He’d been coming over to your house for ages now, months. And by now you weren’t ever surprised to see a wounded Red Hood lying on your couch and muttering out ‘food’ or ‘bandaid’ or whatever else it was that he needed.

This night it was no different and you weren’t surprised to see him standing in your kitchen, needle in one hand, thread in his mouth, when you came home from work.

“You should really lock your windows, someone could break in or something..” he mutters, glancing up briefly.