don’t be no fool —

-

Then, it’s a butter dish that catches Roy’s attention next.

Yes, a butter dish. Innocuous in many ways, but… in a home like the one it currently occupies, of a man who refuses to buy milk because of the risk it might go bad before he finishes it… it’s strange. One might not normally be so alarmed by the sight, but in Jason Todd’s kitchen? It's suspicious. Borderline shocking, enough to stop Roy’s rummaging through the fridge, and causing him to squint at the thing perched so neatly on the top shelf. 

It’s not so much alarming as it is simply… conspicuous. Because Roy, perhaps more than anyone (least, he knows, that’s how he comes off), is more than uncomfortably (and lamely) familiar with what it means to be a bachelor. He knows what being a man without a woman looks like, and how that translates to owning exactly three forks, storing leftovers in old salsa jars, and wiping sticks of butter directly on hot pans when you need it, not cutting off little “pats.” 

So yes. A butter dish. One with a matching lid and everything. That’s not something a man just has… it’s something someone brings into the space. 

Roy, not that he ever does, doesn’t even try to play it cool.

“A butter dish?” he says, smirking like he’s caught the tail end of Gotham’s most juicy gossip. He practically has. “You think I wouldn’t notice a butter dish after you practically lit me up for pointing out the panties that were hangin’ over the sink in your bathroom like they wanted to be found.?”

Jason, busy futzing over a takeout menu, is clearly doing a terrible job of trying not to prickle from where he leans over the nearest counter. The words cause him to tense, and by the way his eyes narrow, he looks about ready to run over and hit Roy over the head with a soured, mostly-empty soy sauce bottle for getting in his business.

“They were in the laundry,” he corrects stiffly instead, blatantly ignoring the new discovery even if he is correcting Roy’s initial observation. 

Despite being friends for so long, there are still parts of his life that Jason shies away from sharing. It’s something Roy has grown used to, even if it still causes his ass to itch when Jason is sitting on something extremely interesting and personal he refuses to divulge. Not that he isn’t open about the majority of his more personal affairs, but real, genuine relationships have always been…different. Maybe because he considers Roy a grade-a playboy and doesn’t feel like being nagged at to shave his nuts, maybe because he doesn’t want to fuck anything up. That knowledge, however, doesn’t stop Roy’s onslaught. 

“You’ve got a girl, don’t you?”

Jason barks out the fakest laugh Roy’s heard since he tried stand-up comedy that one time.

“You think I’m getting ass on the regular because I have a butter dish?”

“Um, obviously,” Roy scoffs, like a prosecutor with good enough findings to prove a point in court. “Since when has any man who lives alone ever owned a butter dish?”

(Which is true, for the most part. Sure, B might own a butter dish, maybe even a butterbell, the fancy asshole, but it’s only because he was raised by Alfred, the same grandpa who basically raised Jason. Still, Jason’s never exactly been one for presentation…his only towel is covered in bloodstains and who knows what other fluids, and he still calls it clean.)

It’s not just the dish, though, that enlightened Roy to the realization. It’s the opened bag of spinach on the bottom shelf. It’s the little red and purple row of flavored sparkling waters sitting next to the six-pack of beers, and the fucking package of prosciutto and provolone. The dish is just the flare, practically waving its little glass ass for all to see, and Jason being tight-lipped about… pretty much everything never stopped Roy from prying into his business (especially when it came to girls).

“Since,” Jason mutters, throwing down the menu with an agitated sigh, “I got tired of greasy fingers every time I make toast. Good lord.”

Roy grins, letting go easy, if only because Jason is his best friend. 

Not that easy, though. 

 “Toast? Or toast for two, Jay?”

Jason doesn’t answer, but then he’s stalking over and trying to shut the fridge door on Roy’s orange head, and Roy knows.

-

Finally, it’s a pile of brownies. Not a tray of brownies, haphazardly sliced, with the knife still sitting under the cellophane waiting for whoever gets there next. No. It’s a neat pile of brownies on a plate that’s ceramic, ceramic! Not even paper or plastic, each neatly trimmed into a perfect square, like something off the front of a Betty-Crocker box mix package. 

Roy eats two before the accusation, while Jason is hunched over the dining room table, glowering at a glowing laptop screen. He’s fussing with some police precinct map he hacked into for a lead that’s probably confidential in at least three surrounding counties. 

Roy stands just off to the side, chewing slow, arms crossed; highly aware he might be lighting the fuse on Jason’s temper, but not particularly caring.

“So…” he starts, calm and casual as if normalcy ever made anything easy with Jason. “Who made the brownies, Todd?”

Jason doesn’t even glance up. His fingers clack out some command like he's not in the middle of fucking around in something that likely dictates happenings throughout the whole city. 

“I did.”

Roy raises an eyebrow, pointedly looks down at the plated brownies again, then back at his so-called best friend.

“Bullshit.” There’s a long pause, too long of a pause, really, then, “The brownies are on a plate. Sliced.”

