"Goddammit, Tim," Jason muttered under his breath as he searched the fridge. He'd had a long day. He just wanted his leftovers, and there was only one sibling bold enough to take Jason's leftover slab of lasanga. He went through a lot of work to make amends with family, but sometimes his youngest adoptive sibling made him want to commit a crime.

He searched for something else to eat. He was starved. He hadn't even shed the garments of his Red Hood persona, too focused on remedying the fact that he was on the cusp of hangry. In the midst of moving things around to find anything that wasn't going to require him to cook (or bother Alfred,) his hand landed on a can of spiked tea. The cheap stuff that barely qualified even as alcoholic. Flavorless swill. One of Bruce's guilty, low-end pleasures.

He stood straight and turned the can over in his hand, skimming the stupid exerpt on the back with feigned interest. Damn. The old man really was gone, wasn't he?