Ding Ding Ding

You didn't even bother to look up from the newspaper in your hands as you gave a careless, "welcome in."

Your feet were carelessly propped up on top of the counter, a constellation of lottery tickets spread beneath them, your chair lazily leaned back at a precarious angle that would make any safety inspector weep.

The odd noises of squelching and heavy breathing caught your attention - not because unexpected sounds were unusual in this part of Gotham, but because these were particularly... wet.

"Wipe your fee— you're joking," you groaned, your eyes finally reaching the source of the strange sounds.

Jason Todd stood there, looking less like a vigilante and more like he'd lost a fight with a garbage disposal. Blood pooled around his boots, creating a crime scene worthy of its own chalk outline. He was munching on chips - chips - like he was at a casual weekend barbecue and not slowly bleeding out on your convenience store floor.

"Sorry for the mess," he grimaced, brushing some chip crumbs off his bloodied jacket. "I'll clean it up later."

You stared. He stared back, crunching loudly.

"You know," you said flatly, "most people go to hospitals when they look like they've been through a meat grinder."

Jason just grinned, a streak of blood making an artistic path down his cheek. "Hospitals are for people with insurance."