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You never quite understood why Jason was upset, even if you tried with all the patience you possessed. Most of your “dates” were not dates in the usual sense at all, but small, tender things done quietly within the four soft walls of home. They were evenings stitched together from the ordinary: the rhythmic sound of Jason’s knife against a cutting board while you perched on the counter, watching him cook and finding new, shameless ways to distract him; the slow comfort of cleaning together, your shared music low in the background as sunlight drifted across the floorboards; laundry dates that ended in laughter, with soap bubbles clinging to Jason’s hair; and movie nights, his favorites—the kind where you both ended up asleep before the film even reached its second act. Or...occupied with something else.

Movie nights without his little brother, that is. Because when Damian was there, movie nights somehow stopped belonging to Jason at all. They became something else entirely—soft, conspiratorial things between you and the boy. The two of you would sit wrapped in the same blanket, heads bent close, whispering about the film’s inaccuracies.

Laundry days became a battlefield when Damian joined in. He would stand beside you, arms crossed and unimpressed, as he scrutinized every item of Jason’s wardrobe like a disapproving tailor. “You wear this?” he’d ask, his voice flat with disbelief.

Cooking nights weren’t much better. You found yourself giving too much of your attention to Damian’s questions, explaining measurements and flavors and medical nutrition while Jason sighed and stirred and watched from a distance, half-amused and half-wounded.

Jason could never quite tell when it happened—when you and Damian stopped being polite strangers and somehow became… something else. Something closer.

All he knew was that one night, both of them were bloodied bone-tired, and he’d broken his own rule: no family in the apartment. But Damian needed help, and he trusted you. You had training, steady hands, and the kind of gentle patience that could coax a frightened little robin to rest.

You patched them both up that night. Bandages and soft voices, soup after that. It was supposed to end there.

It didn’t.

Somehow, after that night, the boy who once hissed at anyone who dared to touch him began to let you close. Damian—the child with the wary eyes and the spine made of quiet pride—let you ruffle his hair without complaint. He let you mend the tear in his sleeve, let you fuss over his meals, let you feed him soup when he was too tired to lift his arm.

Jason watched it all with a strange mix of awe and jealousy.

Damian even began to compliment you—though always hidden in insults aimed at Jason.

“I don’t know how you tolerate Todd,” he’d say airily. “You’d think you’d prefer someone who matches you intellectually.”

Jason would groan and roll his eyes. You’d only laugh.

There were other things, too. The tutoring sessions that had somehow become part of your week—Damian’s new interest in medicine, his newfound fascination with anatomy and physiology. You were his favorite teacher, though he’d never admit it outright.

You were also, much to Jason’s dismay, his doctor.

And Damian liked his “patient room”—your shared bedroom—kept quiet as a cathedral. No chatter, no movement, no sound but the clink of teacups and the rustle of papers.

Damian liked your apartment. Truly liked it. Liked the calm that hung in the air like a soft blanket. Liked that you didn’t speak unless you had something to say. Liked that you covered every window with those translucent suncatchers that painted colors across the floorboards when the light came through. Not the gaudy sort found in tourist shops—yours were delicate, old, a little imperfect, like melted drops of glass. Your home reminded him of a place he once called home.

Damian liked the kittens you fostered. He liked feeding them, brushing them, pretending he didn’t enjoy either. He liked making tea with you because you brewed it properly, just as it was made when he was small with the old servants, with patient hands and quiet dignity.

He did not like your choice in company.

And he told you so, in his usual unflinching way.

“I can find you a more adequate match,” he whispered one afternoon, low and confidential, though Jason heard every word from across the room.

You were kneeling beside the tub, sleeves rolled up, bathing a litter of kittens in a metal bucket from the hardware store. The poor things had fleas and ringworm, and your fingers were red from the warm water and soap. Damian crouched beside you, sleeves just as damp, as if he’d been born to this small ritual of care.

“I think he’s quite adequate,” you whispered back, soft enough not to wound his pride.

That was another thing Damian liked: the way you spoke to him. You matched his tone, measured and deliberate, the way someone might match a heartbeat. He knew it wasn’t how you spoke to everyone—he’d seen you with delivery men, with Jason—but with him, you were precise. Thoughtful. Gentle.

You spoke like he did.

And for a boy who’d spent years surrounded by voices that stumbled over his accent, who had grown used to repeating himself until the words felt wrong in his mouth, that meant more than he’d ever say aloud.

