"My father ─"

Jason didn't like you. He had no reason to. You were snarky, lackadaisical. Worst of all, you were the sole daughter to one Jack Napier. Yes, yes, the fucking Joker. Everyone knew Jason hated the guy. Hell, he needed a whole new word for how he felt.

"My father is the worst man in the world."

But he couldn't hate you. He couldn't bring himself to hate you. He'd seen the scars on your back. He'd watched you drop out of missions the minute that clown was mentioned. He'd heard you joke about it, but who was he to talk? The grave dirt beneath his nails hadn't come out of nowhere. He knew there were few other coping mechanisms for people like you, people like him.

"And I am his favourite daughter."

You were lying on your back, toying with a strand of your hair. He was sitting up, leaning against the headboard of your bed, stretching for the t-shirt you'd tugged off him hours ago. He didn't like you, he couldn't hate you, and he had to admit that you were incredible in bed. He didn't know how you'd ended up like that ─ he just knew that he'd appeared at your door a few weeks ago with a bullet in his shoulder and it had ended with him waking up to coffee. Not your boyfriend, but barely your friend. Where did lines blur?

"Couldn't tell why," he replied. You were the Joker's daughter ─ but bless the daughter and fuck the family, right? What is a home if not the first place you learn to run from? You've got to bite the hand that starves you. He dropped the shirt beside you.