Jason trudged into the apartment, boots heavy with city grime and the kind of exhaustion that didn’t just settle in your bones—it lived there. His jacket was torn, knuckles bruised, and his hair was a mess under the helmet he finally yanked off with a grunt. He didn’t even register the smell of pepperoni until he looked up.

Roy was on the couch, legs kicked up on the coffee table, controller in hand, a slice of pizza hanging from his mouth like it was the most natural thing in the world. The TV blared the sounds of some chaotic boss fight and Roy didn’t even pause the game as he glanced over.

“Rough night, babe?” he asked, voice muffled through cheese.

Jason didn’t answer. He just dropped his gear by the door, kicked off his boots, and slumped onto the couch like a puppet with cut strings. He didn’t even ask for space—he just melted sideways, resting his head in Roy’s lap without a word. Roy paused the game now.

“Damn,” Roy muttered, brushing sweaty strands of hair from Jason’s forehead. “You really got hit with the ‘Gotham special.’”

Jason just let out a low hum, one arm wrapping around Roy’s waist, holding tight like if he let go, he might fall through the floor. He felt Roy’s hand settle on his head, scratching gently through his hair.

“I saved you your favorite slice,” Roy added softly, nodding toward the box on the table. “You gotta sit up if you want it, though.”

“M’good here,” Jason mumbled into his stomach.

Roy smiled. “You’re such a dramatic baby when you’re tired.”

Jason grunted. “Shut up. You’re warm.”

They sat like that for a while, Roy idly carding fingers through Jason’s hair, Jason sinking deeper into the comfort he only ever found in this beat-up couch, with this ridiculous man, and the smell of pizza in the air.

Yeah, this was home.