“Yeah, I think he’s adequate too!” Jason called suddenly from the doorway, grinning as he tightened a hinge on the bathroom door. You turned to glance at him, smiling despite yourself.

He was dressed in that white T-shirt with the sleeves cut off—his arms smudged with grease and his hair far too long, hanging just above his eyes. His clothes bore the familiar stains of oil and paint and everything else he’d fixed that week. His sneakers were worn down to their last thread, and yet somehow, standing there with a screwdriver in one hand and a crooked grin on his face, he looked steady.

His skin had color again, no longer the pale gray of sleepless nights. His back wasn’t as stiff as it used to be, his shoulders at ease. And though he grumbled endlessly about Damian’s visits, he looked softer when the boy was around. A little more human. A little more home.

Perfect, as always. Yours as always.

“You look like a turd,” Damian said flatly, scowling in Jason’s direction.

Jason didn’t even flinch. “Bro, you smell like a turd.”

“I wonder why,” Damian muttered, holding up a dripping kitten by the scruff, water trailing from its tiny paws.

Jason dropped the screwdriver and spun, pointing accusingly. “Damian, I swear to God—if you drip that medicine on the rug again, I’ll—”

Before he could finish, you reached forward, gently guiding Damian’s small hands back toward the bucket. “Let’s not test him,” you murmured, the edge of laughter in your tone. Damian’s lips pressed into a thin line, but he obeyed, his pride intact.

Half an hour later, the kittens were washed and dry, bundled in towels that smelled faintly of lavender. They lay in the wicker basket you used for your farmer’s market trips—the same one Damian sometimes carried with a reluctant sort of pride. The three of you sat together in the aftermath of the small chaos: Jason kneeling by the repaired door, you perched on the rug with a kitten in your lap, Damian cross-legged beside the basket, his expression unusually serene.

“What do you want for dinner?” Jason asked finally, testing the hinge one last time.

“Biryani,” Damian said immediately, still rubbing a towel over a kitten’s ears.

Jason didn’t look up. “I was asking my girlfriend.”

The room went quiet for a heartbeat. Then both of them turned to look at you—Jason with a weary sort of amusement, Damian with scandalized indignation.

You sighed, stroking a kitten’s damp fur. “I’d like biryani too.”

“Vegetable,” Damian added.

You paused, glanced down at him, then back up at Jason. “…Yes, vegetable.”

Jason blinked. For a long moment, there was silence. Then he muttered, “Lost to a vegan,” and wandered out of the bathroom, the sound of his boots fading down the hall.

When you looked back, Damian was smiling—just a small, quiet smile, the kind that didn’t reach his eyes but softened them all the same. You felt warmth bloom in your chest.

By the time dinner is ready, the kittens are all asleep, little bodies curled into soft commas in their basket. The faint hum of the radiator fills the silence between your breaths, and the apartment smells rich and warm—spices blooming in the air like memory.

The biryani sits steaming in the center of the low coffee table, bowls placed in an uneven triangle around it. Damian is already criticizing between bites.

“There’s too much cardamom,” he says with all the dignity of a food critic, squinting at his plate. “And the star anise—how am I supposed to chew on this?”

Jason looks like he’s aged five years in the span of the meal.

“Don’t eat it then,” he grumbles, though there’s no real bite to it.

Damian ignores him, of course, muttering something about “culinary atrocities” and “unsuitable textures” as he gets up to fetch salt from the kitchen. His footsteps fade down the hall, leaving a kind of hush behind him.

Jason exhales hard, running a hand over his face. “Gods, I—” He stops himself, then huffs again and reaches over to scoop a few extra vegetables into your plate. “I love the kid. I mean it, I do. But does he always have to be around?”

His voice drops low, almost conspiratorial. The firelight flickers against his face, softening the hard line of his jaw.

You smile, trying to keep your voice light, teasing. “Are you jealous?”

You hope to draw that familiar flush to his cheeks, to make him sputter and deflect because you don't want the risk of Damian hearing all of this and drawing back into himself.

But Jason doesn’t take the bait—at least not the way you expect.

“No,” he says, too quickly. Then, quieter, “Yes. No—I don’t know. I…” His gaze drops to his food, then to the floor. “I like having you to myself.”

There’s something naked in that confession. Something fragile, almost boyish. Jason, for all his rough edges and sharp words, has never learned how to admit loneliness without looking away.

