too casual.

Steph gasped. “No. That’s cruel and unusual.”

“Winner gets immunity from clean-up for the next two rounds,” Babs suggested.

Jason slammed his fist into a lump of dough. “Game on.”

Hour Four

Loaves were going into ovens. The room smelled like a bakery mid-revolution.

Cass’s reshaped sunflower was rustic now, a little rough around the edges — but real.

Tim’s precise laminations held. Barely.

Duke’s loaf looked like it belonged in a cookbook titled Warmth for the Soul.

Jason’s rye gut punch gleamed with an egg wash and danger.

Steph’s loaf bled unapologetically onto the tray. “It’s dramatic. Like me.”

Dick had forgotten to score his bread and watched in real-time horror as it ballooned into a mutant dough blob. “Why?” he whispered to no one. “Why do I do this?”

Damian was polishing his finished bâtard with the focus of a Michelin chef and the smugness of a younger sibling who had just watched six people mispronounce hydration percentage.

Absolutely — this is already rich with character, warmth, and hilarious familial chaos. Let’s bring it home with a final hour, the judging, and a cozy aftermath that ties it all together while keeping the emotional resonance that runs beneath the flour clouds.

The ovens beeped. Doors opened. Steam burst out like dramatic exits from an opera.

Each baker stood before their creation, hovering like anxious parents on recital night. Alfred moved through them slowly, clipboard in hand, eyes narrowed not unkindly — just expectant.

Bruce and Babs took up their usual observer positions — part judges, part amused referees.

First up: Cass. Her sunflower bread, golden and imperfect, had an honesty to it. Alfred tore it gently, steam curling like breath in winter air.

“Savory, herbal… and well recovered,” he said with a nod. Cass allowed herself a tiny smile.

Tim’s laminated marvel came next.

“Technically ambitious,” Alfred murmured, biting into a slice. “Possibly too ambitious. Gruyère is temperamental.”

“It was a controlled risk,” Tim replied.

“It was nearly a controlled explosion.”

Tim bowed slightly. “Noted.”

Duke presented his bread with both hands, reverently.

Alfred’s expression shifted — almost imperceptibly — as he tasted. “Balanced. Complex. An echo of autumn in each bite.”

Duke beamed. “That’s exactly what I wrote on the card.”

Jason stepped forward with his rye-and-fire creation.

Alfred chewed. Paused. Chewed again. “This bread,” he said finally, “has the audacity of a street fight at midnight.”

Jason grinned. “Best compliment I’ve ever gotten from you.”

Steph’s Punk Rock Picnic was next. The loaf was bleeding magenta and defiant energy.

Alfred raised a brow. “Visually… alarming. But… surprisingly harmonious.”

Steph gasped. “You like it.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t not say it.”

Damian stood like a duelist presenting a sword.

Alfred tasted it and waited a long pause. “Precise. Potent. Assertive in all the ways bread should not be… and yet…”

Damian waited.

“…Impressive,” Alfred concluded.

“Tt.” Damian nodded, smug as ever.

Dick’s blob of betrayal was last. It wobbled slightly.

“Structural integrity: non-existent,” Alfred said, slicing in. “But… the flavor is oddly nostalgic. Like campfire toast with a guilty conscience.”

Dick sighed. “I’ll take it.”

Alfred stepped back, clipboard closed. “This was… one of your better disasters,” he said. “And one of your more successful rounds.”

The room leaned forward.

He looked at Duke. “This round’s winner — for balance, flavor, and restraint — is Duke.”

Gasps. Cheers. A single glitter popper from Steph.

Duke laughed. “I’m free from dishes for two rounds. Bow before me.”

“Abuse of power,” Jason muttered.

“Bitter much?” Steph shot back.

----

The kitchen was quieter now. The storm had passed.

Flour dust still clung to aprons and noses. Raspberry stains marked Steph’s cheeks. Damian was already writing out adjustments for “next time.” Tim was reorganizing the spice rack — again. Cass had folded her apron carefully. Jason was cleaning the egg wash station without being asked.

Bruce leaned against the far wall, arms crossed, watching them.

They were still bickering. Still throwing jabs. But they were laughing, too. Learning. Together.

Babs nudged him with her shoulder. “They didn’t kill each other.”

“Yet,” he said, smiling.

“Same time next week?”

He glanced toward the judging table, where Alfred was already wiping it down like it was sacred. “You really think he’d let them stop now?”

