Chapter Text
Jason thumped inelegantly through the window of his third-least-favorite safehouse. Why did he use the window and not the front door, since it’s his safehouse? Fuck you, it’s his safehouse, he can come in however he freakin’ wants, how’s that for a reason.
(The real reason was that he hated making small talk – or worse, doing the weird polite nod thing – with other tenants in the stairwell. Sure, he could take off his helmet and basically be anonymous and go inside without scaling the fire escape or disarming the seven booby traps around his windows, but that would mean running the risk of having to speak to Whatshisname on the fifth floor about his cats or Whosherface with the three kids. Nope.)
Bernard was on the couch, bent over a shirtless Roy. It was 2am, but they all kept weird hours. “Hi Red Hood,” he greeted. “How was work?”
Jason rearmed the window sensors and took off his helmet.
“Makin’ house calls now?” he asked Bernard, dropping his helmet on the floor and heading to the kitchen. “Harper, you better not be bleeding on my couch.”
“Excuse you, I’ll bleed where I want,” replied Roy, not moving from his supine position on the couch. His left arm was raised and Bernard was frowning at his torso.
“You can bleed where you want when you start paying rent,” called Jason from the kitchen. He re-entered the room eating cold leftovers straight from the container. “The hell are you two doing?”
Roy lowered his arm. “It’s Father’s Day on Sunday,” he announced.
Jason briefly wondered if this was some queer holiday code he’d never heard of. “Okay…?”
“I’m gonna get one of Lian’s drawings tattooed on my ribs,” Roy explained. “Bernard’s gonna do it.”
“Bernard’s not gonna do it,” countered Bernard. “Bernard’s helping choose the placement and that’s it.”
“Bernard’s gonna do it,” Roy told Jason. “He’s a natural, he did a great job on the orange.”
Roy threw a heavily-tattooed orange at Jason, who caught it one-handed and turned it over.
It was like a jump scare. The orange had certainly been tattooed. Jason thought it was maybe meant to be a smiley face. But he’d seen less alarming rictus grins in the death grimaces of corpses after overdosing on Joker toxin.
“See?” said Roy, punching Bernard on the shoulder proudly. “He’s a natural. He’s already good with needles so he’s not squeamish, it’s perfect.”
“Why can’t you just go to an actual professional and pay them to give you hepatitis like a normal person?” asked Jason through a mouthful of food, throwing the orange into the hallway so he wouldn’t have to look at it anymore.
Roy waved a hand dismissively. “Those are so overpriced. Anyone can do this. I’ve done a bunch of my tatts myself, it’s not that hard.”
Jason lowered his gaze pointedly to Roy’s arms, which were covered in tattoos of varying skill. “I wouldn’t brag about that,” he said. “You look like Post Malone.”
Bernard raised an eyebrow. “I’m surprised you know who Post Malone is, honestly.”
Jason scoffed but made no rebuttal. He’d never reveal that he only knew who Post Malone was because he was featured on Taylor Swift’s latest album.
Roy said, “He only knows him because of Taylor Swift.”
“Fuck off, Roy.”
“Tell me I’m lying, Mr Tortured Poet.”
Jason threw his fork at him. Roy caught it and shoved it in between the couch cushions. “That’s what you get for reacting impulsively,” he told Jason. “Now you can’t eat your dinner. What did we learn?”
Bernard was watching the whole thing with his hands covering his mouth. “It’s so criminal that I can’t start a TikTok channel with you guys,” he bemoaned. “You’re all children and no one would ever believe me.”
“I’m down,” said Roy. “Any publicity’s good publicity, right?”
“Wrong,” countered Jason flatly. “I’m not bringing up Rent-A-Bat because I’m pretending we live in the timeline where that never existed, but just know that you’re wrong.”
Bernard made a weird aborted grabbing gesture with his hands. “I’m sorry, RENT-A-BAT?”
Roy winced slightly. “It was a dark time. We don’t need to get into it.”
“Why are you getting the tattoo on your ribs, anyway?” asked Jason, abandoning his dinner and shucking off his jacket. “Isn’t that like the most painful place to get tattooed?” He crossed the room to the crooked wire clothesline and started feeling the clothes to find something dry.
Roy gave a truly awful leering grin. “Oh, I don’t mind a little pain.”
Jason rolled his eyes. “Gross.”
“You should have seen me when I got my nipples pierced.”
“Nope.”
“Nearly asked the piercer to marry me.”
“Fuckin- who raised you?” Jason kicked off his boots and unbuckled his pants.
“Who raised you?” retorted Roy accusingly. “Someone in a BARN? Where they leave dirty clothes and food all over the FLOOR of the BARN?”
Jason tossed aside his dirty Red Hood cargo pants and pulled a clean t-shirt off the line, uncaring that he was just in his boxers. He wasn’t self-conscious about his scars, they were what they were. Whatever. Frowning, he realised something.
“Fucking dammit, Harper. The fuck did you do with all my shirts?”
“I have no idea what you mean.”
Jason held up a shirt from the line. “Really? Why is this my only clean shirt?”
It was a lovely white shirt with “I [HEART] MEN WHO WHIMPER” emblazoned boldly across the chest.
“That’s not yours?” asked Roy innocently as Bernard lost his mind. “I’m sure there are other shirts around.”
Jason grabbed another one off the line and held it up.
“PICKLE SLUT!” it proudly proclaimed.
“Looks clean to me,” said Roy.
The third shirt (“Don’t bully me, I’ll cum”) was thrown at Roy’s head.
(Bernard ended up doing the tattoo, once Roy provided a stencil and assurances that Bernard wouldn’t be blamed if the tattoo turned out janky and weird. It turned out fine. Lian loved it and wanted one of her own. Roy realised he may have miscalculated.
Jason never found his lovely plain nondescript cotton shirts. That week, Jason had to wear a tee with “Die Once, Live Forever” and a drawing of the grim reaper riding a unicorn underneath his Red Hood costume and he’d never been more worried about being shot on patrol and having to take off his body armour.
Two days later, he rediscovered the orange behind a door and nearly had a heart attack.)