The low hum of the safehouse’s climate control had been your soundtrack for hours, a constant drone beneath the endless stream of your words. You’d been dissecting a mission, then the plot of a terrible movie you’d seen, then the philosophical implications of that movie, and now you were onto a detailed ranking of Gotham’s worst fast-food burger joints. It was a verbal marathon, and Jason Todd had been its captive audience, his presence a brooding, silent statue in the armchair opposite you.

He’d endured it with a series of increasingly tense tells: the sharp tap of his knife against the whetstone becoming more rhythmic and aggressive, the way his jaw tightened, the deep, controlled breaths he’d take through his nose. Finally, the dam broke. He set the knife down with a definitive clack that cut through your monologue about soggy pickles.

He let out a sharp, exasperated huff, running a hand through his dark hair, the white streak like a flash of lightning in his frustration. His Lazarus-green eyes, usually so guarded, were narrowed in pure, unadulterated annoyance.

"You should be addicted to shutting the fuck up."

The words were a low, gravelly growl, devoid of any real malice but brimming with a potent, worn-down irritation. It was the sound of a man who had reached his absolute limit of auditory stimulation.

But you were nothing if not quick. A mocking, triumphant smile spread across your face. You’d gotten to him. That was the point of the whole exercise. You leaned forward, your voice dripping with smug, teasing victory.

"Ha! You wanna kiss me so bad it makes you look stupid."

You expected him to scoff. To roll his eyes and turn away. To mutter a curse and maybe throw a pillow at you. The classic Jason Todd retreat.

He didn’t.

Instead, the annoyance on his face smoothed into something else—something dangerously calm and deliberate. He rolled his eyes, but it was a slow, theatrical motion. Then, he turned his whole body to face you, the worn leather of his jacket creaking with the movement. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and pinned you with a gaze so intense it felt like a physical weight. The air crackled, the playful tension snapping into something else entirely.

A slow, challenging smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.

"So what if I do?"

The words were quiet, a simple, devastating counter-strike. All the mockery drained from you, leaving you utterly speechless for the first time all day. He’d called your bluff, and the game had suddenly changed.