Babs grinned. “They’ll probably bake through Christmas.”

“Steph already pitched a gingerbread Wayne Manor.”

“Of course she did.”

Bruce shook his head slowly, the kind of shake that comes with affection buried deep under years of worry. He reached for a slice of Duke’s bread.

“Not bad,” he admitted, taking a bite.

“It’s the soul of autumn,” Duke called across the room.

Jason threw a kitchen towel at him.

Chapter Text

The kitchen buzzed — not with chaos, for once, but with intent.

Gone were the flour-fogged flailing’s of early weeks. No one was arguing about cream cheese ratios or the difference between soft and hard peaks. Even Jason had stopped trying to weaponize batter.

This was a room of competitors.

And Alfred could tell.

He stood at the center island with his hands behind his back, clipboard tucked under one arm like a herald preparing to announce royal decree.

Bruce watched from the corner — out of the splash zone. Babs had her feet up on a nearby stool, sipping ginger tea and eyeing each sibling like a proud teacher watching her most chaotic students walk into a final exam.

“Today’s challenge,” Alfred began, “marks a turning point in this… extended experiment.”

Tim raised an eyebrow. “Experiment?”

“Some of you,” Alfred said dryly, “have clearly taken this more seriously than others.”

Jason saluted with a frosted spatula.

Alfred ignored him. “You will each present a fully finished, structurally sound, flavor-balanced, three-layer cake,” he said.

There were no gasps. No protests.

Just a silent, shared moment of recognition.

This was the big one.

“You have six hours. Plan wisely.”

----

Cass had already planned her flavor weeks ago. White tea sponge. Lychee mousse. Rosewater buttercream. Inspired by silence. By balance. By her own quiet strength. She worked like a dancer — measured, graceful, utterly focused. Her layers cooled with military precision. Her frosting never curdled. Her piping? Minimal. Elegant.

She didn't need words.

Her cake would speak for her.

Duke’s cake was jazz. Chocolate chiffon, cardamom cream, and a pecan praline crunch between layers. “The theme,” he explained to no one and everyone, “is rhythm.” He moved like he was scoring music — tapping the bowl, spinning the mixer dial with syncopated confidence.

“Flavor progression,” he muttered. “Low to high. Bass to treble. Soul to sweetness.”

Dick leaned over. “You sound like you’re narrating a cooking documentary.”

Duke didn’t look up. “That’s because I will have one someday.”

Steph whispered, “I’d watch it.”

Tim’s station looked like a science lab. Everything was labeled. Color-coded. Precision incarnate.

His cake? An homage to contrast. Lemon sponge. Basil-lime curd. Blackberry meringue frosting — stabilized, piped in geometrically perfect patterns.

He adjusted internal dowels. He measured the distance between piped rosettes. He taste-tested every component twice. He calibrated frosting thickness with an actual ruler. He rebalanced sugar levels on the fly after a single drop of extract went rogue.

“Tim,” Steph asked, “are you okay?”

“I’m thriving,” he said with a flat smile, eyes slightly wild.

Damian muttered, “He’s spiraling again.”

Dick’s hands moved fast but not careless. His mise en place had never looked so organized. He was making a toasted almond sponge, layered with cherry jam and chocolate-hazelnut buttercream.

“Three rings,” he muttered to himself. “Three acts.”

The top would be covered in stripes — circus-tent style — piped painstakingly with alternating red and white vanilla glaze.

“I want it to taste like memory,” he said aloud.

Steph, walking by, raised an eyebrow. “So, like, peanuts and unresolved trauma?”

Dick shot her a grin. “And joy.”

Steph’s station looked like a candy store exploded. On purpose. Her cake, Funfetti sponge dyed in swirling shades of violet, electric blue, and neon pink. The filling was white chocolate-raspberry ganache. The frosting? Marshmallow fluff, whipped and dyed pastel ombré.

“I call it Unicorn Riot,” she said proudly. “It’s chaos, but delicious chaos.”

“You’re going to pipe stars with glitter in them, aren’t you?” Tim asked.

She was already doing it. “Try and stop me.”

Jason’s funeral cake was as dramatic as the name. Black cocoa sponge. Blackberry compote. Whiskey-smoked dark chocolate ganache. The frosting was a near-black Swiss meringue buttercream, dusted with edible ash-gray shimmer.

“I want it to taste like something you’d serve at a gothic wedding,” he muttered.

