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Jason sighed and let himself sink deeper into the couch, the battered cushions complaining almost as much as his body did. Every muscle felt tight, overworked, stretched past the point of courtesy. He rolled his shoulders once, then stopped when a sharp twinge flared up his spine. Bad idea. He exhaled through his nose and stared at the ceiling, letting the hum of the safehouse settle around him.
The mission replayed in fragments whether he wanted it to or not. A warehouse that smelled like rot and chemicals. Too many crates. Too few adults. Too many kids knew exactly what was being sold and exactly what it was doing to them. Dealers who had done the math and decided children were a better long-term investment. Jason clenched his jaw, fingers digging into the seam of the couch.
He raised a hand and rubbed at his temple, feeling the dull throb of a hit that had almost cracked his helmet. Sitting up took effort. He shifted, then turned his head, and nearly collided noses with Roy Harper.
Roy was way too close. Close enough that Jason could count the freckles on his face, close enough to smell cheap coffee and gun oil. Jason blinked once, then twice, before pulling his head back a few inches.
“What?” he asked flatly. One eyebrow rose on instinct as his gaze swept over Roy’s posture, his breathing, the way he was leaning just a little too casually. No blood. No obvious injuries. Annoyingly intact.
Roy chuckled and leaned back, crossing his arms. He looked away, eyes drifting toward the far wall where Artemis leaned.
“Do you not remember what day this is?” Roy asked.
Jason scoffed and let his head fall back against the couch. “I don’t fucking know. Valentine’s?” The word came out as a groan. His head was pounding harder now, each pulse lining up neatly with his heartbeat.
Roy stared at him for a beat, expression empty in a way that felt deliberate. Then he reached out and flicked Jason on the forehead.
Jason hissed and slapped his hand away. “What the hell?”
“I would’ve shit in your helmet if it was,” Roy said. “No. The heck it’s not.”
Jason squinted at him. “Then what?”
“It’s Christmas.”
The word landed strangely, like it didn’t quite belong in the room. Jason’s hand froze halfway to his temple. He lowered it slowly and looked up at Roy again, searching his face for the punchline.
“Christmas,” Jason repeated. “As in… Christmas?”
Roy nodded. “Yup.”
They stared at each other. Jason waited for the familiar edge of sarcasm, the grin, the immediate follow-up joke. It didn’t come. Instead, the silence stretched, filled only by the low buzz of the lights and the distant city noise bleeding through the walls.
Jason looked around. The safehouse was exactly as it had been that morning. No decorations. No tree. No lights. No sign that the rest of the world was doing anything other than what they were doing, bleeding quietly in corners no one wanted to look at.
Arsenal pushed herself off the wall and stepped between them, breaking the moment. She spread his arms just slightly, like she was presenting something grand instead of a grimy room that smelled faintly of antiseptic.
“Merrily Christmas, fuckers,” she said.
Jason snorted despite himself, the sound sharp and unplanned. He leaned back again, this time with a little less tension, and dragged a hand down his face.
“Wow,” he muttered. “Nothing says holiday cheer like busting a drug ring that uses kids as inventory.”
Roy shrugged. “Festive as hell.”
Jason glanced toward the small kitchenette, where a half-empty takeout box sat next to a dented kettle. “We got anything that even remotely qualifies as Christmas food?”
“Protein bars,” Artemis said. “One of them might have expired.”
“Perfect,” Jason said. “Just like home.”
Roy’s mouth twitched, then softened. He moved to the couch and dropped down beside Jason, close but not crowding him this time. “We could… I don’t know. Do something.”
Jason eyed him. “Like what?”
Roy thought about it. “Sit here. Not get shot. That’s something.”
Jason considered, then nodded once. “Yeah. That’ll do.”
Outside, somewhere beyond the concrete and steel, people were probably laughing, arguing over wrapping paper, burning food, pretending things were simpler than they were. In the safehouse, two men and a woman sat among weapons and bruises and unfinished business.
It was Christmas.