He doesn’t need to pretend with you—not like he does with his family. Around them, he wears armor made of sarcasm and silence. Even now, years after coming back, Jason doubts he’ll ever fully relax in their company.

Especially not around Damian.

It isn’t the boy’s fault. Jason knows that. But every time he looks at Damian, he remembers.

Remembers standing in the League’s training yard, watching the child run until his small body trembled, his tutors shouting that failure was death. Remembers the look in Damian’s eyes when they handed him a knife and pointed to a chained dog. Remembers him crying—choking on his own breath, spitting his mother’s name like a curse—and then, finally, going still. Blade down.

Jason had watched from a distance, powerless to intervene. That memory lives in his bones.

He can’t relax around that kid. Not really. And yet Damian has learned to relax around you—and Jason knows how rare that is.

So it feels selfish, maybe, to resent it. But he does.

He misses you.

Misses you kissing his neck without warning, standing on tiptoe instead of asking him to lean down. Misses the way you’d curl into his lap whenever he finally sat down, the solid comfort of your weight grounding him in a world that never stops spinning.

He misses you walking around half-dressed and unbothered, so at ease in your skin that he felt human just watching you. Misses you sneaking up behind him while he cooks, arms slipping around his waist, the low hum of your laughter against his back.

Misses the smack you’d give him whenever he teased you about your inability to ever survive as a celibate.

Apparently, you could.

Apparently, you could rival a monk.

And Jason’s pretty sure you’d win, too.

Apparently he's the one who'd die if he was ever made celibate.

“…He needs a space,” you murmur finally, your voice as soft as the fire crackling in the grate. Your hand drifts to his thigh, a gentle anchor.

Jason sighs, leaning into the touch like it’s the first warm thing he’s felt all day. “I need a space,” he grumbles, sounding more like a sulking teenager than a grown man. He pokes at his food. “And I need meat.”

You roll your eyes, amused. “The chicken biryani you made last week tasted wonderful.”

“Yeah, well, apparently chickens are birds,” he mutters.

You blink, looking up at him. “Huh?”

“I always thought they were like… fat fish,” Jason says. “That’s what Dick told me when I was, like, ten.”

You stare for a second before laughter spills out of you, helpless and bright. “And you believed him?”

Jason just shrugs, reaching for another spoonful of biryani. “I believed everything my brother told me at that age.” He scoops some of his food into your mouth, shoveling most of his vegetables your way.

You chew, smiling around the bite. “You know who else believes everything his brother tells him?” you ask, voice sly.

Jason pauses mid-bite, suspicious. “…Damian calls me an idiot daily.”

“Yeah,” you hum. “But he still listens when you talk. He doesn’t do that with Tim.”

“That’s because no one can stand Tim talking.”

You groan, rolling your eyes again. “He does it with Dick, and no one can stand Dick talking either.”

Jason snorts. “He does not like me as much as Dick.”

“Me either,” you admit easily, your tone warm. “But he likes us as much as Dick. You don’t see him going to his apartment.”

“Yeah, because Kori brings out his worst habit,” Jason mutters, though there’s fondness hiding under his words. “All that god-awful rambling.”

You laugh quietly. “I think they’re sweet.”

He gives you a look, the corner of his mouth twitching.

“Tim and Kon, too,” you continue, ignoring it. “No matter how much you complain.”

“They need to learn how to get a room,” Jason groans, shoveling another bite into his mouth. “And I love Kori and Dick, I do, they’re just—”

“Loud,” you finish for him, gentle and knowing.

He chuckles, a low rumble in his chest. “Yeah. Loud.”

You both sit in the quiet that follows, the kind of quiet that’s easy, lived-in. The kind where every sound feels magnified—the slow ticking of the wall clock, the faint purrs of sleeping kittens, the crackle of birch wood in the fireplace.

Jason stares into the flames for a long time before muttering, “It’s not just them. The manor’s always so damn loud. Steph and—”

“Hm.” You hum softly, eyes thoughtful. “Yeah. So if I were Damian, I’d want to come here, too. To my brother’s quiet home. The one with tea, kittens, a bed for Titus, and a sweet older brother who actually makes ethnic food.”

Jason snorts. “Alfred can make him biryani.”

“Jason,” you say, laughter slipping into your tone, “I know you love him, but…”

You trail off, because you don’t need to finish it.