Damian passed behind him. “It smells like poor decision-making.”

Jason grinned. “Exactly.”

Damian’s cake was a pistachio genoise layered with saffron pastry cream and rose-petal jam. Frosted with whipped mascarpone and coated in thin marzipan dyed ivory. He carved minimalist falcon wings into the side with a paring knife. “The cake is symbolic,” he explained to Alfred, who hadn’t asked.

Alfred arched a brow. “Of?”

“Discipline. Legacy. Triumph.”

Steph whispered to Duke, “Bet it tastes like a grudge.”

The room hummed with mixers and ambition.

Babs stood beside Bruce, both watching.

“They’ve evolved,” she said.

Bruce nodded. “Jason hasn’t threatened to light anything on fire. That’s new.”

“I think they’re more nervous now,” Babs added. “They care. Not just about winning — about doing it right.”

Bruce was quiet for a moment. Then: “We all needed something that didn’t involve rooftops and bruises.”

“And explosives.”

“They’re still explosives,” he said, nodding toward Steph’s glitter-filled piping bags.

As the clock ticked down, tension didn’t rise — it condensed.

Each baker stood behind their station, cakes stacked, iced, and decorated with care.

No one was yelling.

No one had failed.

And that might’ve been more terrifying than anything else.

With flavor components made and cooled, stations transformed.

Mixers gave way to offset spatulas. Cooling racks to cake boards. Turntables whirred as each baker moved to the final stage:

Construction.

The air changed.

Babs leaned toward Bruce. “They’re all nervous now.”

“They should be,” Bruce said, watching Dick adjust his jam spread with surgical precision. “It’s easy to hide mistakes in taste.”

“But not in structure.”

Steph stared at her frosting bowl. “Why is it suddenly too soft?! It was fine two seconds ago!”

Cass gently tapped her mousse to release air bubbles.

Tim was using a level.

Jason was muttering to himself, “You’re not sinking today. Not this time.”

Duke had started humming again, low and steady, like a baker’s battle hymn.

Damian was checking his marzipan for air pockets like a detective examining a crime scene.

The first layers hit the boards.

And suddenly, the real test began.

The kitchen had gone quiet.

Not in the way it had that morning, with calm and golden light — but in that eerie, tightwire silence before something big happened. Something that would either earn applause… or shatter on the floor.

Each cake was finished now.

Three layers, each one speaking in its maker’s voice. Glossy frostings. Delicate piping. Drips held in perfect place like frozen motion. Some stood tall and commanding. Others elegant and poised. All of them personal.

Alfred stood at the far end of the judging table, polished steel surface gleaming beneath a soft overhead light. The clipboard was gone. He didn’t need it now. “Bring them forward,” he said simply.

And the room exhaled.

Cass first. Not because she wanted to be. But because she wasn’t afraid. Her cake moved like a sculpture — balanced, floral, quiet in color but loud in detail. A rose petal fell from the top tier as she set it gently on the table.

Alfred circled it once. Twice. A single bite. He paused. “Delicate. Controlled. Understated… but moving.”

Cass tilted her head, unsure if that was praise.

“It’s a cake that understands silence,” he said.

She smiled.

Jason marched forward like a man bringing a loaded weapon to a bake sale. His “Funeral Cake” sat heavy on the board — sleek black buttercream like obsidian, the glint of dark fruit and burnished chocolate waiting beneath.

Alfred tasted. His brow lifted slightly. “Bold. Rich. Borderline overpowered.”

Jason smirked. “Like me?”

“Unlike you,” Alfred said dryly, “it has structure.”

Jason barked a laugh. “I’ll take it.”

Steph needed both hands. And a little shoulder support from Dick. Her Unicorn Riot cake looked like it had emerged from a Lisa Frank dream after a sugar bender. It was tall. Bright. Somehow sparkling.

Alfred studied it for a long moment. Then cut a clean slice, revealing the swirl of rainbow sponge inside.

“Unexpectedly balanced,” he murmured. “I expected cavity-inducing chaos.”

“You’re welcome,” Steph said proudly. “I edited. Minimal glitter.”

“You piped a shooting star with edible sequins.”

“Minimal glitter.”

Duke’s cake was warm-toned and understated — caramel drips sliding slowly down the sides, like a jazz note held too long. He presented it with both pride and a quiet nod of respect.

Alfred tasted. His pause was longer this time.

