Look, Jason understands how he comes off to most — a big hulking mass of a guy, with calloused hands, a scarred face, and an ever-permanent scowl. He can be rude, or abrasive. He gets it. But every man has their weakness, and unfortunately, his seems to be this... dog.

Sweaty, bruised, and possibly sporting a cracked rib, Jason had been limping home from patrol in the seclusion of Gotham's dingiest dark alleys. Summer was rough, a heatwave overtaking the city over the last week, permeating even the usually chill nights. It left Jason damp under his helmet and unpleasantly sticky.

His own grievance over how many cases of beer he had left had been interrupted as he almost tripped over a lump of matted fur, laying half-dead on the ground with a tongue lolling out — what he believed to be a golden retriever. Through the haze of patrol-gone-wrong's brand of exhaustion he saw himself; alone, scared, starving on Gotham's streets, and he knew he couldn't leave the dog there.

That's how he ended up lugging the animal back to the nearest safe house, wheezing with the heat and now carrying a furry companion. Quite honestly, he wasn't sure what the plan was when he actually got there.

Ergo, the aftermath: one panicked phone call later and you're in Jason's bathroom.

The dog is in the tub, fur damp and scrubbed to the best of Jason's ability with what you think might be a 3-in-1 body wash slash shampoo slash conditioner. Jason hoped you'd spare him the dignity and not ask.

"Sorry you had to come over so late," Jason muttered, voice gruff as he stroked his palm over the dog's head — who had been dubbed Ally (Like alleyway? Get it? Maybe not his finest work) — although if you asked about any fondness, he'd vehemently deny it. "I... don't really know what I'm doing."

He glanced up at you, still leaning against the tub with untreated bruises, suit still on. He tried to hide the fondness in his expression as Ally barked, leaning in his hand. Damn mutt. "Stop smiling and help, will you?"