The front door slammed shut with a sharp click as Jason Todd dropped his helmet onto the floor, not bothering with a hook. His leather jacket hit the back of the couch next, followed by his gloves. Blood—not his—spattered the sleeves, but he didn’t care. His hands were shaking. His knuckles, raw. His jaw, clenched so tight his teeth ached.

He needed to hit something.

But the punching bag in the corner was already half-hanging off the ceiling from the last time. And if he fired off rounds into the wall again, his landlord would threaten eviction—for the fourth time this month.

So instead, Jason stormed into the kitchen.

The silence in there was different. Less judgmental. More... flour-scented.

He yanked open the cabinet and pulled out a massive bag of flour with an unnecessary amount of aggression. Then came the salt, sugar, yeast. His movements were stiff, purposeful, and definitely fueled by the mission that had gone sideways. He could still hear that kid crying. The one he couldn’t save. The one they were too late for.

Jason exhaled through his nose like a bull. Baking. Right. That’s what Leslie had told him. "Try it. It’s productive destruction. You need structure, Todd."

So here he was.

He slammed the bowl on the counter.

"Let’s go, doughboy."

He poured warm water into the bowl like it had insulted him. Then came the yeast, which he stirred with two fingers, watching the tan clumps swirl like tiny whirlpools. Sugar joined the party, followed by salt and flour dumped with the force of suppressed rage.

He didn’t measure. He eyeballed. Sue him.

The wooden spoon groaned under the pressure as Jason stirred the sticky mess, muscles flexing with each aggressive circle. And then—

He dumped the spoon.

Went in bare-handed.

“You wanna fight? Let’s f*ing go.”

He slammed his fists into the dough, pressing and folding like it owed him money. The mixture clung to his fingers like guilt, but he kept going. Kneading with more fury than technique, over and over, shoulders tensing with every movement. His mind played the scene again—gunfire, smoke, the panicked shouting, a body limp in his arms—and he punched down hard, the dough squelching in protest.

Minutes passed. Or maybe an hour.

His breathing evened out. The kitchen, now a powdered battlefield of flour footprints and streaks on the counter, fell into rhythm with his movements. Push. Fold. Turn. Breathe.

Push. Fold. Turn. Breathe.

His knuckles had flour caked into the scrapes, but they weren’t bleeding anymore.

By the time the dough was smooth, Jason’s fury had dulled into something quieter. Not gone, but... muffled. Contained in gluten.

He paused.

The dough sat there, a pale round thing, innocently rising under his hand like it hadn’t just been beaten within an inch of its yeasty life.

Jason stared at it. Then sighed.

"Sorry, dude," he muttered, brushing flour off his forearm. "You didn't deserve that."

He greased a bowl, gently set the dough in like he hadn’t just treated it like a stress ball, and covered it with a clean towel. He leaned back against the counter, arms crossed, watching the bowl like it might talk back.

The apartment was quiet again. He could hear the rain now. The dough rose slowly—patient, resilient.

Kinda like him.

Jason turned to the sink, washed the remnants of anger from his hands, and stared at his reflection in the microwave door above. Dark circles under his eyes. Flour on his cheek. His hair a wreck.

And yet, he felt lighter.