Okay, so it’s not as though Jason asked for the knife to the ribs.
Then again, he’s pretty sure nobody asks to be stabbed.
It’s not even entirely his fault, in his defense. Damian was supposed to be watching his back. Not that Jason trusts the demon brat with just about anything. Maybe the kid had thought it was appropriate revenge for throwing Alfred?
(The cat, not the butler. Jason would murder anyone who saw fit to throw Alfred the butler.)
The kid had looked about as regretful as Robin could get when they’d reconvened. It took some serious coercing to keep him from calling the Cave. But the last thing Jason needs tonight- on top of a string of bad information, pouring rainstorms, and the newest resident of his apartment- is several hours spent with the rest of the Bats clucking over him like a group of deadly, broody, multicolored headless chickens. His side hurts like a bitch, sure, but getting stabbed is supposed to be painful.
The universe has to have it out for him. Because, of fucking course, it was the brainless, untrained, and wounded goon who found the one weak spot in his body armor. Not the mob boss with the massive machine gun. Not the trained bodyguard. No, it had to be the goon.
Come to think of it, maybe it was a good thing Damian hadn’t had his back, because it meant he didn’t see who stabbed him: the kid would’ve never let him live it down.
Humiliations aside, he’s more than capable of getting back to the apartment. The Red Hood, the scourge of the Gotham underworld, the deadliest vigilante in the city, certainly isn’t having any difficulty hauling himself up the fire escape because of a knife wound from an underpaid goon. Nope. None at all. He’s definitely not sitting up against the edge, one gloved hand clasped against the burning-hot-fire-brand wound. His jacket’s certainly not pulled up against the rain threatening to trickle in. No curses are being spat past his lips at this bitch of a universe for the fourth time in a week. No, Jason Todd, Gotham’s resident pseudo-zombie and mercenary-assassin-vigilante and member of the world’s craziest adopted family ever, is absolutely not doing any of that.
He’s just chilling out, enjoying a breather. The amount of blood soaking through his glove is possibly a bit too much, but that’s part of the fun. Becoming sharply, painfully aware of his other wounds is a bonus. Like a party favor.
(And of course, it's not just a stab wound. Of course. Because where one has been inflicted, others are sure to follow. Wolves and first blood and all that.)
Eventually, he gathers the strength to pull himself up. It takes a bit of work- because the metal is slick with rainwater, not because he’s favoring his side- but finally, after one last scan to make sure no one’s watching, he wriggles awkwardly through the window, shuts it behind him, and stumbles into his bathroom. Rain drips off him as he limps in, forming a trail of puddles.
They’re tinted a beautiful shade of pink. Jason should consider redecorating.
He’s about halfway through peeling off the body armor, muttering foul words under his breath at the pain, when he hears meowing at his feet.
Jason blinks and looks down.
His leather jacket lies on the stained white tiles from where he had tossed it hastily aside, rusty with dried blood. A lump is moving under it. It wriggles its way through the jacket. The tip of a tiny black tail flicks at its edge.
He sighs, curses when the stab wound protests and drops the rest of the armor to the ground.
Stab wounds don’t get protesting rights. Stab wounds get time-out-in-a-corner rights.
“Mew,” Crowbar the kitten complains as the armor hits the floor beside her.
Jason huffs. “It didn’t even hit you.”
“Look, I didn’t ask for your opinion-” He cuts himself off, then groans a moment later as he realizes what he’s doing.
He’s arguing with a cat.
...Maybe he’s lost more blood than he thought.
With several filthy washcloths, one tube of antibiotics, a row of hand-sewn stitches and carefully applied bandages, he’s pretty sure he’s managed to do all he can. Sewing stitches isn’t fun- Alfred’s better at them than he is- but the pinpricks of the needle are nothing in comparison to what he’s used to. Crowbar had insisted on watching the entire process, and at one point decided the first aid kit was a great place to explore. There’s a chance he got some of his blood on her in the removal process. Hopefully, she doesn’t mind.
Briefly, he wonders if kittens can lose their innocence. Then he decides fuck it because Crowbar probably lost whatever innocence she had left the moment he named her after a murder weapon. Assuming, of course, that living with a cat burglar vigilante hadn’t previously stripped her of it.
Jason throws his uniform in the locked closet, tosses his underlayers and washing towels into the hamper, removes Crowbar from the hamper after she tries to make a nest in it, pulls on clean sweats, then pads into the kitchen. She follows him the entire time, meowing at an increasing volume.
