Disclaimer: Batman does not belong to me. I make no profit from this. Batman created by Bob Kane.

He has no family. He has no life. He has his guns and his idiotic friend and that is fine. He doesn't need Bruce Freakin' Wayne and his freakin' dinner invitations.

He does need this freakin' dirtbag to tell him where the eff the damn drugs are.

"Look, Hood, can I call you Hood?"

"No."

"Hood, look, I-I don't know where the drugs are. Jimmy told me to go get the money and come back. See, if I don't get the money back to Jimmy, he'll hurt me."

"Tough."

The criminal gulps, his eyes wider than the tires of the car against which Red Hood is currently holding him.

"Jerry, I'm gonna ask you again, and I swear to God, if you don't tell me, I will blow your brains out."

"No, no, please don't do that! I just washed this car!"

"Oh, really? Well, maybe I don't like the way you washed it, huh? Maybe I wanna use your brains as soap, y'ever think'a that, Jerry?"

Jerry almost passed out.

Jason threatened him a little bit longer, then broke his legs. As Jerry wept on the floor, Jason considered which of the drug factories he should visit first (because of course Jerry knew. They always know. They just like to lie about it a little bit before they realize that, yes, they are going to get hurt.)

If I want to get to the manor in time, I should probably go to the one on the outskirts and leave the rest for tomorrow.

Satisfied with his plan, Jason left the weeping drug dealer to his misery.

"Master Bruce, are you sure Master Jason is going to come this evening?"

Bruce looked up from the Wayne Enterprises paperwork he was looking over. Titus sat on the ground by his feet.

"Alfred, if you're going to talk me out of this..."

"No, of course not. I just would prefer not to waste my time slaving over a meal no one is going to eat."

"Alfred, I've told you, I'll eat the hamburgers-"

"You won't. You have never liked hamburgers. Since you were young, you have hated them. Your father lamented it quite often whenever he gave me the night off and had to rely on leftovers."

"I took Jason out for burgers a few times, didn't I?"

"Yes, and you always ate before you left."

Bruce took off his reading glasses, and frowned at Alfred. Titus, perhaps sensing the tension in the room, got up and left, probably to find Damian.

"Master Bruce, I won't force you to eat something you don't like, but I am certainly not going to prepare it for the sole purpose of decoration."

"Then, what are you asking?"

"I ask that you take him to a restaurant in town."

Leave the house? Bruce doesn't leave the house to eat. He hasn't since Damian came along. The boy only insults the waiters and the patrons and, well, everyone.

Without giving Bruce time to respond, Alfred leaves the room, closing the door on his way out. Bruce sits back in his chair, not entirely sure what has just happened.

Jason ties up the last of the thugs, making sure that the rope is tight and painful enough. On his way out, he hears a pinging coming from his pocket. He pulls out his phone and sees a text from Bruce.

Is there a restaurant in the city that you prefer? Alfred isn't cooking tonight.

Jason mulls over the question for a moment before he begins typing. Before he slides the device back into his pocket, he replies,

Did Alfred give you the "don't waste my food" ultimatum again? Jeez, Bruce, what did hamburgers ever do to you?

As Bruce reads Jason's response, he experiences a burst of anger.

I do not hate hamburgers.

Jason runs one hand through his hair (Not too greasy, right? I don't want Alfred giving me a tongue-lashing over my bad hair care.) before knocking on the massive double doors of Wayne Manor.

Stately, indeed. This place is big enough to be a friggin' state.

Alfred answers the doors rather quickly. Jason is about to make a comment about the manor being lonely when Alfred curtly informs him that, no, he will not be cooking tonight. At which point Jason replies that he already knows, and Alfred nods.

"I wasn't sure if Master Bruce had informed you. I suspected that he might have allowed you to come over without knowing and somehow force me into the kitchen."

Jason smirked and went inside.

Jason Todd would never say that he got along with Bruce Wayne. He would never say that he liked Bruce Wayne.

But here, sitting in a dingy restaurant long after dark, with Bruce squinting at a decaying menu, grumbling about the high Calorie content (How do you eat this stuff, Jason? How do you have any energy?), Jason can't help but lose the ever lingering desire to put a bullet in the man.

Eh, I guess he's not so bad. Sometimes.