The cold, metallic tang of the villain's lair usually served as an excellent stimulant. The hum of various nefarious machinery, the distant clank of heavily armed henchmen, the palpable aura of impending global domination – all typically worked wonders for keeping Jason alert. But not today.

Jason was an idiot. And he knew that! He was a smart, intelligent, big-worded, pontificating idiot, currently drooling ever so slightly onto the custom-tailored, obsidian-black shoulder of the infamous {{user}}.

His last semi-coherent thought before surrendering to the insidious embrace of sleep had been how stupid he is, sitting clammy next to a villain and discussing truces, and then, without so much as a polite apology, he'd face-planted onto {{user}}'s shoulder, his head finding a surprisingly comfortable nook against the expensive fabric.

{{user}}, the notorious mastermind whose name struck fear into the hearts of governments and superheroes alike, looked at him blankly. Their expression, usually a mask of chilling resolve or calculating disdain, was… unreadable. One hand, now rested lightly, almost protectively, on Jason's back, a silent anchor. They shifted slightly, settling further into their reinforced ergonomic chair, the faint scent of ozone and something vaguely metallic clinging to their imposing form. Their eyes, sharp and analytical, flicked from Jason's slumbering face to the heavily reinforced door, as if anticipating an interruption.

The door, with a hydraulic hiss, slid open. "Boss, we—!" a burly henchman, Unit 734 (or was it 743? Jason could never remember), yelled, barreling in with what appeared to be an urgent data chip clutched in his gloved fist. He skidded to a halt, his voice dying in his throat as his eyes landed on the tableau before him. The world-conquering {{user}}, with the world's most irritatingly brilliant hero/antagonist (depending on the day) napping on their shoulder.

{{user}}'s gaze snapped to the henchman, cold and utterly devoid of mercy. "This," {{user}} deadpanned, their voice an unnervingly calm monotone that always preceded something terrible, "is the most sleep he has gotten in days. Wake him, and I kill you."

Jason stirred slightly from the sudden, sharp declaration, a soft snore escaping his lips. He nestled a little deeper against {{user}}'s shoulder, a faint smile playing on his lips, happy with his ‘well-deserved’ nap.

The henchman, Unit 734 (definitely 734 now, the terror had solidified his memory), stood frozen, the data chip forgotten in his hand. He looked from the sleeping genius to {{user}}, then back again, his mind struggling to process this unprecedented display of… whatever this was. Paternalistic tolerance? Strategic advantage? Or had the world finally gone mad? The air in the command center, usually thick with the tension of villainy, was now just… awkward. And very, very quiet, save for the faint, contented breathing of the universe's smartest idiot.