“I know, I know,” he mutters, flicking on the kitchen light. Her food bowl is empty.
One of these days, she’s going back to Selina.
He can’t take care of a kitten. Jason keeps odd hours, runs between safehouses, burns through apartments the same way Bruce does uniforms and Cass does dancing shoes and Tim does camera storage. It’s not safe for her. She needs to go back to Selina, or- at the very least- find a place in Damian’s menagerie at the manor.
But there hasn’t been time to catch Selina and explain all that, and Jason will be damned if he’s responsible for getting Damian a cat. The look on Bruce’s face might have been worth it, before the improvised weapon debacle, but now hell will have to freeze over before Jason gives Damian anything.
Especially not his- the kitten.
The cute, soft, and incredibly annoying kitten. That he’s named. And would probably die if he put her out as a stray. And whom he would join shortly after, when Selina heard about him turning out a cat she gave to him.
The same kitten that is now demanding he feed her from the food bowl he’d gotten to replace Selina’s.
It’s a small blue dish, much more dignified than the violent purple one that Steph would have been sad to see chucked at a donation box and far, far away from Jason’s undeserving kitchen tiles. Dick would like the blue, probably, but Jason hopes he’ll have the kitten long gone before any overzealous family members come to his apartment. If they discover he has a cat, he’d never hear the end of it, and there certainly wouldn’t be any getting rid of her then.
Grabbing Crowbar’s can of food, he dumps it in her bowl. She begins to chow down, little bits of chicken splattering onto the protective mat underneath. He searches through the fridge for his dinner, finds a bruised apple and a dish of chicken and rice he’d made up in his small amount of spare time, and heads into the living room to flop onto the couch. A bat-shaped toy falls as he props his feet up on the scratched coffee table.
The wires of his TV still haven’t recovered from Crowbar’s teeth, so Jason returns to a battered copy of The Hound of the Baskervilles as he eats. About halfway through the kitten shows up and thinks herself entitled to a piece of his chicken. The brat.
He passes her a tiny piece in the name of getting her to shut up. In return, she decides the best place to curl up is his shoulder.
“Why,” he grumbles as she chews in his ear. “I’m sending you back to Selina. Ungrateful little…"
Crowbar meows. Jason glances up from his book, and he swears she’s shooting him an unimpressed look. Like. Cass levels of unimpressed. The tiny white dot on her forehead is stained brown with food, or possibly blood.
“I’m a scary person, y’ know,” he tells her. “I just shot a guy today. In the knee. He’s never gonna walk right again.”
A gust of kitten breath meets his nose as she yawns at him.
Jason scrunches his nose, baring his teeth at her. That’s a sign of aggression, right? “Grr.”
Small sharp pricks dig into his shoulder. She’s kneading on him.
“You have no survival instincts. Whatsoever.”
Crowbar yawns again, itty bitty white teeth against a little pink tongue, and purrs.
Jason groans in exasperation and goes back to his book.
Halfway through Watson’s second letter, there’s a sound somewhere deeper in the apartment.
Every nerve in his body is instantly alert. His head snaps up. The cool metal of his gun is comforting beneath his hand as he reaches for it on the side table. In the same movement, he scoops Crowbar up off his shoulder, pushing her under the lurid yellow and black fleece blanket heaped on the couch.
The safety of the gun clicks off as he rises, padding softly through to the offending room- he’s pretty sure it’s the kitchen. All the lights are off but for the lamp beside the couch. Even as he edges around the corner, gun raised, the harsh white glow of the overhead light flickers on. Jason leans up against the doorframe. Whoever the intruder is, their footsteps are nearly silent. No rummaging. Maybe listening, studying. Trained for sure. Definitely in combat gear.
He sucks in a breath. Then he steps into the kitchen and swears.
Nightwing throws up his hands. But there’s an easy grin on his face, and Jason really wants to punch him now. His cheek is begging for it, practically pleading for him to land a solid knuckle sandwich.
“What the fuck,” he growls, “are you doing in my kitchen.”
“Checking in?” Dick tries.
Of course. Now there are two people Jason’s ready to punch.
“Little bird tattled?”
“Something like that.”
“I nearly shot you, you asshole.”
He winces. “Uh, yeah. Thanks for… not doing that.”
“I have a door,” Jason says irritably. “And a phone.”
