AN: Fuck me. Literally, I didn’t…this…IT’S NOT MY FAULT. One little one-shot, I said. For fun, I said. And here we are. Takes mostly from Arkham Knight’s view of things-
YOU’RE THE ONE WHO WON’T LEAVE.
You…you don’t want me? I just…I thought…maybe someone would…
Aw, hell, that’s not what I meant…wait.
Why. Why me. Anyways. Here. Take him. Does not fit in with my regular canon, because I don’t trust him not to screw with it.
I would never! Well, okay, I miiight, but…
Y’know, maybe there’s a reason he got killed off initially.
HEY! I came for cookies.
There are no cookies here.
…I’ve made a huge mistake.
* * *
It’s a toss-up, Jason Todd thinks, if his theme song is ‘Hate Everyone’ or ‘Counting Bodies Like Sheep to the Rhythm of the War Drums’. ‘Counting Bodies’ is more badass, definitely sounds better played before (and during!) an ass-kicking, but ‘Hate Everyone’ is, at this moment, more accurate.
Needs some tweaks, though. He can draw up a mile-long list of people responsible for his current misery (Bruce, the Clown, that asshole with the machete that got lucky last night, need he go on?), but the real problem right now isn’t…a person. Exactly.
No, it is that cheerful, baby-faced-in-that-one-creepy-kid’s-show bastard, the sun. Fucker’s found a gap in his curtains and is doing its damndest to exploit it. This is bullshit, is what this is. It is eight-thirty-two in the morning, he calls fucking foul.
The sun beams warmly down on him, turning the view of his eyelids Joker-grin-red, and he forces them to crack open. BRIGHT. Holy CRAP, that’s bright.
He flips the sun off, for good measure.
When it doesn’t leave, he drags himself up (three hours of sleep, c’mon, man…), mashes around the coffee maker until he hears the button click, and wonders how long it’s going to be before he takes a hellovalotta notice of the gash running from his left shoulder blade to halfway down the right side of his ribcage. Lucky bastard had a machete. Long story. Considering the placement, he thinks he did good in patching it (all by himself, screw you, Dickie-bird). Of course, he also took maaayyybe a few more painkillers than the bottle says (he has a tolerance now, so sue him), so who knows, really.
It is too early to be awake…couldn’t it be raining? Nine out of ten days, it rains, why couldn’t today be one of those?
The coffee pot has gone silent and when he forces his eyelids up a little more, he sees that it’s done. Finally. If he has to be awake, he can at least have coffee.
Stretching for a mug moves everything wrong and y’know, apparently painkillers don’t do jack when you move this way. Good to know. He would’ve appreciated knowing this a little sooner, say, before his back was pitching a bitch-fit, but hey. It’s just one of those days.
He takes his hard-won coffee into the bathroom-ow, the artificial light’s worse than the sun-and does a little gentle twisting to see what damage stretching did.
Not much. Granted, the slash there is jagged and red and it’s probably going to be real fun trying to wear a shirt, but it’s not bleeding or anything terrible. Yet. It could’ve been worse, really. Though to be fair, he’s having a real hard time coming up with anything worse than the Joker.
It’s too early for this.
The coffee tastes off and he wonders if something’s up with his machine. Or the water. Or…
He takes an experimental sip. Wait. Wait one goddamn minute.
He stalks back to the kitchen and rifles through his (okay, could be fuller, he hates stores) cupboards until he finds the canister. He flips it upside-down and tears the sticky note off the bottom.
You need sleep, not caffeine! <3, D.
Jason breathes deeply, counts to ten three times, and shreds the sticky note. This is bullshit. He will take the mother-henning, he will take the ‘please come home we miss you and Alfred made cookies!’, but this. This crosses the goddamn line. You do not fuck with a man’s coffee supply.
That settles it, he decides. ‘Hate Everyone’ is his theme song, even if it’s not that badass. It’s accurate, dammit.
Great. Now he has to go to Starbucks. This fucking sucks.