We all know this takes place in the magical realm of JB, where the Batbooks do what I want so I can write fic handily, right? Good. :)

Also, have I mentioned it's 5:30? It is. This, therefore, is crackfic of the extreme. I do not vouch for any kind of decent writing here. Run! Run while you can!

The other cake drabbles are in my memories. There are lots. :D

******

Most mornings in the manor weren't like this.

Alfred paused at the kitchen door, hand on the wood, and listened.

Something had woken him moments before; something that, while not uncommon enough to be alarming, was strange enough to wake him. He'd followed the noise all the way down here, down the back stairs, right up to the swinging door. It was old, nearly as old as he was, and no longer closed all the way. He very carefully didn't push it, didn't even breathe on it. It creaked.

"How many eggs did you just put in there?" a young voice said dubiously.

There was a moment of silence. "As many as the recipe called for," Dick answered eventually.

"Right. Why does it look like there's three yolks?" Alfred was certain that was Tim. A smile twitched at the corners of his mouth, and he carefully put his hands in the pockets on his robe, listening. Making sure everything was fine, despite the early hour.

Late night working, perhaps? Or just growing boys--he refused to believe Dick would ever stop growing--needing an early morning snack? They might need his help, but he'd wait and see.

"Just shut up and stir, Boy Wonder Jr."

"Boy short-pants," Tim breathed. Then, louder, "You're going to ruin it."

"I am not!" Dick snorted. "One extra egg isn't going to ruin anything!"

"Didn't you say that about the pancakes?"

Alfred started and looked closer at the wood, as if it could tell him that he was hearing correctly. Bruce was in there, too. Apparently, Alfred thought, he himself was the only one not hungry at this hour.

"Pancakes?" Tim nearly chirped, interested piqued.

Alfred smiled in memory, settling one shoulder against the wall. Through a crack in the door, he could see light and the edge of the table. A carton of eggs sat perilously close to falling.

"Let's not talk about the pancakes," Dick muttered.

"Oh, no, I'd like to hear this. What about the pancakes?"

"I was twelve!" Dick protested.

"He put extra eggs in the pancakes. Had some theory about how it would taste like scrambled egg-pancakes," Bruce said, a smile clear in his voice.

A smile, but exhaustion, too. Alfred straightened, frowning. He wondered how long Bruce had been up, and if he should play guardian and break up the party.

"I was twelve!" Dick howled again.

"Shhh, keep it down. You'll wake Alfred," Tim whispered, his own voice suddenly lower.

"Shit," Dick grumbled. "Forgot."

Alfred cocked an eyebrow at the door curiously.

"Okay, what goes next?"

"Flour," Dick said decisively.

"I'm pretty sure that goes last," Bruce murmured. "Yes, look. It gets sifted in with baking powder and salt and other dry things."

"I can't find the baking powder. Think baking soda would work?" Tim asked.

There was a moment of silence while Alfred prayed someone said 'no.'

"It might," Bruce said after a moment. "Try."

"Wait--" Dick interrupted. "I think I remember something about this. Maybe we should look it up?"

Alfred breathed a sigh of relief.

"Good idea," Tim agreed. "I'll check the 'cave computer."

He smiled and shook his head. One of the most powerful computers on the planet, and they where using it to check cake ingredients.

There was the patter of feet hurrying out of the kitchen, and the soft sounds of someone stirring.

"Remember when you and Alfred surprised me on my thirteenth?" Dick asked, voice quiet.

Alfred smiled in memory. He'd gotten up at four a.m. to cook. Bruce had joined him twenty minutes later, putting together gifts he'd bought.

"I remember the wrench slipping while I was tightening a bolt on that bike. It smashed my thumb, and all Alfred could do was tell me to be quiet before I woke you," Bruce said on a chuckle.

"Seriously?"

There was silence; Alfred assumed Bruce had nodded.

"This is going to be the best cake ever," Tim announced, footsteps heralding his return. "And no, baking soda can't replace baking powder."

"All right, world's greatest detective, find the baking powder," Dick said, laughing. Bruce grumbled something Alfred couldn't hear.

"Maybe we should put chocolate chips in the batter," Dick said thoughtfully.

"That's disgusting," Tim answered unequivocally.

Alfred had to agree.

"It might be good!"

"To your sweet tooth, maybe," Bruce grumbled. "But I doubt Alfred would appreciate it."

Alfred pulled back slightly, staring at the door. He didn't see what their early-morning snack had to do with him.

"Oh, yeah, well," Dick sighed. "I suppose we could just stick to the recipe."

"Good idea," Tim said. There was silence broken by the sound of opening cupboards and spices being shifted. "How old is Alfred, anyway?" Tim asked.

"Twenty-five," Bruce and Dick answered simultaneously.

Tim started to laugh. "What?"

"A gentleman," Dick intoned in what was clearly a butler impression, "does not discuss his age."

Alfred's eyebrows rose, unimpressed, even as some corner of his mind laughed.

"He's been twenty-five for so long, I don't even know how old he really is," Bruce said, chuckling. "Ah! The baking powder."

"So do we celebrate his twenty-fifth or his twenty-sixth today?" Tim asked.

Alfred's eyebrows lowered slowly. His twenty-fifth? His mind ticked furiously.

It was his birthday.

In all the hullaballoo lately, he'd completely lost track. Smiling, he tried to remember how old he actually was.

"Twenty-fifth," Dick answered. "He magically turned twenty-four last night."

"I got the flou--oops."

From the crack in the door, Alfred saw white billow out. A shadow fell over the table as someone moved closer; Alfred stepped away quickly so as not to be seen.

"Good going, Boy Butterfingers."

"Boy Eggy," Tim muttered back.

"I was twelve!"

"Shhh. He'll be up soon," Bruce chided. "We can't surprise him if you wake him."

--Surprise? Alfred pulled one hand out of his pocket and checked his watch. Four forty-five. He normally rose at five-thirty, but they hadn't even gotten the cake in the oven yet...

Slowly, Alfred crept back toward the stairs. They didn't need help--or at least, not from him. What they needed was for him to be asleep.

Smiling, he headed up the stairs. He wouldn't likely sleep now, but he could put the time to good use. Finding a place to put the cake if it turned out to be inedible, for instance.

Most mornings in the manor weren't like this. But then, most mornings weren't birthdays, with everyone in the same city.

--end