Jason already knows.

And somewhere in the kitchen, Damian’s voice drifts faintly back:

“You’re both eating without me—uncivilized.”

You and Jason exchange a look, trying not to smile too wide.

The kiddo comes back, and Jason immediately feels the loss of your hand on his thigh. The warmth that had anchored him to the moment is gone, and he notices it before he even thinks. Damian strides in, shoulders stiff, grinding salt onto his onion raita with a small scowl.

“Honey,” you murmur quietly, all knowing, “that’s your third bowl.”

Jason can’t help the small smirk that tugs at his mouth. He folds his arms in faux pride, chest puffed out like a rooster, though his eyes linger on your face and your hand brushing lightly over Damian’s, quietly correcting his angle with the spoon. You glance at him briefly, then pull back to focus on Damian, who has paused mid-grind, frowning at his food as though it’s betrayed him.

“You people will make me fat like Jason,” Damian declares, voice sharp, accusation hanging in the air.

“I am not fat!” Jason huffs immediately, scandal written across his features. He glances at you, eyes wide and pleading. “You’re the doctor! Tell him, babe!”

You pause for a moment, tilting your head thoughtfully. Technically, according to textbooks and clinical standards, someone of Jason’s size could be considered slightly overweight—but he carries it like armor, and your instinct is to reassure rather than lecture.

Damian’s grin grows impossibly wide at your pause. Jason’s jaw drops.

“HA! Told you! Fatson Todd over here is in denial!” Damian exclaims, triumphant, waving the onion raita spoon like a sword.

You bite the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing, handing Damian a stack of empty dishes with a soft, indulgent smile. Begrudgingly, he gets up to collect them, still muttering, still scowling, but your quiet smile seems to soften him just enough.

“God, sometimes I think you play mom,” Jason mutters, leaning back slightly. He watches your expression—the soft, gentle tilt of your lips, the quiet care in your movements as you help Damian balance the plates—and he feels the warmth of it wrap around him. “You really want someone like him as a kid? Hey, if we had a kid like him, I’d toss it right back to Grandpa Bruce.”

Damian’s huff echoes faintly from the kitchen, scowling and stomping as he disappears from view.

You turn to Jason, your voice low, almost conspiratorial. “You’d love a kid like Damian.”

He looks at you, hesitant, unsure, because the concept of children has never been simple for him. And yet… the softness in your eyes, the gentle calm you exude, makes him pause.

“Yeah,” he mumbles finally, uncertain but open. “Sure.”

You lean closer, brushing a fingertip over his hand. “He looks like you,” you murmur, “your eyebrows and cheekbones.”

“Bruce’s eyebrows and cheekbones,” Jason corrects softly, then glances at your face, his eyes lingering. “Your eyes would suit them.”

You hum, leaning forward to kiss the side of his neck briefly, warm and comforting, and then you hear the faint rush of water as Damian starts washing dishes. Jason freezes slightly under the gesture.

“Oh, so now you kiss me?” he huffs, mock-indignant, a childish edge to his voice. “Go kiss his cheeks like I know you want to.”

You pinch the cheek unmarked by his scar gently. “I love him too, because he reminds me of you. Don’t forget that.”

“You also think raccoons remind you of me.” Jason says, smirk creeping in.

“Raccoons are adorable!” you reply, cheerful and soft.

“Well, this raccoon wants attention,” he huffs, mock-sulking.

You glance toward the kitchen, checking Damian’s progress, then lean in, pressing a quick kiss along the bicep you’ve been eyeing since he came back from fixing the door. “…Damian mentioned he has a sleepover with Jon on Friday. I can call off work too and…”

Your voice trails, hypnotic, and Jason lifts his gaze, caught in the light of your lashes and the quiet intensity of your expression. “…we can—”

“Have a sleepover?” Jason murmurs, small smile teasing the corners of his mouth.

“Oh, there won’t be any sleeping,” you whisper back, eyes sparkling with mischief.

He blinks, and a slow smirk spreads across his face, soft and fond, the apartment feeling warmer somehow. The smell of biryani, the faint crackle of the fire, the distant splash of water from Damian’s dishwashing—everything settles into a rhythm that feels like home.

