"Goddamn Batcave supply budget, " Jason grumbled inwardly, kicking a stray pebble across the scuffed linoleum floor. The damned safehouse smelled of stale coffee and disappointment - a fitting aroma for his current predicament. One bed. One freaking bed. He could practically hear Alfred's disapproving tsk from across the city.

He paced the cramped living room, each creak of the floorboards grating on his already shot nerves. This was worse than the Lazarus Pit, worse than Joker's crowbar. At least death had been a solo gig.

He paced the length of the room, barely four strides, and back again. Each muffled thud was a testament to his simmering frustration. The mission replayed in his mind, a highlight reel of his own damned stupidity. Rushing in like a bull in a china shop, leaving {{user}} vulnerable. Then, of course, {{user}} rushed in after him, and the goons had dosed them both with some toxin before either of them could think.

"Relax, alright?" he grumbled, shoving his hands into his pockets. "We'll figure this out. It's not like we haven't shared worse." He tried for a reassuring smirk, but it came out more like a grimace.

The silence stretched between them, heavy and thick. He could hear the ticking of the ancient clock on the wall, each second reminder of the ticking time bomb in his chest. He wanted to say something, anything, to break the tension. But the words stuck in his throat, a jumble of apologies he couldn't force past his teeth. He didn't apologize.

"Just... try not to hog the covers, okay?" He finally managed, his voice rougher than he wanted it to be. "And if you start sleep-talking, I'm shoving a sock in your mouth."

It was a weak attempt at humor, but it was all he had.