“…Nuanced,” he said. “Confident. It tastes like memory.”

Duke smiled. “Good. That’s what I was aiming for.”

Alfred’s nod was small, but not cold. “You succeeded.”

Dick carried his cake with the same posture he’d use to carry someone out of a burning building. Careful. Intentional. The red-and-white circus stripes shimmered under the light. Each layer filled with cherry and nostalgia.

Alfred’s slice was neat, revealing perfect spacing and texture. He took a bite. Closed his eyes. “…You’ve made better cakes,” he said, “but none more honest.”

Dick exhaled slowly. “Thanks, Alfie.”

Damian stepped forward like a fencer entering a duel. His cake was immaculate — the marzipan finish unbroken, the falcon wings carved so precisely they could be etched into stone. The layers, when cut, looked like something from a culinary textbook.

Alfred took a bite. His expression didn’t shift.

“Exacting,” he said. “Elegant. Slightly lacking in warmth.”

Damian bristled. “I added saffron.”

“I meant emotional warmth.”

Damian’s frown deepened.

Steph stage-whispered, “Told you it tasted like a grudge.”

Tim’s cake was last. It sat on his turntable, waiting. Three even layers. Sharp lemon sponge, pale yellow-green curd between. Blackberry meringue peaks kissed with a torch. Clean. Professional. Quietly beautiful. He reached to lift it.

He was tired. He hadn’t eaten all day. His hands were steady — but his mind was somewhere three steps ahead. Thinking about the critique. About precision. About winning.

It happened too fast.

One misstep. One elbow. One missed cue in the choreography of eight bodies that had learned how to fight side-by-side — but not how to carry something delicate.

Steph’s shoulder bumped Tim’s just as he turned.

His hands flew open in reflex — but too late.

The cake tilted. Slid.

The air shifted.

Time slowed.

The board hit the floor with a dull, thick THUMP, followed by the crackle of crushed meringue, the soft splat of lemon curd smearing across steel.

No scream.

No gasp.

Just silence.

The kind that vibrates behind your ribs.

Tim stood over it. Still holding the empty turntable. Still looking at the place it had been.

His mouth opened. Closed.

Steph dropped to the ground, already reaching. “Oh my god—Tim—I’m so sorry—”

“I got it,” Cass said, crouching beside her, already moving with the calm of someone who knew you couldn’t fix what broke — but you could gather the pieces.

Jason was next, hands shaking slightly as he hovered, trying to find a piece big enough to lift. “We can rebuild. We’ve got time—”

“There’s not enough structure left,” Tim said, voice low and flat.

“There’s a whole bottom layer here,” Duke called from the other side of the wreckage. He crouched, slipping a clean board underneath one layer that had mostly survived the fall. The curd had bled out, yes — but the sponge? The shape? Still there.

He and Jason lifted together. Carefully. Steadily.

“We can still plate this,” Duke said. “We can clean the edge, patch the frosting. It won’t be perfect, but—”

“It doesn’t need to be perfect,” Jason added, glancing over at Tim. “It just needs to be yours.”

Tim was still staring. Not at them — at the floor. He looked like someone had punched a hole in his chest.

Steph sat back, her hands and apron streaked with purple-black meringue. Her eyes were wet.

“I ruined it.”

“No,” Tim said sharply. “I did.” He finally looked up — but not at her. Past her. At the mess. “I wanted this to prove something,” he said, quieter now. “Not to any of you. To me. That I could make something beautiful. That I wasn’t just the backup plan. The strategist. The brain in the chair.”

The words cracked in his throat.

“I made this. Every layer. Every piped swirl. It was mine. And now it’s—” He choked off. “Gone.”

“No,” Cass said simply. She handed him a small square she had cut from the top tier — bruised, but intact. One swirl of frosting still holding on. “It’s changed. Not gone.”

Dick came to stand behind him, resting a hand on Tim’s shoulder. “I watched you work on that cake for hours,” he said. “With joy. You were smiling, man. You never smile in the kitchen.”

“You even hummed once,” Jason said, deadpan. “We all heard it. Don’t deny it.”

Tim almost laughed. Almost.

“I know it sucks,” Duke said softly, still holding the mostly-saved layer. “But we can carry this last piece. We’ve got you.”

Damian — who had been silent through it all — stepped forward with a small, clean offset spatula.

“I hate most things,” he said bluntly. “But your cake was not one of them.” It was the closest thing he’d ever said to I’m proud of you.

