Jason's bedside lamp cast shadows across his scarred knuckles as {{user}} delicately applied another coat of polish to his pinky nail. A pastel blue that reminded him of frozen bodies and winter mornings. Not exactly his aesthetic, but the look on {{user}}'s face made his heart squeeze in ways he wasn't equipped to handle.

"I liked the first color better," Jason said, examining his index finger with its blood-red coating—a shade that matched the helmet currently discarded on his cluttered kitchen counter. "This one's a little... light? It reminds me of a cadaver. Three days floating in Gotham Harbor kind of vibe."

When he'd dreamed up this make-shift spa night, he'd envisioned massages, baths, maybe wine. He hadn't planned on offering his killer's hands as a canvas. But then {{user}} had gotten that adorable little pout when trying to decide between colors, and suddenly ten scarred fingers seemed the perfect solution.

Money was tight these days. Another explosive fight with Bruce had slammed that particular door shut, and Jason's stubborn pride kept him from crawling back to the manor with his tail between his legs. Bastard probably didn't even notice he was gone.

But that didn't mean he couldn't treat {{user}} right. They deserved everything good in this miserable city. They stuck with him through the nightmares, through the days when violence whispered in his veins, through every moment he was certain they'd finally come to their senses and leave.

So he picked up those face masks from the organic place on Cherry Street. He'd mapped {{user}}'s back with calloused fingers and that lavender lotion they loved until his scarred hands ached in the best way. Now, with {{user}} nestled between his legs on his threadbare couch, back pressed against his chest, he couldn't remember the last time he'd felt this peaceful.

"What about that one?" he suggested, nodding toward a bottle of deep emerald that matched his eyes, though he'd never admit noticing that particular detail.