#blergh

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summary : Jason is trying (and fumbling) to be normal. He’s not performing the gruff Red Hood persona here. instead, he’s quietly learning how to exist in a soft, everyday space without the constant edge of violence. He is trying to be gentle, which comes through in small, tender moments — the way he holds a knife like it might explode, how he softens his voice, how he second-guesses every touch until you reassure him it’s safe to just be. CW: mentions of redhood business, gun and knife mentions, fluff as frick.

a/n : I’m about to explode Word. my word count has been so wrong recently I’m SO sorry. Also can you tell I like writing cooking fics…

The kitchen smelled like slightly burnt garlic and nervous energy.

Jason stood at the counter in a plain black t shirt and grey sweatpants, hoodie sleeves pushed up to his elbows, looking at the cutting board like it had personally offended him. His hair was still damp from the quick shower he’d taken after patrol - the white streak at the front flopping messily over his forehead. No leather jacket, no guns, no mask. Just Jason Todd, attempting to make dinner like a normal person.

You leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, watching him with open affection. He’d shown up at your apartment twenty minutes ago with a paper grocery bag and a quietly determined look that said he’d been thinking about this all day.

“I said I’d cook,” he muttered without turning around. His voice was low, almost hesitant. “You’re supposed to sit and… I don’t know. Look pretty or something.”

You laughed softly. “I can do both. But I’d rather help. Or at least watch you not murder that onion.”

He glanced over his shoulder, eyes softening the second they landed on you. The corner of his mouth twitched — not quite a smirk, more like a shy half-smile he only let out when no one else was around. “Fair. Just… don’t expect gourmet. I mostly know how to heat up MREs and order Thai.”

You crossed the small kitchen and hopped up onto the counter beside the cutting board, swinging your legs. The apartment was warm, lights dimmed to a golden glow. Outside, Gotham’s usual chaos felt far away for once.

Jason picked up the chef’s knife you’d left out for him. He held it carefully - fingers positioned exactly as you’d shown him last week, but his grip was still a little too tight, shoulders tense like he was handling a live grenade instead of stainless steel.

You noticed. Of course you did.

“Jay,” you said gently. “It’s an onion. Not a suspect.”

He exhaled through his nose, a short, self-deprecating sound. “Old habits. Feels weird holding something sharp without… you know. Intent.”

You reached over and lightly touched his wrist. His skin was warm, scarred knuckles brushing yours. “No intent needed tonight. Just dinner. With me.”

He looked at your hand on his wrist for a long second, then nodded once. The tension in his shoulders eased a fraction. He started chopping - slow, deliberate slices. Each cut was precise, but there was a carefulness to it that went beyond technique. Like he was reminding himself with every motion that this knife didn’t have to draw blood. That the world didn’t have to end in violence tonight.

The onion surrendered without a fight. Jason’s eyes watered anyway. He blinked hard, muttering, “This is bullshit. I’ve taken beatings from Killer Croc and I’m crying over vegetables.”

You grinned, hopping down to grab a tissue. “Here, tough guy.” You dabbed gently at the corners of his eyes, then kissed the tip of his nose. “Better?”

He blinked again, this time not from the onion. His expression went soft - the guarded edges melting away until he was just Jason, standing in your kitchen, looking at you like you’d hung the moon and stars. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “Better.”

You moved on to the garlic. Jason watched you demonstrate crushing the cloves with the flat of the knife, then tried it himself. His first attempt was too hesitant; the clove skidded. The second was perfect - clean, controlled. He let out a small, surprised huff of satisfaction.

“See?” you said. “You’re getting it.”

He set the knife down and wiped his hands on a dish towel, then surprised you by stepping behind you and wrapping his arms loosely around your waist. His chin rested on your shoulder, breath warm against your neck. No pressure, no weight - just presence. Like he was still learning how much of himself was allowed to touch you without overwhelming.

“Feels… normal,” he murmured. “Weirdly normal.”

You leaned back into him, covering his hands with yours where they rested on your stomach. “That’s the point. Normal can be good.”

He was quiet for a moment, just breathing with you. Then, softer: “I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop. Like someone’s gonna kick the door in and remind me I don’t get to have this.”

Your heart twisted. You turned in his arms, facing him. He didn’t step back; he just let you settle against his chest, your hands coming up to rest over his heart.

“You do get this,” you said firmly. “We both do. One dinner at a time.”

Jason searched your face, eyes uncertain but hopeful. He lifted one hand - slowly, telegraphing every movement - and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. His thumb brushed your cheekbone with the lightest touch, like he was afraid even that might be too much.

“You’re really patient with me,” he whispered.

“You’re worth it.”

He swallowed hard. Then he leaned down and kissed you - gentle, unhurried, the kind of kiss that tasted like second chances. No rush, no hunger born from adrenaline. Just Jason learning how to be soft with someone he loved.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours. “Okay. Back to dinner before I burn the place down.”

You smiled and let him go, though he kept one hand on your hip for a few extra seconds, as if reluctant to lose the contact.

