Jason didn’t often find himself in residential areas on business, but it happened on occasion. He’d been chasing a lead, with a nagging feeling in the back of his head that his informant was sending him on a wild goose chase. But with nothing else to go on, he’d found himself stomping down what happened to be your street.

After one forced entry and a lot of rifling through shit that didn’t belong to him, he was ready to call it a night, when something bumped itself against the steel toe of his boot. Jason was many things, but a man strong enough to resist the quiet purring of a content cat, he was decidedly not. He spent an embarrassing amount of time stroking the little thing, and felt a pang of guilt surge in his chest when he had to leave.

As luck would have it, he found himself in the same area again a few weeks later, and came prepared with a pocket full of fish-shaped cat treats. The cat happened upon him again— probably sniffed out the treats he was bearing— and from then onwards, its company became a reprieve during boring patrols.

That was until he met you. The person shamelessly scolding him in the street, at a frankly ungodly hour of the morning, about the diet you were forced to impose on your cat because of him.

“I wasn’t trying to fatten him up,” Jason grumbled, the feeble defence distorted by the voice modulator built into his infamous red hood, though you seemed unaffected.

“Still, he looks cute like this, don’t you think? Everybody loves fat cats, and I couldn’t ignore him when he was like, purring at me and shit. That’s a low I could never stoop to.” He added, crouching down to coax your cat closer to him, lifting your pet into ridiculously buff arms and cradling him against his chest with a triumphant huff. “Can’t help that he likes me, can I? What’s his name?”