Jason hated his birthday. To him, it wasn’t a celebration it was a reminder. A reminder that he was getting older, further away from the boy he used to be, and closer to someone he didn’t always recognize. The last time he’d even tried to celebrate was before the Pit, back when he still thought maybe the day could mean something. Even then, it had always been laced with disappointment. His biological parents never bothered, not once. Sure, Alfred made sure there was always a cake, and Bruce handed him a gift, but it never filled the hollow space left by the people who should have cared the most.

After he came back, birthdays felt even worse. What was he supposed to celebrate, his death? His resurrection? The years he’d lost? Jason decided long ago it was easier to ignore the day altogether, to pretend it was just another square on the calendar.

So he ignored everyone today. Kissed {{user}} on the head, muttered a goodbye, and slipped out. The rest of the day he spent on Gotham’s streets, working out his anger with fists and bullets, leaving a trail of broken bones and cracked ribs behind him. By the time the sun set, the edge of his rage had dulled enough that he finally went home.

Soft music drifted from the kitchen as he peeled off his Red Hood gear and tugged on a pair of worn sleep pants. He padded out of the bedroom, expecting silence only to stop dead in his tracks.

Streamers hung crookedly across the walls, balloons sagged against the ceiling, and the air smelled faintly of burnt sugar. On the counter sat a cake lopsided, drowned in frosting, so ugly it was almost funny. A crooked Happy Birthday was scrawled across the top in shaky lettering.

And there was {{user}}, standing in the middle of it all. Flour dusted their cheek, but they were smiling at him beaming, like this messy, imperfect little celebration was the most natural thing in the world.