He should get a fucking gold star. Jason Todd would have said it out loud (it's not like anyone would hear him as he grappled between buildings and above the seedy alleyways of Park Row) but figured it already sounded petty in his own head.

'So what? Who the fuck is going to judge you? Fucking Batman and his fucking flock weren't here to do that for him'. For all the tech on the interior of his helmet, he sometimes wished it could talk back. Like in Knight Rider. That show was seriously under rated although he'd deny having the complete series on DVD in any of his safe-houses.

He wasn't sure what was worse, the fact that he was being given a wide-berth by the group of tightwad vigilantes or the ever mounting tension around it, the pressure building because it had simply been too quiet...no one trying to talk him out of putting bullets in kneecaps; he'd been avoiding heads...the last time he'd miscalculated and well...grey matter apparently left stains that did not come out regardless of how many times you ran your clothes through the wash. That was the reasoning he gave himself at least. It also didn't help that despite the never-ending sheet of rain that was pouring down on Gotham, the weather was humid and warm, the large rain drops always seeming larger and heavier in this city. It was nearing Fall, which meant that alleyways were bustling more than usual (if you paid close attention and knew where to look); those living on the streets adjusting their living arrangements to adapt to the change in the weather. He doubted this sudden thunderstorm was making that easy for anyone at the moment, namely the children that he knew stayed as out of sight as much as possible. Jason Todd knew exactly what that felt like.

Despite the noise of the pouring rain, the metallic squeaking of a large dumpster - a sound he was all too familiar with since he was a kid - had him dropping down into the alley, where sure enough, two large dumpsters lined the wall next to where a haberdashery had been back in Park Row's glory days. Jason could be eloquent if he chose to, but hey, using 'fuck' or variations thereof as noun, verb, adjective, etc. was a choice he proudly made. How many internet articles said that highly intelligent people cursed more than others? Too many to count as it were. It made Jason smirk just a little, a fleeting desire to send a continuous round of spam mail to the Batcave, with links to all those articles. Pity he wouldn't remember to do that.

"Hey kid, you need some help?" Jason asked, trying to sound casual and nonchalant, tucking his grappling gun away and shoving his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket as best he could.

He couldn't see the kid exactly and not getting any response had him slowly taking steps forward, doing his best to not look intimidating regardless of not taking off the helmet (honestly he was grateful for the airlock around his neck, keeping his face and most of his neck dry) which he really didn't want to do.

The movement behind the dumpsters had stopped, but he could hear shuffling and sniffing and he realized belatedly that he was clearly off his game because wedged between the two dumpsters and surrounded by god only knew what fucking biohazard littered the place, was a large and rather dark furry mass of wet dog, whose head immediately looked up when Jason had come into view.

"Jesus" Jason breathed out. Despite the dog huddling and shivering, it was massive, and for a split second Jason honestly thought it was some sort of damn wolf or coyote or just something else. Because this was Gotham, and frankly, stranger fucking things had happened. His hand immediately came out of his pocket, fingers twitching and wanting to grab for one of his guns. He didn't exactly want to shoot the animal, but who knew if the thing would suddenly bolt right at him all fangs and claws and yeah...no thanks.

A small whine made Jason's decision though, as large brown eyes looked right through him, or so he thought. He had his helmet on but still, it was really unnerving. Last thing he needed was to be confronted by some sort of soul-gazing canine.

He couldn't help but analyze the scene, taking in the protruding ribs, the scars marring the dogs' legs and muzzle. He had no idea what type of dog it was, especially with all the matted fur which he thought was probably painful as well. Just how long had this dog been left neglected? Although by the looks of it, it was safer out here than with whomever had done all the damage. Jason refused to make the comparison to his own life.

"I wish I had some food for you or something" the voice modifier now intentionally turned off. God he really hated this city and the sick and twisted people that lived in it. What had this dog ever done to deserve this life?

Maybe because it was a slow night or maybe because he really couldn't leave anyone or anything out in this weather, but he finds himself spending twenty minutes trying to coax the animal out from its hiding spot, with only his voice (the helmet had needed to come off) and luck. Only a slight wag of a tail ten minutes into the endeavor had Jason determined to carry on.

"You may be skin and bones but you sure do weigh a fucking ton" he grumbled, carrying the damn dog who now seemed content to be a limp noodle and settle in for the ride.
He was only ten minutes away from his nearest safe house, the one above a small Persian restaurant which may have seemed too conspicuous as a safe-house but when you break the legs of a few enforcers trying to extort protection taxes from the restaurant owners, it apparently buys you the eternal gratitude of said folks and a place free of charge.

Which is why his stomach grumbled as he opened the door to his place, the third floor walk-up which felt more like ten floors with the 150 pounds of wet dog he had dragged up. The place always smelled like saffron, butter, and various grilled meats for kabobs, which is why it probably wasn't easy for the owners to get the place rented out (well that and the fact that this was really not the best area even during daylight hours) but perfect for him.

Food was...well food was the difference between life and death for those that lived on the streets or couldn't even afford anything from the dollar store, and having the smells practically permeating from the walls made him feel secure rather than inconvenienced. Plus it also helped that there was occasionally food left in front of his door, in particular fresh noon barbari, which was the best damn bread he'd ever had, save for Alfred's fresh sourdough. Jason would always try and be in the kitchen at the manor when he knew the older man was-

'Not the damn time'. He could practically hear gritting of his teeth in his mind as he got the door locked behind him while still not putting the animal down.

With the dog now sniffing the air, Jason focused on food, water, towels, whatever he needed to help the animal get as comfortable as possible. He was the wrong person to have stumbled upon the mut, but there was nothing to be done when it was 2:30am and pouring out.

The only things he had in the fridge were a potato that seemed to be growing other things out of it (an image of Poison Ivy flitted across his mind making him shudder and immediately toss the thing in the sink, shoving it in the garbage disposal and turning it on. Better to be safe than sorry), two bottles of beer, a 24 pack of bottled water, and two packets of hot dogs and buns which were a few days past he the 'Best by' date.

"Jackpot" he grinned as he grabbed his prize and went about heating everything up.

A quick look back into the small living room area showed his guest still laying on some towels by the old radiator, seemingly content with resting its head on its front paws, its eyes watching Jason tiredly.

"I feel the same way, bud." Jason hadn't planned on heading to this particular bolt hole for another couple of weeks (serious injury notwithstanding) so he was not only exhausted but without much in terms of sleeping arrangements. It was a small one bedroom place, with a barely there kitchen, a shower head that came up to his chest, and a bedroom that could barely fit a queen size mattress on the floor.

By 3:30am he fell asleep on the sofa; old and sinking, but long enough for his six-foot frame, and the thought of heading back out on patrol forgotten. He must have been more exhausted than he realized when he woke up to a warmth by his side and an itch near his nose. He normally would have cursed at himself for leaving his guns on the coffee table where they weren't readily accessible but he was glad he did as the shock of a large beast pressed next to him - honestly, how in the hell did it squeeze in next to him?! - had him startling and immediately reaching for firearms that weren't there.

"You scared the fucking shit out of me bud, I could have shot you!" his voice aggravated and upset but still not making any move to get the dog off the couch. The dog looked wholly unimpressed, one thump of a large and heavy tail against Jason's leg.

"Well I could have you know." The grumbling done more to reassure himself than anything else.

A lick to the hand and large puppy dog eyes - which frankly shouldn't have even been a thing because this was definitely not a puppy at all - was the only response he got as he tried to ignore the small squeeze in his chest at the fact that it may not have been a someone, but something cared about him, even if it was just a little bit.