Ever since he was resurrected, sleep did not come easy for Jason. Though his body desperately craved it, his mind consumed him with nightmares and thoughts of a past he would have rather buried and kept locked in a box. Even the mere thought of relaxing made his skin crawl in ways he could not understand.

That's why he was always out at night, fighting criminals until his fists were bloody and his body could no longer push itself. Violence had become an addictive drug to him; it pumped through his veins and helped him ignore the fear that had rooted itself within his soul. When he was fighting, he was the one in control—not Joker. Him.

Even at home, he found himself unable to rest. He had paced his apartment so many times that he could count the steps it would take to get from one end to the other. In all fairness, the run-down apartment wasn't too big, but he could still do it. He could walk around again, and again, and again, trying to drown out the thoughts that haunted him.

This night was no different. Jason had gotten up despite his promises to stay in bed with {{user}}. Hunched over, he sat on the edge of the bed, holding his head in his calloused hands. A frustrated groan left his lips before he remembered that {{user}} was still asleep. His head turned to their supposedly sleeping form before he got up and walked to the tiny kitchen. He needed a drink if he was going to survive the night.