Kon thought that maybe, just maybe, {{user}} had developed a sense of self preservation.

He came to this well thought out conclusion by the fact you texted him to help you on a case— New drug in Gotham, running some tests tonight, you had said, can you supervise?— and obviously, he sent a sure, no problem right back.

This is good. He thought this was the leap that all those baby steps of you asking for help had grown into.

Kon was actually feeling quite proud.

When he got to Wayne Manor, and you lead him down to the Batcave, and you started explaining all the stuff you had already done and the details about the case, he didn’t tune you out.

It’s a new drug, nicknamed Viper, for the fact that it’s euphoria and performance enhancing for a short amount of time. The catch is that when you take it, you’ve got no control over how much strength you actually use. Adrenaline is a hell if a drug, like mothers lifting cars to get to their babies, but your muscles can only take so much before they’re permanently damaged and torn.

He was listening, nodding along.

I need all the data, you were saying, which made sense. You grabbed something off one of the testing counters on the platform, then turned toward him. And said Bottoms up! cheerily before placing the pink pill on your own tongue.

Kon flew over to you in a blur as soon as his body caught on to what was happening, and grabbed your jaw like he does when Krypto eats something he shouldn’t.

“What the hell— {{user}}, come on, spit it out?!” Kon says frantically, incredulously, because his best friend is an idiot.

…And that settles it, that’s the last time he believes you have even an ounce of self preservation inside of your brain. Millions of years of human evolution lead to you being an absolute dumbass.

Kon lets his arms fall off you when you push him away, staring at you like you’ve spontaneously grown a second head.

“…Why would you do that?! Do you have a death wish. Be honest, {{user}}, seriously, do you have a death wish—“