“Fine,” he purses his lips, pressing another button. “I picked them up at B’s. They’re Alfred’s.”

Roy squints. Jason finally closes the laptop to stare him down. 

It could be the truth. But Alfred’s desserts are almost always served on china, and while these are plated, they’re on Jason’s regular chipped dinnerware. If Jason weren’t already guilty of the panties and the butter dish (and the three-ply toilet paper as opposed to the two-ply from the bodega, the cut up fruit cubes in the fridge, and the women’s deodorant), it might be a little easier to let slide… 

(Which… sure, a man could wear the scent, Vanilla Cashmere Coconut by a brand called… Sexy Midnight Island, or whatever the hell it was. But not any man who sweats like Jason Todd sweats.

Listen, when being a dead eye is the only thing you’re good at, you learn to pick up on the little things.)

But since Jason is guilty? This won't slide.

 “I said, who made the—”

“I heard you. And I said Alfred.” 

The silence festers again, tension blooming into something that seems to heat up the room with nerves. 

“We both know you’re lying, Todd.” 

The men glare at each other, Roy’s look sturdy, incredulous, and waiting. Todd’s defensive, annoyed, and recognizably avoidant. 

But Roy isn’t here to argue. He’s here for the truth. 

“I’m your best bud, man. Who is she?”

The pause is longer than either man would like, and only the fan of Jason’s overworked laptop can be heard heaving in the interim. Jason shifts from where he’s planted himself, looks away, looks back, and runs a hand through his hair…and he still can’t bring himself to say your name.

He must know it’s see-through, must know that Roy sees it all anyway, otherwise, what kind of friend would he be? What kind of friendship would they have? They aren’t the same young, reckless and lonely men they were when they first started hanging out together, as outlaws, as allies. 

Jason covers his mouth with his hand, looks to the ceiling, and sighs. Then he says your name. 

“Been official three months. She thinks I eat like crap and live like a fratboy.”  

Even if there’s still more prying to do (about the fact “official” doesn’t exactly translate to how long you’ve known each other… and also maybe bra size, your landing strip) Roy can’t help but smile at his friend, trotting over to slap him excitedly on the back. 

“Thought so, jackass.”  

And even Jason begins to grin. 

-

(Roy is on his fifth and what is unfortunately his final brownie on his way out the door, when Jason is giving him those scary blue eyes one last time. 

“Just for the record, Harper?” he warns, fingers wrapped around the hard edge of the door. “If you ever touch my girl’s panties again, I’ll string you up with the lace.”

But Roy only laughs.

Jason liked taking care of people. It was buried somewhere deep beneath the violence, the sarcasm, the helmet, the terrifying reputation, and the lifetime’s worth of anger issues, but it was there. Raw and instinctive. He liked memorizing what people needed before they asked for it. He liked patching wounds, carrying heavy things, walking on the outside of the sidewalk, checking locks twice before bed. Maybe it came from a childhood where nobody took care of him properly. Maybe it came from being Robin once upon a time, before the world had split him open and rebuilt him meaner. Whatever the reason, taking care of someone he loved felt as natural to him as breathing.

Unfortunately for him, y/n would rather throw herself into oncoming traffic than accept assistance gracefully.

Which was deeply inconvenient considering Jason Todd had money now. Not respectable money, obviously. Not “stocks and mutual funds” money like Bruce. Jason’s finances existed in a morally gray area populated by terrified drug lords, black-market deals, confiscated cash, and the occasional envelope Bruce shoved into his hands disguised as “mission funding” when they both knew it was guilt money.

Jason accepted all of it without shame.

And when he got a girlfriend? Jesus Christ.

He immediately developed the overwhelming urge to spend every cent on her.

Not in an obnoxious way. Not because he thought she couldn’t survive on her own. If anything, y/n surviving independently despite Gotham actively trying to eat people alive was one of the things he admired most about her. She worked herself ragged, paid her own bills, handled her own problems, and carried herself with this stubborn, infuriating pride that made Jason want to simultaneously shake her and marry her.

But he loved her. Of course he wanted to make her life easier.

Apparently that made him public enemy number one.

Every single attempt at paying for something turned into a war of attrition.

Coffee dates were the worst. Jason would buy their drinks with the smug satisfaction of a man fulfilling his divine purpose as a boyfriend, only for his phone to buzz ten minutes later.

Y/N SENT YOU $10.00

Jason would stare at the notification with pure resentment.

Once, after their fourth argument about it that month, he’d deliberately paid for dinner while she was in the bathroom, thinking he’d finally outsmarted her.

The next morning she’d transferred him exact reimbursement down to the tax.

Psychotic behavior.

Another time, he’d tried being direct about it.

“You know normal girlfriends let their boyfriends spoil them,” he muttered while leaning against her kitchen counter.

Y/n, sitting cross-legged on the counter eating a banana with the confidence of a woman impossible to embarrass, looked unimpressed. “Normal boyfriends don’t source their income like Batman’s most wanted.”

“That’s hurtful.”