Steph pressed a napkin into Tim’s hand. “I can’t fix it,” she whispered. “But I’ll help plate what’s left.”

Tim looked at all of them.

Steph, still kneeling in curd and frosting like it mattered more than dignity.

Cass, steady and sure, offering only what she could hold.

Duke, hands beneath the salvaged sponge like a surgeon saving a heart.

Jason, fidgeting but present.

Dick, quiet and grounding.

Damian, begrudging and honest.

They weren’t just trying to fix a cake.

They were trying to hold him together.

He knelt slowly. Reached out. Took the layer from Duke’s hands. Placed it back onto a fresh cake board.

And this time, when he smoothed the frosting, it wasn’t with the precision of perfection — it was with care.

With heart.

With help.

They worked as one.

Duke rebuilt the sides, patching with meringue.

Cass piped new swirls around the rim.

Jason torched the top, adding a subtle edge of golden caramelization.

Steph hand-zested a new line of lemon peel across the surface, barely blinking tears away.

Damian fetched a sprig of thyme — the garnish Tim had planned for the final touch — and laid it gently on top.

Dick stood beside Tim the whole time. Steady. Solid. No words needed.

When it was done, the cake was… smaller.

Rougher. Imperfect.

But still beautiful.

And his.

Across the room, Alfred watched it all unfold. He did not interrupt. Did not offer advice. He simply observed. Like someone who had seen every version of these children — from warriors to wounded — and knew that this was their truest form. Not fighters. Not detectives. Just people.

And when the cake was ready, Tim carried it forward.

Not alone.

Jason beside him.

Duke at his other shoulder.

Steph walking close behind.

Cass steadying the tray.

A whole cake?

No.

But a whole family?

Yes.

The salvaged cake was smaller than the rest. Crooked at the edges. Touched by too many hands to be clean — but not to be loved.

Alfred cut a thin slice, revealing the still-perfect layering inside. Lemon. Blackberry. Torch-kissed peaks. He tasted and closed his eyes. When he opened them again, he said nothing for a moment. Then turned to face them all.

“You’ve each done well,” he began. “Remarkably well.”

He looked over the line of cakes again, then at each of their faces — flour-dusted, exhausted, hopeful.

“When this began,” he said, “it was chaos. Raw skill and stubbornness in equal measure. Some of you couldn’t tell a tart pan from a torture device.”

Jason shrugged. “Still kind of can’t.”

Alfred ignored him.

“But you learned. Not just to bake — though your technique has improved more than I ever expected.” He paused. “You’ve learned to care. To show up. For yourselves. For one another.”

The room was still.

Steph blinked. Damian looked down. Tim stared at his own shoes.

“When that cake fell,” Alfred continued, voice low, “you could’ve stood back. Waited to see what the judges would say. Let it be his loss.”

He looked directly at Tim.

“But instead, you moved. Without asking. Without thinking of points or competition. You picked up what could be saved, and you carried it together.”

His voice warmed — not soft, but full.

“That is far more meaningful than any single perfect bake.”

Dick swallowed hard.

“I know we said this was a contest,” Alfred continued, “but tonight, there will be no winner.”

Heads turned. Even Damian opened his mouth to protest — but Alfred raised a hand.

“Not because none of you deserve it… but because all of you do. Not for your cakes. But for who you’ve become while making them.”

The kitchen, messy and fragrant and full of warmth, held its breath like a cathedral.

Alfred stepped back.

“I am proud of your growth. As bakers. As people. And above all… as family.”

No one spoke right away.

Then Steph sniffled. Loudly. “Damn it, Alfred.”

Jason bumped her shoulder. “I thought I was gonna cry and you beat me to it.”

“I’m not crying,” Damian said stiffly.

“You never are,” Cass murmured, passing him a napkin anyway.

Tim stood beside his salvaged cake — battered, crooked, real — and let out a long, slow breath.

“…Thanks,” he said. Quiet. But steady.

Dick raised a hand. “So, uh… do we all have to do dishes now?”

“No,” Alfred said.

Everyone perked up.

“You all get the night off. You’ve earned it.”

Groans of relief rippled through the group.

“And what about tomorrow?” Jason asked.

Alfred smiled faintly. “Tomorrow, the competition resumes.”

A chorus of groans.

Steph threw up her arms. “I just started feeling my fingers again!”

“Good,” Alfred replied. “You’ll need them for pâte à choux.”