Jason leans back slightly, still mesmerized by the faint glow of your eyes and the way your lips curl at the edges.

please please please let me know what you think it gives me so much motivation to write and you will be getting a new work sooner if you do ; (◞‸◟)

©shisuni 𝖺𝗅𝗅 rights reserved , 𝖽𝗈 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖺𝗅/𝖼𝗈𝗉𝗒 𝗈𝗋 𝖼𝗅𝖺𝗂𝗆 𝗂𝗍 𝖺𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗈𝗐𝗇. 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗈𝗐𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗉𝗎𝗍 𝖺𝗂/𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗍𝗀𝗉𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗇𝗀𝖾 𝗂𝗍. Any oc's are not permitted to be put into other works unless dm'd, discussed, and agreed upon.

So he started planning out the best date and time to propose to you. He probably looked a little crazy to his siblings as he set up a cork board in one of his many safe houses with ideas and dates.

Dick was the only one that thought his planning was sweet, everyone else thought he was stressing out about your answer. And maybe in a different time he would be but after three years of you staying and reassuring him that you wanted him he was sure that you would say yes.

He had the ring custom made with your anniversary etched on the inside of the band and a garnet in the center alongside two small diamonds. Dick and Roy had helped him pick it out, they argued most of the time but in they end helped, three months before he planned to propose.

There were multiple phone calls from his brother and best friend to hype him up in the two days before he planned to propose. He had outwardly scoffed at them calling him to tell him that you would obviously say yes but inwardly he appreciated the support.

When you walk out of your shared bedroom he almost gets on one knee there. You look radiant and Jason almost forgets his whole plan. He restrains himself because him proposing before dinner wasn’t planned.

First, Jason takes you to the bookshop where you met and has become a semi-frequent date spot.

It’s a small hole in the wall shop that really only people know in the upper east side know about. He knows the owner, an older woman named Meredith whose family had this shop for generations, and she was extremely excited to know that you two were getting engaged. She keeps it a secret for him but does give him a discount on the books you end up buying.

He really enjoys watching you read through the backs of books with a slight pinch between your brows. You eventually end up getting two since you couldn’t decide between them.

After you finish up at the book store he takes you a couple blocks down to an Italian restaurant that he knows is a front for the mafia but makes the best cannolis he has ever had so he lets it slide. You talk about your work, friends and anything else that comes to mind and Jason is happy to watch you talk.

When the check is dropped off by a gruff looking guy who gives Jason a knowing smile you reach for it and Jason lightly smacks your hand away from it.

“Nope.” He states simply.

“Jay-” You go to protest with a frown on your face.

“Nope!” His voice increases in volume as he takes the bill away from your hands.

You give him a huff and an eye roll before giving in. Jason feels particularly accomplished as he walks up to pay the bill.

Once the bill is settled Jason leads you back to your building and up to the roof.

He had some help decorating the roof since he was with you for most of the day. Steph and Cass had taken point on that because Steph had told him that his taste was tragic, Cass had agreed before pulling out Bruce’s credit card that she swiped off of him somehow.

“Jason.” You gasp softly at the lit up rooftop decorated with pillows and blankets for stargazing. “This is beautiful.”

He runs his hand over the back of his neck in embarrassment, “I just came up with the idea, Steph and Cass set everything up.”

You squeeze his hand softly, “You still thought of it and that’s what matters.”

Jason takes a deep breath, reaching for the ring box in his pocket. “I also have something else.”

You get a confused pinch between your brows that evens out into shock as Jason gets down on one knee.

He goes to say the long speech he had planned, the one where he told you how much you mean to him, how you love him the way he is, how you make him want to live again rather then just survive. Jason had pondered what to say for months.

But now as he look up into your shocked face and teary eyes his brain stutters to a stop.

“Please?” Jason breathes out, no other words in his mind.

“Yes.” You sob and throw yourself into his arms. “Yes! Oh my god Jay. Yes.”

Jason holds you with a smile on his face that’s so wide it hurts because you love him when he has a plan and even when he doesn’t.

So he started planning out the best date and time to propose to you. He probably looked a little crazy to his siblings as he set up a cork board in one of his many safe houses with ideas and dates.

Dick was the only one that thought his planning was sweet, everyone else thought he was stressing out about your answer. And maybe in a different time he would be but after three years of you staying and reassuring him that you wanted him he was sure that you would say yes.

He had the ring custom made with your anniversary etched on the inside of the band and a garnet in the center alongside two small diamonds. Dick and Roy had helped him pick it out, they argued most of the time but in they end helped, three months before he planned to propose.

