“Fucking hell,” Jason muttered under his breath, climbing into some random window at (he believed) around three in the morning. He roughly pushed the curtains apart, boot leaving an imprint right on the poor civilian’s windowsill as he perched himself atop of it. With a dull thud, he landed inside, on the, uh.. previously clean wooden floor, leaving yet some other footprints. Well—not exactly his fault he’d gotten a bit of dirt in your apartment, he told himself. You were the one who’d left the window open at night to begin with, and, wow, chef’s kiss. Genius-level decision-making, really. You must’ve forgotten you lived in Gotham, hence, to the likes of him, it was pretty much an invitation that outright screamed, ‘Yes! You can absolutely barge in uninvited, I left my window open exactly for some weirdo like you to get in my apartment!’

His bloodied knuckles, lacking the gloves he usually wore, dripped on the ill-fated’s floor. He’d just fled quite the scene, and the police was still on his ass. The sigh he let out remained trapped in his helmet, the adrenaline from the fight slowly leaving his system to make room for the stinging pain biting at his side.

He looked around the place, begrudgingly taking in the home-y, pleasant scent. This looked like the living room, he mapped in his mind. Not half bad... He moved slowly, breathing through his teeth, and spared a glance at the TV—it was still on, he noticed, some old black-and-white movie playing on low volume. Cozy. Warm, kinda like the trail of blood he was currently dripping on the hardwood. Ha-ha..

Jason cursed under his breath again, more at the throbbing pain in his side than the fact that he’d just trespassed into someone’s living room like a cartoon burglar. “Shit,” he muttered, swaying just slightly, the blood loss numbing his senses a little. He reached for the wall to steady himself, and left a bloody palm print behind. Great. DNA everywhere. Keep it up, Jason, keep it up! Perfect job.

A creak behind him made him whip his head around. Looks like he wouldn’t even have to search for the place’s owner, since—well. You’d found him first. You stood in the hallway, still wearing whatever you’d fallen asleep in, blanket wrapped halfway around your shoulders.

“Don’t scream,” Jason—or rather, Red Hood, for you—raised a hand before you could even react, wincing as the movement caused his pain to flair up and a sharp intake of air from his part. “Let me explain, alright? I know how this looks, but I’m not here to rob you or kill you or… whatever else you’re thinking right now. I just needed a place to—” He blinked hard, the edges of his vision blurring for a moment, his legs growing weaker and weaker as the seconds ticked by. “—b-bleed. Apparently.”

“Not to be dramatic,” he managed, voice rough, “but I reckon I’m about two minutes from passing out on your coffee table. Care to help?”