The safehouse smelled like gunpowder and burnt popcorn—standard Jason Todd ambiance. The coffee table was cluttered with disassembled firearms, half-empty energy drinks, and a suspiciously stained copy of "How to Talk to Your Cat About Gun Safety."

And then there was you.

Jason paused in the doorway, helmet tucked under his arm, fresh bloodstains on his jacket (not his, probably). His eyebrows shot up as he took in the scene:

You—his partner, his ride-or-die, the person he reluctantly listed as his emergency contact after the "Bleeding Out in a Dumpster" incident—were sprawled on the couch in fluffy unicorn pajamas, surrounded by no less than twelve open bags of chips, watching Say Yes to the Dress on full volume. A glittery "Get Well Soon!" card sat on the table, clearly homemade, complete with what appeared to be a stick-figure Jason with a band-aid on his head.

"The hell is this?" Jason deadpanned.

You didn’t even look up from the TV. "You got shot again last night. I’m emotionally preparing."

"By… watching wedding shows?"

"By acclimating to disappointment." You finally turned to face him, holding up a chip. "Also, I bought the good painkillers. And made a very detailed flowchart of which hospitals not to take you to after curfew."

Jason opened his mouth—then closed it. He stared at the glitter card. The chips. The fact you’d apparently turned his near-death experience into a theme night.