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Jason loves Alfred’s champurrado.
He makes it just the way Mama did. Masa harina ground on the counter, combined with piloncillo and chocolate de mesa on the stove, milk brought to a simmer, a stick of canela for that nice hint of spice.
Jason can smell it already as he walks out of Bruce’s study after patrol, chocolate and cinnamon fragrant in the air of the manor. It’s his favorite scent in all the world.
Bruce prefers American hot chocolate, the heathen, but Alfred will drink from the same pot as Jason, and Jason loves him with every bone in his body.
He might not be Mama, but he’s the closest thing to an abuelo that Jason’s ever had.
Jason walks into the kitchen on silent feet, but Alfred is already looking over his shoulder, smiling softly at Jason as he whisks the champurrado.
“Young Master Jason,” he says, voice as warm as the steam that billows up around his face. If he wore glasses, they’d be fogged up, but Jason can clearly see Alfred’s deep blue eyes. “I’m almost finished here. Could you froth while I take the hojarascas out of the oven?”
Jason takes his usual station at the stove, stepping up onto the step stool left there just for him. He’s tall enough to reach the stove without one, but he likes to look down into the pot to watch the champurrado swirl as he froths. Besides, Jason really does need to be steady to use the milonillo. He pulls it out of the utensil stand, the familiar wooden carvings pressing firmly to his skin as he settles it between his palms and moves it down into the drink.
Jason rubs his hands together and the milonillo spins, churning through the champurrado and adding air to the thickened chocolate and corn, frothing vigorously.
Alfred opens the oven wearing the oven mitts Jason gave him for Christmas, and as the heated air spills out into the kitchen, Jason takes a deep breath of fresh cinnamon and sugar.
The scent combines with the chocolate, and when he closes his eyes, he can almost sense Mama beside him, checking his hip as she slides the cookies from the oven and laughing as he fumbles to keep the milonillo spinning. Traditionally they would be having churros with champurrado, she kept telling him, but Jason stood firm. Hojarascas were his favorite. Jason opens his eyes as the oven shuts.
Alfred carefully slides the hojarascas out onto the wire cooling racks, then puts the cookie sheet to the side to cool down before washing. He strips off the mitts, setting them beside the tray, and then he smiles at Jason and heads over to his side. They look down into the swirling champurrado together.
“Looks about done, Young Master Jason,” Alfred says, and when Jason hums in agreement, Alfred carefully takes the pot off the burner.
Jason sets out the wide mugs on the counter, and he holds them steady while Alfred pours their cups. A fresh canela stick goes into each mug, and then the mugs are left to start to cool off while they finish the cookies. Only, when Jason glances over the wire racks, the cookies are different this time. Usually each cookie is a perfect circle, outside of holiday seasons when Alfred breaks out the festive cookie cutters, but today Jason finds row after row of hearts set to cool.
“Happy birthday, my boy,” Alfred murmurs, squeezing Jason’s shoulders softly.
Jason blinks back tears. He already had his party before patrol, already got his presents and cake, but he didn’t think anyone would remember this. Every year, Mama would make him heart-shaped hojarascas and champurrado, no matter how much she joked about churros instead, no matter how hot it was outside. The apartment would practically be an oven itself on those muggy August nights, but Mama insisted that Jason deserved his favorite treats on his birthday. And now he gets to have them again.
Jason clears his throat, reaching up to grip Alfred’s hands tight.
“Thank you, Abuelo,” he says quietly. “I love you.”
Abuelo’s hands tremble.
“I love you too, Nieto.” He says, pressing a kiss to Jason’s hair.
Jason sniffs hard, and squeezes Abuelo’s hands again before letting go. Abuelo pats his shoulders and comes up beside him.
“Azúcar canela?” He offers, lifting an already-prepared sieve of cinnamon sugar from a wide bowl.
Jason takes one side, Abuelo holds the other, and they shake it over the cookies together.