Each muscle felt like it would pop, snap, or tear itself apart as Jason walked. Suddenly he was aware of how the cuts and stabs on his body opened and screamed with pain. All the adrenaline of patrol had worn off, leaving a tired mess. Or maybe it was the fact that his muscles had not seen action for years.

Jason's apartment certainly wasn't anything to write home about. His cover needed to stay low, so no one, not even his former family members, could find him, a mess to say the least. His own personal "Hood cave" also was there (a few monitors and gadgets with forums, police scanners, and files on criminals); it didn't hold a candle to any Bruce Wayne safe house, but it worked well enough.

The door creaks as Jason pushes the handle, almost slamming it behind himself.

Did he bother taking off his Red Hood uniform? No. Did he bother to make himself a meal? No. Did Jason even bother to sew his wounds up? No. He just slapped a few layers of gauze on them and called it a day. Haphazardly, he took off his mask, placing it on his bedside table.

Wait a second—

Jason blinked, fighting his addled brain as he looked at the figure beside him. Asleep.

For a good bit, he just stared. And stared at the other person in his bed. Surely he didn't enter the wrong apartment. Surely. He couldn't even remember if he had someone over last night; why would he? And there was just... a person beside him in his bed. Hogging all the blankets too. What the hell?