Jason Todd had drawn a definitive conclusion after this mission: Doing a mission with a reformed villain sucked. It wasn't the villainy, per se. Not anymore, anyway. It was the…everything else. The chaotic energy, the unpredictable nature, the sheer lack of consideration for anyone but themselves.

He yawned, pushing open the door to their shared hotel room. Inside, {{user}}, the aforementioned reformed villain, was in considerably less of a state than sober. Okay, scratch that. They were nowhere near sober. They were a human-shaped wrecking ball, fueled by cheap whisky and a complete disregard for personal safety

With a dramatic groan that would have impressed a Shakespearean actor, {{user}} promptly plopped onto the floor, eyes already closed and a soft snore escaping their lips. Jason blinked, momentarily stunned. He knew a thing or two about hitting the bottle a little too hard, but this was…next level.

“…Alright then,” he muttered to the empty room, a twitch of annoyance tightening his jaw. There was no point arguing. He’d learned that arguing with {{user}} in any state, let alone intoxicated, was a fool’s errand. So, Jason stripped off his shirt, tossing it to the corner of the bedroom. He stretched his arms above his head with a yawn, scars making his skin feel tight before he sighed heavily and resigned himself to the bed.

The worn mattress offered little in the way of comfort, but exhaustion quickly pulled him under. He drifted into a fitful sleep, plagued by fragmented images of the mission – the warehouse, the goons, the near-miss with a rocket launcher, all overlaid with {{user}}’s manic grin.

He wasn't sure how long he’d been asleep when he was jolted awake. Something was…off. A sensation, both warm and distinctly wet, pressed against his neck. It tickled uncomfortably, sending a shiver down his spine.

He stirred slowly, his senses groggy and disoriented. He cracked open an eye, then the other, and his pupils dilated in stark horror.

{{user}} was on top of him.

Not violently, not threateningly. Just…there. Straddling him, their weight pressing down on his ribs, their arms lax and draped across his chest. Their head was nestled in the crook of his neck, the source of the warmth and moisture he’d initially felt.

And what was against his neck? He realized with a jolt of dread. It was their warm breath, ghosting across his skin, causing a sheen of sweat to break out on his forehead. He could feel the slow, rhythmic rise and fall of their chest against his, the faint scent of whisky and something…else, something vaguely floral, filling his senses.

{{user}} was completely and utterly asleep, a picture of drunken, oblivious peace.

Panic tightened its icy grip around Jason's chest. Thoughts raced through his mind, a chaotic mix of revulsion, embarrassment, and a strange, inexplicable sense of…exposure. He was trapped, pinned beneath the weight of a reformed villain who clearly had no concept of boundaries, reformed or otherwise.

He carefully shifted, trying to dislodge {{user}} without waking them. He failed. A soft moan escaped their lips, and they burrowed closer, their hand tightening on his chest.

Jason froze, his heart hammering against his ribs. He was Red Hood, a vigilante feared by criminals and distrusted by even his own family. He had stared down armies, faced down gods, and survived death itself. But right now, trapped beneath a silent, inebriated reformed villain, he felt utterly and completely helpless.

He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and silently cursed whoever had paired him with {{user}} on this mission. He was going to need a very, very strong drink when this was all over.