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Jason Todd was pissed.
His air-conditioner was broken, one of his apartment’s lightbulbs had blown, he only had one teabag left and his favourite mug had recently become too closely acquainted with the far wall.
So, yes, it was safe to say that Jason Todd was pretty pissed off indeed.
It was then that the guy in the apartment below began drunk singing on his balcony again.
Jason cursed vehemently under his breath and slammed open the door to his balcony, heart thumping angrily. Jason scrunched his nose and leaned over the edge of the balcony, one hand on the cool metal of the barrier, the other holding his cup of tea whose steam mingled with the ever-present cloud of low-hanging fog.
"SHUT UP," Jason called down to his neighbour.
"YOU SHUT UP," came the intelligent reply.
Jason clenched his jaw and took a sip from his tea, if only to stop himself from jumping off the balcony's side and strangling the man below. The moon caught lighting on the phrase imprinted on the mug. "Tea is purr-fect", accompanied by a small illustration of a black and white cat Dick said had looked like him.
Jason hated cats.
He glared at the mug as he was forced to continue to listen to the 50-year-old's drunk rendition of 'it's a hard knock life.'
Jason hated this mug. Plus, it was a gift from Bruce. Those two facts may or may not be related. Jason considered the mug. Then the man below. He debated internally, spurred by the helpful fact that his father cared jack-shit for him.
(I was a fool for ever believing in you.)
Jason threw the mug, hot liquid and all, onto his neighbour’s balcony, taking pleasure in the dull thunk, muffled smash and cacophony of pained swearing that followed.
At least the singing had stopped.
It was hot. And humid. Jason inhaled to fuel a deep sigh, though he coughed as he was hit with the redolent stench of rotting garbage and a scent that was so uniquely Gotham - which was probably, upon brief reflection, what the squashed dreams of a city full of low-lifes and screw-ups would smell like.
The sky rumbled, but the city refused to tremble, as if daring Mother Nature herself to try to wash away the stubborn stains of this city's many sins.
Jason hated these types of nights. The anticipation of something waiting to change got under his skin, because, like all the nights of his so-far utterly futile life, nothing. ever. changed.
Jason was drawn out of his stupor by the loud crash of his front door being smashed open, the handle causing plaster to trickle down from the wall upon impact. A shadow, skinny and twitching, entered Jason's apartment.
Jason had a gun drawn and pointed before the door had finished swinging open.
"What the hell, Replacement?" Jason cried to the obvious silhouette of his brother as the shorter man started scrambling his way over to Jason's kitchen. "Get out of my apartment!”
Last time he checked, Tim hadn’t known the location of this safe house. The little shit with stalker tendencies must have followed him home recently.
Tim ignored Jason in favour of dragging his feet toward his brother’s kitchen. “Where do you keep your coffee?” he said as he began shifting around Jason’s cupboards, hands clumsily slapping bowls away as he searched the kitchen.
It was only when Tim started growling at his ceramics that Jason scrunched his eyebrows and amended, “I don’t have any.”
It was a testament to his brother’s exhaustion, apparently, when Tim didn’t comment upon Jason’s tea-drinking habits.
(“That stuff should be reserved for middle-aged British women who need to bitch about their neighbour’s spaniel over tea and scones cause they’re British. You a middle-aged British woman, Jason?” Tim snarked.
“Water’s boring, coffee tastes like old shoes, and alcohol…” Jason trailed off as he was hit with a memory of supporting Willis’ arm as he dragged his father up the steps to their apartment, the smell of whisky hot and heavy. “So, tea it is. And don’t let Alfred hear you talking that smack, Timbo.”)
Jason approached his brother as Tim groaned and slumped against the cabinet behind him when his knees gave out. “Jayyy,” Tim croaked, and Jason noticed the unusually dull tones to his younger brother's bloodshot eyes, and the dark, sunken areas under his eyes that seemed to age him and give him the face of a man all too well-acquainted with stress. Jason hadn’t seen him look like that since coming back from the League. “Bruce locked up all the coffee,” Tim moaned.
Jason scrunched his eyebrows. Guess Bruce had some sense after all. "When was the last time you slept?"
Tim simply raised his shoulders in a decidedly nonchalant manner. “Coffee,” was his only worded response.
“No more coffee, kay?” Jason said to his brother. “Get some sleep, Timbo.”
Tim relaxed, and Jason deemed the kid asleep. Jason went to fetch a blanket, and it was only the fact that the power had been cut off, and, thus, the fridge wasn’t running, that Jason heard the muffled, “Bruce misses you, y’know.”
“You’re high on caffeine and sleep-deprivation, Timbo,” was the deigned reply, but Jason tried to ignore the silent hope betrayed by his heart’s anguished rhythm.