They groaned louder.

But beneath it, there was laughter.

And something more.

Something whole.

*********

Dinner was over. The kitchen, for once, was spotless.

Not thanks to anyone in particular — though Alfred had certainly nudged, directed, and somehow guilted them into cleaning like it was a matter of life or death.

Now, the air was warm with the fading scent of rosemary and roasted garlic. The overhead lights were dimmed. Someone had put on a playlist — mellow, lo-fi jazz, just audible under the low hum of the evening.

And for the first time in what felt like weeks, no one was yelling about proofing temperatures, butter ratios, or the moral gray area of glitter in food.

The Batkids had migrated to the oversized lounge adjacent to the practice kitchen — a space Bruce had originally designed as a “strategic planning and operations debriefing zone.”

Now, it held beanbags. Worn throw blankets. A beat-up couch Jason had allegedly rescued from an alley. And crumbs. Always crumbs.

Steph was lying belly-down on the rug, poking at her tablet, wearing a hoodie three sizes too big. Probably one of Dick’s. “Okay,” she said. “We definitely need a blooper reel.”

Cass, curled up in a beanbag like a cat, tilted her head. “For?”

“Bread Week,” Steph said, grinning. “Jason fell into the banneton shelf. Twice.”

Jason, sprawled across the couch like a content chaos demon, didn’t even look up. “Unfair. First one was physics. Second was sabotage.”

“Third was karma,” Duke said, lounging in an armchair with a blanket over his legs and a plate of cake on his lap. “Also, I have footage.”

“Traitor,” Jason muttered, but there was no heat behind it.

Tim was sitting on the floor, back against the couch, legs stretched out. Not smiling exactly, but the tightness that had haunted his face earlier was gone.

Next to him, Damian was cross-legged, sipping tea with all the dramatic energy of a monk who’d already assassinated everyone in the room — but left them alive out of mercy. “I will never understand your obsession with post-failure documentation,” he said, frowning at Steph.

“Because it’s funny,” she replied. “And because we can learn from our mistakes.”

“I don’t make mistakes,” Damian said flatly.

Everyone, in unison: “You salted your chocolate ganache.”

Damian scowled. “It was intentional.”

Tim didn’t look up from the mug in his hands. “Was it also intentional when you mixed up salt and sugar for the glaze on the tartlets?”

Cass, deadpan: “Savory lemon glaze. Bold choice.”

“Criminal,” added Jason.

Steph flopped onto her back dramatically. “We’re gonna make a cookbook, right? ‘The Bat-Fam Bakes: Disasters, Drama, and Dough.’”

Dick, coming in with a second round of hot cocoa like a sitcom dad, snorted. “As long as we include the part where I forgot to take the parchment out of the springform pan and served someone a slice of banana-cardboard cake.”

He handed a mug to Cass, then one to Tim. “You okay?” he asked quietly, not pressing.

Tim gave him a faint nod. “Yeah. Actually… yeah.”

Dick gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze, then dropped onto the couch beside Jason, stealing his blanket without remorse.

Steph wiggled her fingers in the air. “You guys feel it?”

Duke glanced up. “Feel what?”

“This,” she said, spreading her arms wide. “Peace. Warm fuzzies. Like… this is one of those nights we’ll remember. Later. When we’re old. And still hot.”

Cass smiled softly. “It’s good.”

“Don’t get used to it,” Damian said. “I’m winning the next challenge.”

“I will end you if you sabotage my cream puffs,” Jason replied, entirely too calmly.

Dick stretched, tossing his arms over the back of the couch. “I think Alfred’s gonna go harder next time. He’s lulling us into a false sense of security.”

“Then we rise to the challenge,” Duke said. He raised his mug like a toast.

Everyone else followed suit — tea, cocoa, water, even the half-eaten slice of cake Steph lifted ceremoniously.

Tim hesitated for a second.

Then raised his too.

“To good nights,” said Duke.

“To family,” added Cass.

“To not dying from underbaked puff pastry,” said Jason.

“To redemption cake,” Steph said, nudging Tim’s foot with hers.

Tim smiled. This time, it reached his eyes.

“To the next round,” he said quietly.

They all clinked their mugs together — an uneven chorus of ceramic taps and frosting-smeared glass.

And then, for a long moment, they just sat.

No patrols.

No threats.

No masks.

Just light laughter. The rustle of blankets. A feeling like safety.

Like home.