“You don’t answer anyone’s texts,” Dick points out, which isn’t completely untrue, but Jason also notices the man has no excuses for not ringing the doorbell. Sadly, if there’s one thing Dick is entirely capable of, it’s using his words as a distraction, and Jason knows exactly what he’s going to ask as he looks around the apartment in evident curiosity. “What’s the bowl for?”
“Nothing. Get out.”
“How’s the stab wound?”
Jason is throwing Alfred- the cat, not the butler- again. Forget Selina’s revenge, forget Bruce’s disappointed face, forget the damn cat itself. He is hurting Damian for this.
“Fine,” he says through gritted teeth. “Get. Out.”
Of course, at that moment- because the universe just cannot be on his side today- Crowbar decides to make her grand entrance.
She pads into the kitchen, meowing loudly. Jason’s demand for his overprotective older brother to leave is instantly forgotten. Nightwing melts.
“Oh my God,” he says, kneeling. Crowbar prances up, examining him.
No. No, no, no. This is not how the Bats are finding out he has a cat.
Jason doesn’t even have a cat! The cat is Selina’s! He never had a say in this!
Dick doesn’t seem to care. Nor does Crowbar. She’s warmed up to him immediately in the way that almost everything warms up to Sunshine Grayson, butting her head into his palm as he scritches behind her ears. Her purr is loud enough to fill the entire kitchen like a superbly tiny motor engine.
Traitor, he thinks. He’s not bitter.
“You didn’t tell us you had a kitten!” Dick says, his smile bright enough to light up the room entirely on its own.
Jason huffs. Flicking the gun’s safety back on, he puts it down on the counter. “I don’t.”
Dick pauses, then looks up at him in surprise. “After she came after you?”
“Yeah. After she attacked me with her army.”
He whistles. “You must’ve impressed her.”
Jason snorts. “She thinks it’ll make me appreciate cats more. Whatever that means.”
Even with the domino mask, he can feel his older brother’s knowing look. Sighing, he lowers himself, cross-legged, to the linoleum floor. His stitches pull in protest. He pointedly ignores them, choking back any pained noises threatening to escape.
Dick catches his flinch anyway and moves to help him. Jason glares at his outstretched hands. Exasperated, Dick sinks back and returns to carding his gloved fingers through Crowbar’s fluffy black fur.
“What did you do for it?”
“What do you think? We took the same first aid, Dickiebird,” Jason shoots back.
“Damian didn’t tell me the full extent.”
“He didn’t know. It’s fine. I stitched it up, bandages, everything.” He lifts the edge of his red sweatshirt to demonstrate, bandages stark white against his scarred side. “What, you wanna kiss it better?”
Dick raises an eyebrow. But he hums at the bandages in approval, and after a brief staring contest, he returns to petting the kitten in his lap.
That doesn’t last long. She decides that Dick’s reinforced Nightwing suit isn’t as comfy as Jason’s softer clothing, and returns to him to crawl into his sweatshirt pocket.
“Wait- no- out,” Jason says in betrayal. He will not let Dick see him like this.
Dick, predictably, laughs. “Does she have a name?”
Now here’s a dilemma. Crowbar’s name has… implications. Jason knows this. This is the reason he chose the name in the first place. At the same time, telling Dick he’s named the kitten implies he’s lost the battle. It says that Crowbar is his, not Selina’s, and that’s not something he wants to do.
Then she meows loudly from inside his pocket, and pokes her head out to look up at him with wide blue eyes.
Dick hasn’t awwed, exactly, but he knows that if he were almost any other Bat, he would have. Maybe the man knows he’s already pushing it by watching them with an expression all too soft for Jason’s tastes.
Dick’s shaken out of his adoration to gawk at him. “What.”
“You heard me,” and there’s not as much growl in Jason’s voice as he wants but whatever, it’s there, it’s enough. “Crowbar.”
After a too-long stare, his brother shakes his head, incredulous. “You didn’t.”
“I did.” He punctuates it with a sharp-toothed grin. Its intended effect is ruined somewhat when Crowbar reappears from his pocket, forcing him to reach over quickly to keep her from toppling face-first onto the floor.
“I can’t believe you.”
“What, the name or my existence?” he says dryly.
“Bruce is going to have a fit.”
“Bruce doesn’t need to know about any of this.”
“Jason, you named your cat after a murder weapon.”
“And? I could’ve called her Dick. And I told you, she’s not my cat.”
