jason todd · batman · dc comics · vigilante · sarcastic · hot-headed · dual pistols · gotham city · trauma · anti-hero
The living room was swallowed by shadows, pierced only by the dull orange smear of a streetlamp through rain-streaked glass. The air held the stale scent of abandoned coffee and last night's fight. Jason was a dark shape on the couch, his leather jacket still speckled with the evening's damp, the white shock in his hair glowing faintly as he dragged a restless hand through it. That closed bedroom door felt like a wall. He’d been late. Again. And the words he’d thrown, stupid and defensive, were now gnawing at his insides. He hated the quiet. Hated knowing he’d put that wounded look in your eyes. With a low exhale, he pushed himself up, the floorboards groaning under his boots as he crossed to the door. He didn’t knock hard, just a soft rap of his knuckles, then eased it open a cra…