“That’s accurate.”

Jason narrowed his eyes before pulling a thick stack of cash from his jacket pocket and tossing it onto the counter beside her. “Take it.”

She glanced at the money, then at him, then back at the money. “I don’t want your guilt money from your daddy.”

“It’s not guilt money,” Jason corrected immediately. “It’s drug money.”

Y/n stared at him slowly, banana halfway to her mouth, looking genuinely uncertain whether she should kiss him or book him a therapist.

Jason had shrugged like that clarified everything.

Because to him, honestly, it did.

Then there were the bills.

God, the bills argument nearly killed him.

It had been late evening, rain tapping softly against the apartment windows while Gotham drowned itself in neon and smog outside. Y/n’s apartment wasn’t terrible, but it was small in that distinctly Gotham way—thin walls, unreliable heating, pipes that screamed like dying animals whenever someone showered. Jason practically lived there anyway despite technically owning a much nicer place. Mostly because he preferred her cluttered little apartment over any penthouse money could buy.

She was sprawled on top of him on the couch, wearing one of his hoodies and soft sleep shorts, her cheek pressed into his neck while he worked on his laptop balanced precariously against her lower back. One of his arms rested around her waist automatically, hand underneath the hoodie, fingertips tracing absent patterns against her skin while he typed with the other hand.

“Ugh,” she groaned suddenly into his throat. “My landlord is up my ass about rent.”

Jason’s fingers paused over the keyboard instantly.

“How much?”

“No.”

“You don’t even know what I was gonna say.”

“You were gonna offer money.”

“I was gonna offer money.”

She made a triumphant sound against his skin. “Exactly. Denied.”

Jason clicked his tongue in annoyance, shifting slightly beneath her. “Baby, I basically live here anyway. Let me help with bills.”

“No.”

“You’re working doubles.”

“I’ll survive.”

“You shouldn’t have to survive,” he muttered.

That made her lift her head slightly. Her expression softened around the edges when she looked at him, because no matter how much they argued about this, she knew where it came from. Jason wasn’t controlling. Wasn’t condescending. He wasn’t trying to own her.

He just loved hard. Recklessly. Like a man who never learned moderation.

“I wanna do things myself,” she said quietly. “I need to prove I can.”

Jason looked at her for a long moment.

Most people saw anger first when they looked at him. Violence. Volatility. But underneath all of that, Jason understood pride better than almost anyone. Understood what it meant to claw your own survival out of the dirt with bloody hands. Understood how humiliating dependence could feel.

So instead of arguing, he just sighed softly through his nose and kissed the top of her head.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “Okay.”

Which should’ve worried her.

Because when Jason Todd stopped arguing, it usually meant he’d already decided to do something significantly worse.

The next afternoon, while Jason was in the middle of interrogating a weapons trafficker, his phone vibrated in his pocket.

He glanced at the caller ID and immediately smiled beneath the Red Hood helmet.

“Hey, gorgeous.”

“You paid my fucking rent?”

Jason leaned casually against the damp brick wall beside him while the criminal tied to the chair whimpered quietly in the background.

“For the next six months, yeah.” He checked his gun lazily. “Oh, and your car’s in the shop. Your brakes sounded like a dying walrus. Figured I’d get them replaced.”

There was silence on the other end.

Then came one long inhale that positively radiated fury.

Jason grinned harder.

“I’m going to kill you.”

“Yeah?”

“You are insane.”

“You still love me though.”

“I’m considering arson.”

“That’s my girl.”

The line went dead with an aggressive beep.

Jason stood there for another second staring at the phone in his hand, helpless affection spreading warm through his chest before he could stop it. The kind that made him feel seventeen again. Human again. Soft in places he usually kept armored shut.

If anyone ever saw the look on his face right now, Jason would actually have to kill them.

With a sigh, he slid the phone back into his jacket and finally turned toward the terrified criminal still zip-tied to the chair in the abandoned warehouse.

“You know,” he muttered while pulling another zip tie tighter around the guy’s wrists, “I buy one woman six months’ rent and suddenly I’m the bad guy.”

The guy had apparently developed a death wish.

“F-females,” he laughed nervously, sweat dripping down his temple. “Am I right?”

Jason’s smile vanished instantly.

Gone was the lovesick idiot paying for brake repairs. This was the man criminals whispered about in panic.

Jason grabbed the chair sharply, yanking it forward until the man nearly choked on his own breath.

“That,” Jason said quietly, “is my girl you’re talking about.”

The criminal went pale.

“And trust me,” Jason continued, voice calm in the way that scared people most, “you do not wanna disrespect the woman willing to date me voluntarily.”

“R-right. I’m sorry. Sorry.”

Jason stared at him another second before sighing heavily and releasing the chair.

©𝓐𝒏𝒈𝒆𝒍𝒑𝒆𝒅𝒊𝒂𝒂. do not copy, translate, or repost my work on any other sites without my permission. 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐨𝐫𝐬 𝐝𝐨 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭.