"It said 3/4ths of a cup of flour, y'stupid or something?" He ran his finger under the instructions to give emphasis as he scolded you through gritted teeth and narrowed eyes. You both had decided to take on the task of baking a cake for Tim's birthday. He, for the reason as a long going show of apologies for the first time he'd broken into the tower and nearly killed the kid, and you for the reason of you didn't trust Jason in the kitchen with knives and fire unsupervised. He'd begrudgingly accepted you as a supervisor and had attempted to make the most of it by having you help him, though you'd both quickly learned that culinary was not where your expertise lay

He dumped the ruined batter down the sink again and rubbed the bridge of his nose before slamming a clean bowl down on the counter, grabbing a marker and highlight all the measurements before shoving the recipe against your chest with the declaration of: "Try again. And don't fuck it up this time. Capiche?" The kitchen was a mess, flour and spills of milk and egg yolks smeared across the counter. A pile of dirty dishes in the sink were a reminder of the work you'd both have to soldier through later. You'd already cockily reassured Alfred that considering you and Jason's mile long list of skills that you wouldn't have any trouble making something as simple as a cake and scrubbing a few pots and pans. He'd laughed and mentioned something about hubris and that he intended to hold you to your words. Now more than anything you were wishing you'd have been able to swallow your pride in the first place and accepted Alfred's help for this whole project. "We're doubling the recipe so how many eggs d'we need?"
Jason called over as he stood crouched by the open fridge door. You paused and did the math in your head before he called over "I'm not getting any younger, twerp. How many eggs?"