AN: Lord, protect this dork from himself. Don't believe me? Observe the single safety pin on his jacket, the one that needs to get with the buttons on Sherlock's purple shirt and compare notes. Also observe the…I'm not actually sure if that's a fucking band-aid or a piece of tape on his shirt, but that is not the intended purpose. Alfred raised you better than this, Jason.
There are two types of wet clothes. Type A is the the flattering kind-shirts that cling and get a little bit see-through and yeah, they're a little uncomfortable, but at least you look good. Type B is what Jason is contending with now: death traps.
Wet jacket, wet jeans (he'll be trapped in these jeans for life, he knows it, oh god), and wet boots with stubbornly triple-knotted laces. What was he thinking?
(That tripping over his own shoelaces and falling off a roof was a terrible way to go, but shh.)
Okay. Jacket first. He's got this.
It takes a good ten minutes (he's blaming Joker, his shoulders are killing him tonight and don't want to move in certain directions), but he manages to pry it off. Okay. There, see, a third done already!
The boots, though…his fingers are stiff and cold and he just cut his damn nails last night. He has no picking power. Dammit!
Okay. Okay. If he can just loosen the knots a little tiny bit, maybe he can pull 'em off and deal with 'em in the morning. Well. This afternoon. Later.
He massages a knot between his finger and thumb until it starts to give. Still can't quite undo it, but maybe…
Ha-HA! It's comin' loose on its own!
It takes another ten minutes, but he undoes the knots and yanks his boots off. Ah. Freedom. Now for the part he really, really isn't looking forward to.
Jeans.
Thank all that is holy in any and every religion that the Riddler hasn't realized the true potential of wet denim. Or, really, any of them-you wanna make sure your hostage can't escape? Buddy, has Jason got the thing for you.
Things go downhill very quickly. One minute he's trying to dislodge his leg from its black prison, the next…well…
The floor tilts. It's an earthquake or…or something. Whatever it is, it sends him falling backwards, hands grasping for something to save himself. They end up clinging to the shower curtain and he has just enough time to think, THIS IS HOW I DIE before said curtain tears free from the rings and he topples into the shower itself.
BANGTHUDCLATTER!
Soap bottles, his razor and his scrubbie-on-a-stick leap from their perches and crash onto the ceramic floor beside him. Then, to add insult to injury, his regular scrubbie decides to float down and boop him on the head.
Ow.
There's a chorus of neighborly banging from all sides and he cringes, remembers that it's four AM and that his neighbors are normal people who are asleep at this hour. They're going to form a mob, aren't they? With mops and flaming brooms and rakes!
He's doomed.
He drops his head against the wall and figures he'll just wait here for them, make it easy to wash the blood away. He's considerate like that.
THE END