There were multiple phone calls from his brother and best friend to hype him up in the two days before he planned to propose. He had outwardly scoffed at them calling him to tell him that you would obviously say yes but inwardly he appreciated the support.

When you walk out of your shared bedroom he almost gets on one knee there. You look radiant and Jason almost forgets his whole plan. He restrains himself because him proposing before dinner wasn’t planned.

First, Jason takes you to the bookshop where you met and has become a semi-frequent date spot.

It’s a small hole in the wall shop that really only people know in the upper east side know about. He knows the owner, an older woman named Meredith whose family had this shop for generations, and she was extremely excited to know that you two were getting engaged. She keeps it a secret for him but does give him a discount on the books you end up buying.

He really enjoys watching you read through the backs of books with a slight pinch between your brows. You eventually end up getting two since you couldn’t decide between them.

After you finish up at the book store he takes you a couple blocks down to an Italian restaurant that he knows is a front for the mafia but makes the best cannolis he has ever had so he lets it slide. You talk about your work, friends and anything else that comes to mind and Jason is happy to watch you talk.

When the check is dropped off by a gruff looking guy who gives Jason a knowing smile you reach for it and Jason lightly smacks your hand away from it.

“Nope.” He states simply.

“Jay-” You go to protest with a frown on your face.

“Nope!” His voice increases in volume as he takes the bill away from your hands.

You give him a huff and an eye roll before giving in. Jason feels particularly accomplished as he walks up to pay the bill.

Once the bill is settled Jason leads you back to your building and up to the roof.

He had some help decorating the roof since he was with you for most of the day. Steph and Cass had taken point on that because Steph had told him that his taste was tragic, Cass had agreed before pulling out Bruce’s credit card that she swiped off of him somehow.

“Jason.” You gasp softly at the lit up rooftop decorated with pillows and blankets for stargazing. “This is beautiful.”

He runs his hand over the back of his neck in embarrassment, “I just came up with the idea, Steph and Cass set everything up.”

You squeeze his hand softly, “You still thought of it and that’s what matters.”

Jason takes a deep breath, reaching for the ring box in his pocket. “I also have something else.”

You get a confused pinch between your brows that evens out into shock as Jason gets down on one knee.

He goes to say the long speech he had planned, the one where he told you how much you mean to him, how you love him the way he is, how you make him want to live again rather then just survive. Jason had pondered what to say for months.

But now as he look up into your shocked face and teary eyes his brain stutters to a stop.

“Please?” Jason breathes out, no other words in his mind.

“Yes.” You sob and throw yourself into his arms. “Yes! Oh my god Jay. Yes.”

Jason holds you with a smile on his face that’s so wide it hurts because you love him when he has a plan and even when he doesn’t.

Jason stood by the front door a little longer than necessary, his helmet tucked in his arm, between his side and the crook of his elbow, and he just listened.

Until he heard it, the sound of running water from the bathroom. His entire face changed in a second. It should have been embarrassing how immediate it was. How one moment he looks like Red Hood, all tough edges, bruised knuckles, spit and anger and Gotham grime to last for days, and the very next he’s just … a boy.

A very happy one.

“Oh, thank fuck,” He whispered to himself, dropping his helmet on the couch as he passed. He was grinning before he even turned into the hall.

He appeared in the bathroom mirror behind you moments later, when you were half bent over the sink, toothbrush still in your mouth.

There he was. Hair messed up from his helmet, eyes exhausted, leather jacket half unzipped. You could tell it had been a rough night, and somewhere under his clothes bruises were already blooming. But he was looking at you like he had just walked through Heaven’s gates instead of into your slightly cluttered, too small, too expensive apartment at 1am.

“There’s my girl”

It comes out of him soft, and delighted, and terribly fond.

You barely have time to spit the toothpaste and rinse your mouth before he’s on you. Jason does not enter spaces normally when he’s this happy. He arrives in them entirely, every piece of him committing to it at once.

“Hi, baby” You laughed as his arms came around you from behind, picking you up and bringing you to the bedroom. He practically dropped you onto the bed, before plopping himself down on top of you. Heavy, warm, large. All dramatic deadweight, burying his face into your shoulder with a deep groan.

“There she is,” He mumbled, “I missed you”

“You were gone not even five hours” You replied, trying to shift yourself into a position more comfortable. But it was no use.