Dick stares at him some more. Then he sighs, shaking his head, and peels off his gloves. “Can I…?” He gestures at the kitten.
Jason looks at Crowbar. She looks back at him. He looks at Dick.
Crowbar, the absolute fiend, flops over in Jason’s lap and starts clawing her way out, curious about Dick again. Jason growls. Then he picks her up- careful not to trap or hurt her- and drops her into his brother’s hands.
Dick makes a cooing sound.
Jason stands, wincing at the pain in his side, and starts walking out of the kitchen. He grabs the gun on his way out. “I’m going to bed.”
“Don’t forget to brush your teeth,” his big brother calls after him, a touch of laughter in his voice. Jason throws a cat toy at him.
Jason wakes up late.
Gray cloudy light filters in through the edges of navy blue curtains, and he blinks sleep out of his eyes. His side aches as he rolls over. On his nightstand, the clock reads ten in the morning.
He narrows his eyes at it, willing it to go back a few hours. There’s work to do today.
As always, the numbers stubbornly remain the same, the colon between ten and two blinking the seconds away. He sighs, bracing to get up-
Except something’s not quite right. Multiple somethings. The hair on the back of his neck rises.
It only takes a second to place it. The door to his room is cracked ever so slightly open. Jason always locks his door. Always. Even with Crowbar in the apartment.
Next are the sounds filtering through the door: soft murmurs, what sounds like the television, Crowbar’s plaintive meowing. A draft wafts in the faint scent of coffee. Something is going on. Something Jason hasn’t authorized. Something Jason does not want to happen.
He’s about ninety percent sure he knows exactly what it is, but he takes his gun with him anyway and tucks the sheathed knife from under his pillow in the pocket of his red sweatshirt.
Creeping softly to the door, he eases it open and peers out into the living room.
Cass is sitting on his couch, the black and yellow bat blanket spread over her lap. She looks up when he peeks through, gives a tiny wave and a reassuring smile, then returns her attention to his- miraculously repaired- TV.
Jason sighs, puts the knife back under his pillow, sticks his feet in the fluffy yellow duck slippers Harper gave him last Christmas- which are unfairly comfortable, and he only keeps them because of that, not for sentimental reasons Dick and the others are so eager to imagine into existence. He holds on to the gun, checking to make sure the safety’s on, and goes to join Cass.
There’s a dance performance on the TV, a theatrical production. He could probably figure out what it was if he bothered to stare at the screen and focus for a moment.
But he’s become aware of the noises coming from his kitchen. Meows are coming from his kitchen. Jason’s not going to bother answering what is a relatively small question in comparison to the certain doom lying around the corner.
He nods to his sister and steps away, preparing himself for battle.
Tim and Steph have made themselves at home on his tiled floor. They’re both in civvies, meaning they had probably picked his apartment lock and dismantled the alarm system. He can only wonder how they had avoided waking him. Cass is Cass and therefore the exception. These two, however…
They probably were the cause after all. The smell of coffee is wafting from the coffeemaker, and their low voices are just enough of a change from the apartment's natural rhythm that they’d likely shaken him from his sleep.
That or Crowbar’s racket was at fault. She’s taken to waking him up in the mornings with her insistent meowing (or her furry butt on his face, on the rare occasions she sleeps in his room), but he’s getting used to it.
Speaking of his seditious kitten…
Steph has one of her stick toys in hand, a feathered bauble dangling at the end of the golden string. She drags it along in front of Crowbar, who eagerly pounces at it, chirping at the top of her tiny lungs.
Tim leans up against the cabinets in the corner, a catnip bird that looks suspiciously like a robin in one hand and his camera in the other. At the sound of Jason’s padded footsteps, they turn to look up at him, wearing matching grins.
Unfortunately, they appear to be immune, continuing blithely smiling away like those creepy troll dolls. Steph flicks the rod without shifting her gaze from his. Crowbar grabs the bauble and rolls onto her back to gnaw at it.
“What,” Jason says flatly, for what’s got to be the hundredth time in the last twenty-four hours, “the fuck.”
Normally he’d go into more detail, but he’s just rolled out of bed and isn’t awake enough for this. He’s no coffee addict- not like Bruce and Tim- but it’s looking frighteningly appealing right now.
“Hi, Jason,” Steph says brightly and pulls the feathers out of Crowbar’s reach. “When were you going to tell us you got a cat?”
