A/N: I haven't posted fanfic on tumblr in a while, but as I'm writing (April 2, 2026) the the snow has been coming down and I'm feeling deceptively soft.
Stephanie sends Jason the first birthday text, alerting him to the day itself as he’s coming back to the apartment after a week-long stakeout. Solo. He prefers it more these days, not that he shuns help but because of how comfortable it is, relying on someone. He misses his Outlaws, even the strange ecosystem he cultivated at the Lounge wasn’t a complete farce. Whether he wants to admit or not, he’s good with people, he’s good at connecting to all sorts of characters. More than that, he’s not nearly as stoic as he’d like everyone to believe. His heart, battered from years of trauma, is intact. He should feel grateful.
After Stephanie, the texts trickle in slowly. Dick wanting to know if Jason’s free for lunch. Tim’s half-coherent message wondering if he got the date wrong. Cass is brief and polite. Nothing from Bruce.
Jason showers in the dark.
He pads into the living room afterwards, letting himself smile as Dog rouses herself from her bed and waddles sleepily towards him. Planting herself practically on his toes, Jason eases himself onto his knees, squishing her big head between his palms.
“Happy birthday to me, right girl?”
Dog plants a slobbery kiss against his face.
He idles for most the morning, grey light seeping through the blinds as he rouses his old coffee maker from slumber. Around noon he takes Dog out for a walk, his phone going off with a few more texts (Damian, Duke, Lian). He visits Alfred’s grave, his parents. He doesn’t speak. There’s not much else to say, but today he allows himself the heavy shroud of melancholy at being… whatever he is. Since he came back, Gotham hasn’t changed. It’s gotten darker and crueler. There are more capes in the streets, but crime hasn’t gone down. Jason’s been trying to play within the arbitrary rules of a broken man and father, they fight, they makeup; Jason tinkers with the gel formula of his bullets and he misses Roy something fierce.
“Well, then let’s go out.” Roy actually calls. “No point brooding on your special day. I can be in Gotham in an hour, easy.”
Jason has him on speaker as he cleans his guns on the living room table, Dog’s head heavy in his lap. “Don’t you have better things to do?”
“Sure. I could have three dozen birthday cakes delivered to your doorstep, but I’m trying to be the mature adult here.”
“And I’m not being mature?”
He isn’t. It shouldn’t be difficult to arrange even a small get-together with the people he cares about most, who haven’t thrown him under the bus, who’ve sided with him when it may have detrimental.
Barbara texts. Says they should grab coffee sometime.
“I’m not saying things are exactly sunshine and roses, Jaybird, but it’s been a while since you’ve been a lone wolf. Give me an hour, and I’ll be there.”
He very nearly tells Roy off, there’s about a dozen caustic remarks he could make—you don’t live in Crime Alley crafting niceties, you learn which words are barbs and which are balms—but truthfully? It’s nice for someone else to put in the effort. Maybe that’s selfish, maybe it’s cruel. Catherine tried. Even when her moods were low, even when she was tired. Jason could come home from school and she’d have a small cupcake with a stubby candle, the light would kindle in her eyes, she’d smile and call him her little man. As he got older, Willis would take him out for hot dogs or burgers, and for once things felt normal. Fathers and sons. Birthday dinners. A new pair of sneakers. A pat on the head. It would be easy to say it was always bad, that because of all the awful bits Jason has every reason to be mean and standoffish…
Roy comes laden with cake, and a package wrapped in old parchment. He proposes a movie marathon, something low stakes, something Jason missed when he was dead. They go out for groceries because Roy’s determined to make pizza from scratch, and Jason’s a little too choked up to argue. Domestic is a word too far removed from his vocabulary, and watching Roy take control of his tiny kitchen makes his heart sore. Few people in their line of work get this kind of peace. Jason’s never thought too far ahead. Even now, especially now.
“Taste this for me?” Roy beckons Jason from the living room, his other hand occupied with a wooden spoon sunk in a pot of tomato sauce.
Jason shuffles over, the scent of garlic and onion drawing him to Roy’s side. He reaches for the spoon, but Roy makes a tutting sound. He takes Jason’s hands, holds them against the counter.
“Really.” Roy chuckles. “Humour me.”
Jason drops his mouth open hesitantly, watching Roy hover the spoon in front of his mouth before tipping it in slowly. He’s infuriating like this, Roy is. His movements are steady and unhurried, indulgent in a way that makes Jason’s cheeks warm and his stomach hot.
“It’s good.” Jason licks his lips, watching Roy’s mouth split into a knowing grin. “I mean, it’s not Alfred’s—”
“Paragon of paragons,” Roy nods sagely, “I’m a close second?”
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