“It was five hours. And fourty-six minutes. And it was the worst five hours and fourty-six minutes of my life”

“You know you say that every patrol is the worst time of your life ?” You asked him

“Yeah. I do. And I mean it every time.”

He shifted, pulling his weight off you and wrapping his arms tighter around you as he spoke, like he all of a sudden developed a deep fear of somebody prying you off of him if he let go even for a second. He smelled like the city. Like smoke, and chilly air, rain damp leather, gunpowder, sweat and the faintest trace of blood.

But underneath it all, he still smelled like Jason. Jason who was home, and safe.

He pressed a kiss to the side of your jaw, then another, and another right after because he’s decided that taking a break was optional for him tonight.

You laughed, trying to push at his shoulder. He didn’t budge. “Jay”

“Nope”

“Jay.”

“Nope,” he repeated, grinning against your skin as he kissed you again, pressing a new one on every inch of skin he could reach. “Can’t hear you. I’m busy”

“Busy doing what exactly ?” You asked

“Kissin’ my girl.” He answered, as if it was obviously the most important thing in the world for him to be doing right now. The sheer amount of joy put into a single phrase made something ache sweet in your chest. Because he means it every single time he says it. My girl. Not in the sharp possessive type of way. He said it with reverence, in a Look-What-I-Get-To-Have-Way.

He pulled back just enough to look at you properly, hands coming up to cup your face, making sure your eyes stayed on him and nothing else. And there it was, that smile of his. The real one, the one where his eyes crinkled and his nose scrunched up. The smile that was too big to hide, and too bright to try and play cool. But Jason had never been able to even think about acting normal when it came to loving you.

“You stayed up for me,” He said proudly

“I always stay up for you”

“I know” His grin somehow got even brighter “That’s the best part”

It was immediately followed by: “Do we have any snacks”

You laughed so hard you snorted. “You are unbelievable”

“Hey. I deserve them. I got stabbed a little”

“You did not” You gave a playful smack to his arm. You would have known the second he walked through the door if he got stabbed.

“Emotionally. Because I had to be away from you”

“That does not count as being stabbed, Jason”

“It should” He grumbled, flopping sideways again until nearly his entire body was draped over yours. Clingy in that absurd post-patrol way he allows himself to have when he makes it home. He propped himself half up on his elbow, and just stared at you. You stared back.

He started laughing first, warm, loud laughter. The kind that shook his shoulder and made him duck his head into your neck when he was catching his breath afterwards, still grinning helplessly because he had lost all control over it.

He couldn’t contain it. Not here, not with you. Outside of this apartment he could keep himself locked up so tight sometimes he feels like he might crack under all of it. But here ? With you curled up under him, the sheets freshly washed, the lights dimmed and warm, everything overflows. Affection, relief, want, joy so pure and earnest it becomes boyish.

He steals kisses between sentences, and smiles for no reason, and touches you over and over, every place he can reach.

When you brush his hair back from his forehead he melts. Eyes closing, face going soft, leaning into your hand with a little sigh that makes you laugh again.

“There he is,” You teased, softer this time “Big scary crime lord.”

“Don’t ruin my reputation” He teased back. But his reputation was clearly not as important as having his face pressed into the palm of your hand.

“You are laying across me like a large dog”

“Yes. A guard dog.”

“A lap dog” You corrected

Jason let out a dramatic gasp, head popping up from your hand before he grabbed your face and kissed you three times in rapid succession.

“That is defamation,” "A kiss “Slander,” another kiss “Character assassination” A third kiss.

You were breathless, still laughing, when he finally settled again, heavy with contentment, head tucked against your chest to listen to the sound of your heart beating.

Neither of you said anything for a while, instead Jason just listened. Breathing slowly, rubbing his thumb in slow circles against your side, still smiling.

He never really thought he’d get to this part of things. He got the dramatic parts of life, the life-or-death parts, the yearning so deep it ached.

But he didn’t think he’d get this. The coming home part. The being loved openly and dearly part. The getting to collapses into the arms of the girl he loves and hearing her laugh while the city spins outside and he is untouched and unbothered for a few hours.

His head tilted up again suddenly, eyes bright.

“You know what ?” He asked

“What ?”

“I think that I am devastatingly in love with you”

You smiled at him, fingers brushing through the white streak of hair above the center of his forehead.

“Oh yeah ?”