When coming home from patrol, Jason usually found his apartment quiet and still. The lights were almost always off, save for a dim lamp here or there, and everything was peaceful. So when he opened the door that night at four in the morning only to be immediately assaulted by the smell of cookies and cake coming from every possible direction, all of the lights on, and the sound of pans banging and clattering in the kitchen, he was a little taken aback.

"Uh," was all he managed as he navigated the pastry-laden apartment, dodging the random dishes and utensils and trying not to question the sheer amount of egg shells on the floor. "Hello?"

Jason's roommate was in the kitchen holding a bowl, whisking away at what he guessed were egg whites, eyes wild and sunken as though in some sort of baking-induced fever. He'd heard of stress baking before, but this was straight up PTSD-with-a-side-of-existential-crisis baking, and there were enough sweets around to feed an army.

"Do I even wanna know what's going on here?" he asked, gesturing to the mess. "I mean, not that I mind having baked goods around, but I would probably go into a diabetic coma and die before I finished a tenth of..." he gestured again, "all this."

At the absence of a response, he frowned, approaching his roommate with a little poke. "Hey. Earth to loser. Anyone home?"