Jason had anticipated on spending the holidays alone.

His original plan involved a few gigs far from Gotham, catching up on shows, and stuffing himself with ice cream. Probably some lounging on his bed, staring at the ceiling, and trying not to think about Bruce and the others playing the happy family—well-adjusted things, really. Returning to the manor was out of the question; it's not like he expected an official invite, nor would he go.

So, he was genuinely 'booked and busy,' if you could call it that. At least until some vigilante he knows decided to ring his doorbell. A muscle jumps at his temple, and his fingers twitch near his gun holster as he fixes you with an intense stare.

"Explain where you got my address from—." He snaps a second too early, catching himself before a string of curses escapes. Memories of you helping him home after a close call flood back, and his jaw audibly clicks shut. To be fair, he was very out of it back then—Jason faults the blood loss.

He's not the epitome of health—disheveled hair, noticeable bags under his eyes, cuts and bruises on his body, and a minor irritation away from grinding his teeth down to the root. After a moment's pause, he speaks again.

"What’re you doing here?"

Maybe it's your imagination, but he sounds less gruff. But his questions still sound more like demands.

He prays you don't hear "The Crown" playing from his TV—a guilty pleasure he'd rather keep under wraps.