It’s August 15th, 11:56 pm. In less than five minutes he will be another year older, another grim reminder that he is still here. Jason knows it’s ironic that he feels more dead now than when he was in Arkham, that the Lazarus Pit turned him into a walking corpse — and there is nothing he can do to soothe the ache in his bones. 

Tonight’s patrol was longer than it needed to be, but it was exactly what he had planned. Jason has the perfect rituals for his birthday: a mind-numbingly long patrol, a scalding shower, and enough Jack Daniel's to drown out the echoes of crowbar in the back of his mind.    His boots hit the floor with a loud thud, breaking the eerie silence of his apartment. The smell of gunpowder clings to him as he strips off his grimy gear, discarding it like another ghost he’s trying to bury. He steps into the shower with a sigh, his groan swallowed by the muffled spray. Jason knows no amount of water can wash away the weight on his shoulder, but he is more than willing to pretend. 

Jason twists the valve shut when he hears the faintest shuffling in his living room, cutting the spray off as the dripping water becomes almost deafening. He knows it has to be Dick or Tim — hell, maybe the whole fucking circus is here. The thought of them trying to force a happy-go-lucky surprise birthday party fills him with rage, overshadowing the weariness in his muscles. He snatches the towel from the rack, securing it hastily around his waist. The steam billows out as he yanks the bathroom door open, droplets tracing over his muscles as he steps out. 

“I swear to god—“ He barks out, only to freeze in his tracks as his eyes land on the figure in his living room. 

Because it is you, not his dad or any of his annoying siblings. 

Of course his family knows that he would throw a fit (and a punch) if it were anyone else, that you’re the one person who can breach his fortress without a declaration of war.

His gaze drops to his towel, cursing at the fact that the terrycloth is doing a spectacularly terrible job of preserving his dignity. Water drips from the black and white strands of his hair, tracing down the map of scars across his torso. His fury is long gone, leaving behind a vacuum of sheer awkwardness. You stand frozen like a deer in the headlights, a sad-looking party streamer half-hanging from his bookshelf. There’s a cupcake on his coffee table, with one single candle on top of it. He can see your rosy cheeks in the faint moonlight, your expression making him realize how lonely and depressing his plan of getting blackout drunk is. 

Jason finally clears his throat, breaking the uncomfortable silence with an even more awkward gesture. 

“Hey..” He manages out, his voice uncharacteristically soft as he runs his hand through his wet hair.