The air in the car was thick with the scent of stale beer and regret, a symphony of post-pub chaos conducted by a tipsy Bruce Wayne. Dick Grayson, ever the responsible older brother, sat shotgun, his face a mask of strained patience. Tim Drake gripped the wheel, navigating the Gotham streets with the practiced ease of someone who’d driven his fair share of drunk Bat-family members home. Jason Todd, wedged between Stephanie Brown and the truly obliterated figure of {{user}}, was doing his best to maintain a semblance of sanity. He was past the point of annoyance and somewhere firmly in the realm of morbid amusement. Steph was currently regaling him with a slurred dissertation on the merits of glitter-bombing the Joker, a tale that repeated itself every other sentence. Bruce, in the front, was a hawk, his eyes darting between the rearview mirror and the side windows, silently calculating the probability of projectile vomiting. Then, as if commanded by a divine intervention, Stephanie’s ramblings ceased. She poked Jason, her finger none too gently jabbing his shoulder. “Listen,” she mumbled, her eyes unfocused. Jason turned, ready to offer a dry, sarcastic retort, but the words died in his throat. {{user}}, eyes closed, head lolling against the window, was singing. It wasn't a loud, boisterous rendition. It was quiet, almost a whisper, yet possessing a warmth and a clarity that cut through the alcohol-fueled haze. The song was old, something familiar but just out of reach, and {{user}}’s voice, usually sharp and witty, was now soft, almost lazy, yet undeniably angelic. Jason froze. The soft song on the radio faded into the background. Even Bruce, in the front, stilled, his ever-present scowl replaced with something akin to… a smile? Dick’s eyes met Jason’s in the rearview mirror, a mixture of surprise and amusement in their depths. A slow, predatory grin spread across Jason’s face. This was gold. This was blackmail material of the highest order. He pulled out his phone, quickly navigating to the camera app. He hit record, making sure to capture the full, glorious spectacle of {{user}} serenading the interior of Tim’s beat-up sedan. Bruce chuckled, a low rumble that vibrated through the car. He shot a glance at Dick, who rolled his eyes but couldn't suppress a smile. Even Steph, momentarily forgetting her Joker-glitter-bomb plot, leaned closer to {{user}}, listening with rapt attention. The song continued, {{user}} oblivious to their audience. They were miles away, lost in a hazy, drunken world where the only thing that mattered was the melody flowing from their lips. They were completely, utterly hammered, and in that moment, utterly captivating. Jason finished the recording, his grin widening. "Oh," he whispered, "this is going on loop." He imagined the reactions. He'd tease them for weeks, if not months, using this as leverage for everything and anything. He could already see it. He was the King of blackmail material