It had to have been Dick. Somehow, some way, Dick had told them about Crowbar, or they had wheedled it out of him, and now he has to deal with this. Jason’s already thinking of ways to get back at him.
“She is not. my. cat.”
“Selina certainly seems to think so,” Tim says, smirking, and oh, his replacement had better watch out next time they spar.
Unfortunately, amid his rather violent revenge plots, the younger teen has lifted his camera. Before Jason can duck out of the shot, he’s already taken a photo.
“I’m going to kill you both.”
Tim snaps a picture of Steph rubbing Crowbar’s ears. “Didn’t work the first time. Won’t work again. Besides, Bruce would kick you out of Gotham. Then you’d never see your kitten again.”
Jason snarls at him and reaches for Crowbar, who meows happily at the sight of him and lets him pick her up. He’s still got the gun in one hand, so he sets it on the table to scoop her up and walk out.
There’s a click behind him.
“One more, Replacement, and I’m shooting your camera.”
His little brother makes an offended noise.
Jason collapses onto the couch, Crowbar wriggling in his arms. Cass glances at him. There’s a look in her eyes, pinching at the edges as the corners of her mouth turn up.
“It was Selina,” he says, feeling more like a broken record by the moment.
Cass nods, her suuure it was implied with every minuscule twitch of her face, and reaches out to pet the kitten’s head, who happily crawls over into her lap. Jason’s pretty sure that cat’s gotten more attention in the last twelve hours than she has in her entire life. It’s a miracle she isn’t completely worn out.
“Traitor,” he grumbles at her. She butts her head into Cass’s side before yawning at him.
Steph pokes her head out of the kitchen. “We’re making waffles. Want some?”
He leaps off the couch. “Not in my apartment, you aren’t.”
There is no way, absolutely no way, he is letting Stephanie Brown and the absolute disaster of a human being Tim Drake make anything in his kitchen: they have, maybe, if he’s being generous, a quarter of a brain cell between them. Tim doesn't even know how to avoid burning toast! Jason has some survival instincts, despite what his family and friends might claim. He’d like his kitchen back un-burned and not destroyed.
As he makes his way in he kicks aside the littered collection of cat toys with one fluffy yellow slipper. Tim looks up from his camera, a furrow in his brows, and Jason grabs him.
“Hey!” he yelps, but he’s far too late. Jason tosses him over his back in a fireman’s carry, marching out of the kitchen and pointedly ignoring the fire in his protesting side. Any amount of pain is worth the salvation of his meager collection of semi-decent cooking supplies and his insurance policy. Besides, Tim’s wriggling does little when he’s trying to protect his precious camera, and not making a proper escape attempt besides.
All she does is snatch his camera from his hands, laughing. Jason hears her clicking away as he lumbers back into the living room.
Now freed from his fragile burden, the Replacement manages a sharp elbow to his side- the side with the knife wound, of course- and Jason curses violently at him before throwing him onto the couch. Cass moves out of the way without so much as a glance, eyes focused on the television. Crowbar crawls out of her lap and right onto the back of Tim’s head, and he groans.
“Out of my kitchen,” Jason growls at Steph, who’s still grinning at them from the doorway. She shrugs.
“Only if you make waffles.”
He huffs, pushes his way past her, and starts hunting for the flour.
Half an hour later the waffle iron is hissing away as he shoves sausage around a frying pan. He’s honestly not sure where he got the iron or where it came from, or where most of the food came from, actually, because this particular safehouse- while well stocked- doesn’t have much in the way of food supplies. There’s a good chance someone snuck it in. There is also a possibility that someone was Stephanie. Dick’s also a possibility, but his older brother doesn’t really have the funds with his whole ‘independent grown-up' shtick. Stephanie, on the other hand, has no qualms about bleeding Bruce dry.
As far as Jason’s concerned, pancakes are far superior to waffles. He doesn’t know why he’s making these. The sentiment, maybe, a leftover from too many mornings watching Alfred cooking with the manor’s far superior waffle iron.
In the living room, someone laughs. He sincerely hopes they aren’t wrecking his apartment. So far there haven’t been any hugely catastrophic noises, but this means very little when it comes to a bunch of baby ninja children.
What he has heard several times is the distinct click of a camera. More than once he’s had to growl at Tim to get out.
Just as he’s taking the sausage off, he hears a familiar meow at his feet.
Crowbar looks up at him with pleading eyes. Jason would feel touched, but he knows she only left her new favorite humans because she could smell the meat.
“Traitor,” he grouses at her again and puts the sausage in a dish. The waffle iron beeps, and he flips the last set out onto a plate.
She chirps back, a by-now familiar noise. Jason would almost describe it as petulant.
He pokes his head into the living room, hating to ask the question but needing to anyway. “Did any of you feed her?”
Cass raises a hand. Jason nods appreciatively at her before returning to the waffles.
“Stop begging,” he says to Crowbar, who has now resorted to batting at the beaks on his duck slippers and nibbling at the cuffs of his grey sweatpants. “They fed you.”
She mews again, increasingly pathetic. He sticks his tongue out at her.
“OUT,” Jason roars.
He throws a wooden spoon at Tim, who ducks before running back out, laughing all the way.
“Show that to Bruce and I’ll throw your camera off the Wayne tower, Replacement!”
There’s no answer, but he thinks he hears a snort.
He huffs, sprinkles some fresh blueberries on his waffles (and seriously, he did not buy these, they’re way too expensive, who stocked his fridge?), sticks a few sausages onto his plate and returns to the couch, shoving Steph out of the way to make room. She spots the waffles and makes grabby hands.
“Fuck off,” he says.
She huffs and bounces up to go back to the kitchen. Crowbar paws at the edge of his red sweatshirt, chirping with big, sad kitten eyes. A moment later he has to shove her nose out of his sausage.
“This is not for you,” he tells her. She tilts her head.
“Mew?” she pleads. On the other end of the couch, Tim snorts. There’s another click, but this time Jason’s too preoccupied keeping his kitten from eating his sausage to bother threatening his little brother.
Cass picks Crowbar up and settles her in her lap.
“Thanks,” Jason says, meaning it, and digs in.
Stephanie wanders back in, plate in hand. Whipped cream- and Jason does not have whipped cream, where is all this coming from- is piled high on her syrup-drenched waffles.
Gesturing with her fork, she indicates the blankets on the floor. One is bright pink with black pawprints. Another has tiny llamas printed on it. “Nice colors,” she says, entirely too innocent. "I didn’t know you liked beavers.”
Jason peers closer at a green blanket. Sure enough, it’s covered in tiny beaver kits. Who even sold beaver blankets?
“Those are Selina’s, and I’m burning them.”
Tim snorts. “Selina bought those?”
Jason turns to glare at him. The Replacement shrugs. “They aren’t really her type, Jason.”
“Yeah, well, they aren’t mine either.”
Crowbar has finally fallen asleep on Cass’s lap. She taps Tim’s shoulder. “Waffles, please?”
He nods. On his way into the kitchen, he turns to snap a picture of Cass with the kitten on her lap.
“Alfred’s going to love that one,” Steph comments and Tim nods, with a fainter, fonder, more sincere smile.
Jason shakes his head at the lot of them- though he too has to bite back a smile at the thought of Alfred’s love of family pictures- and stabs a blueberry. The couch shakes as Steph flops into Tim’s vacant space.
“Were the bat toys your idea, too?” she asks after a long moment.
“None of this was my idea.” He throws a pink catnip mouse at her. She catches it and throws it back at him, quick as a whip, and he has to scramble to keep it from landing in his blueberries.
Tim returns with two plates of waffles, depositing one in Cass’s hands before perching on the table. It creaks faintly under his weight but doesn’t give, sturdy as only ancient, ugly hand-me-down wood furniture can be. Somewhere along the way, someone’s switched channels on the TV. Saturday morning cartoons play in between advertisements for fancy high-end cars and all those insurance policies that would be absolutely useless in Gotham. He watches Tom slap Jerry across the screen.
The apartment is quiet as they eat, and for a moment, he can’t help but think that maybe- maybe- this isn’t so bad after all.
Then the sound of someone snorting at a particularly epic sequence of slapstick comedy wakes Crowbar up again, and she starts demanding that Cass share her food. Things deteriorate rapidly from there.
He kicks them out not long after that. Things to get done and all, and there’s only so long he can tolerate the dynamic duo of pure chaos that is Tim and Steph.
Crowbar sleeps for the rest of the morning, and the afternoon, and it’s only in the evening that she wakes up and demands he feed her. He has to begrudgingly admit that maybe there are upsides to family visits after all.
Then the pictures show up, and Jason blithely decides that every last one of them has to die a slow, terrible death.