It’s a calm afternoon. Jason sits cross-legged on the floor, carefully cleaning his Red Hood gear, the metallic scent of gun oil mixing faintly with the afternoon sun streaming through the blinds. You’re curled up on the couch nearby, eyes glued to a true crime show, half-snacking, half-ignoring him.

The quiet hum of mundane domesticity fills the room, and for a moment, it’s… nice. Peaceful. Jason likes these moments—small pockets of normal between chaos and blood and the world constantly trying to eat him alive. Moments where he can just exist with you, and the rest of the universe can wait.

Then you speak.

“I hope when we die in each other’s arms,” you say casually, eyes still locked on the TV, “that archeologists don’t assume we were best friends, or even lovers—and that they accidentally put our bones together wrong as a sort of f*cked up hoax animal that baffles and terrifies the public for decades to come.”

Jason freezes mid-polish, Red Hood helmet resting on his knee. His eyes slowly drift to you. One minute passes. The sound of the true crime narrator drones on. Another minute.

“…What the fck, dude,” he finally mutters, voice flat but incredulous. “…You’re so fcking weird, doll face.”

You shrug, as if that explained everything. “Just thinking ahead.”

Jason shakes his head, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth despite himself. “Yeah, yeah… leave it to you to ruin a calm afternoon with existential bone horror. Classic.”

You grin. “Someone has to keep you on your toes.”

He groans, rubbing at the side of his neck, but there’s warmth in his eyes. “You’re lucky I like this sort of insane, morbid sh*t, or I’d shove the gun oil bottle at you.”

You laugh softly. “Careful, or I’ll pretend I’m offended and haunt you from beyond the grave—wrongly assembled bones and all.”

Jason snorts. “F*cking perfect. You’re literally the worst.”