“You have issues.”
Dick grunted, sliding into the booth across from him. He didn't know how Jason could spent this much time drinking in here and not end up dead. Again. Someone was going to recognize him someday, and brooding over a few beers was a poor way to go out, even for a supposedly disgraced former Robin.
“You're sitting in a bar, drunker than any hero, vigilante, or villain should ever be, and you're wearing a Batman mask. I don't need to think. I can see it like a giant bulls-eye. Speaking of, is that the point of all this? You trying to get yourself killed? Because there are hundreds of better ways to go than wearing a Batman mask.”
“You forget I know this from personal experience,” Dick said. He'd been Batman once. He didn't recommend it. It had it's moments, but on the whole, it was like a bad case of dress up with so many psychological issues that Dick figured his mind would break if he thought about them. He didn't think about them. It was better that way.
“I hate you, Grayson.”
“As much as I might want to take credit for it, I wasn't the one that put superglue on that mask. I also wasn't the one stupid enough to put it on.”
“Go ahead, birdbrain. Laugh it up,” Jason muttered. “I'm sure you're loving every minute of this.”
“No, but others are.”
“Don't you have somewhere else to be? City to patrol, day job to do, any of that ring a bell?” Jason picked up his bottle. “Or should I break this and give you a reason to need a mask?”
“You can try. I think you're too drunk to manage much of anything at this point.”
“Yeah. I'm just gonna sit here getting tanked in my Batman mask.”
“Come on,” Dick said. “I'll drive you home. You can still drink and keep your mask, but at least this way it won't get you killed.”
“Boy scout. Why bother saving me?”
“So I can enjoy your reaction when you come out of the hangover in the morning.”