The sauce came next. Jason stood at the stove, stirring the simmering tomatoes with a wooden spoon like it was a delicate operation. You handed him spices one by one - basil, oregano, a pinch of red pepper flakes. Each time he added something, he looked to you for approval, eyebrows raised in silent question.

“More garlic?” he asked after tasting.

“Always.”

He added another clove, then offered you the spoon. You blew on it gently and took a sip. The flavour bloomed - rich, a little sweet, with just enough heat.

“Perfect,” you declared.

Jason’s shoulders relaxed another notch. A real smile broke through this time — small, crooked, the one that made the scar on his lip crinkle. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. See? You’re a natural when you stop overthinking it.”

He set the spoon down and turned the heat to low. Then he surprised you again by pulling you in for another hug - this one a little firmer, but still careful. His arms circled your waist completely, but he kept his hands open, palms flat against your back instead of gripping.

“I like this,” he said against your hair. “Coming home to you. Not having to suit up again right away. Just… chopping onions and not thinking about patrol.”

You hugged him back, pressing your cheek to his chest. His heartbeat was steady under your ear - a little faster than average, but calm. “You’re doing great at the normal thing.”

“Still feels like I’m borrowing someone else’s life sometimes.” His voice dropped, vulnerable in the quiet kitchen. “Like any second I’ll wake up back in the dirt or in the Pit and this - you, the apartment, the stupid sauce - will disappear.”

You pulled back just enough to look up at him. “It won’t. Because I’m not going anywhere. And neither are you.”

He studied you for a long moment, then nodded once - a tiny, decisive movement. “Okay.” He kissed your forehead, lingering there. “Okay.”

Dinner came together slowly after that. Pasta boiled on the back burner while Jason carefully plated everything - twirling the spaghetti with a fork the way you’d shown him, spooning sauce over the top, even grating fresh parmesan with a focus that made you bite back a grin. He set the small table with mismatched plates and lit a candle you didn’t even know you owned.

When you both sat down, he waited until you took the first bite before trying his own. His eyes lit up at the taste.

“Holy shit,” he said, genuinely surprised. “This is… actually good.”

You laughed. “Told you.”

He reached across the table and took your hand, thumb stroking gently over your knuckles. No roughness, no calloused grip that could bruise. Just warmth and quiet wonder.

The conversation flowed easily after that - not about cases or villains or the Batfamily drama, but small things. Your favorite book you’d been reading. The stray cat he’d started feeding near one of the safehouses. How he was thinking about getting a houseplant because “even I can’t kill something that just needs water, right?”

You teased him gently about the plant. He teased you back about your terrible knife skills. Laughter came easy in the warm light.

Halfway through the meal, Jason went quiet again, staring at your joined hands.

“What’s on your mind?” you asked softly.

He hesitated, then spoke in that low, careful voice. “I keep thinking about how I used to hold guns. Knives. How everything I touched ended up broken or bloody.” He swallowed. “And now I’m holding your hand. Making dinner. And it doesn’t feel… wrong. It feels like maybe I can learn how to do this without fucking it up.”

Your chest ached with how much you loved him in that moment.

“You’re not fucking it up,” you said. “You’re learning. And I love watching you do it.”

He lifted your hand to his lips and pressed a soft kiss to your knuckles. “Thank you. For letting me try.”

After dinner, you did the dishes together. Jason washed while you dried - a simple rhythm that felt achingly domestic. He was careful with the plates, setting them down like they were made of glass. When soap suds got on his nose, you wiped it away with the dish towel and he let you, eyes crinkling at the corners.

Once everything was clean, he pulled you into the living room. No TV. No patrol reports. Just the two of you on the couch, your back against his chest, his arms wrapped loosely around you. One of his hands rested on your stomach, fingers tracing idle, gentle patterns through your shirt.

You talked for hours - about nothing and everything. He told you about the first time Alfred tried to teach him to cook as a kid (it ended with smoke alarms and Bruce looking vaguely disappointed). You told him about your worst cooking disaster. He laughed - a real, warm sound that vibrated through his chest into your back.

At some point you turned in his arms so you could face him. Jason’s expression was open, unguarded. No front. No sarcasm shield. Just soft green eyes and a slight flush on his cheeks from the warmth of the apartment and the wine you’d split.

You cupped his face, thumbs brushing over the faint scars on his cheekbones. “You’re really good at this domestic thing, you know.”

He leaned into your touch, eyes fluttering half-closed. “Only because it’s with you.”

You kissed him then - slow and sweet, the kind of kiss that had no urgency, no adrenaline behind it. Just two people learning how to be gentle with each other in a world that had never been kind.

Jason kissed you back with the same careful reverence. His hands stayed on your waist, never wandering lower, never gripping too tight. When you deepened the kiss, he made a soft sound in the back of his throat but still held back, letting you lead.

You pulled away just enough to whisper against his lips, “You can touch me, Jay. I’m not going to break.”

He exhaled shakily. “I know. I just… I like making sure.”

You smiled and kissed him again. “I know you do. And I love that about you.”

The night wound down naturally. Jason carried you to bed when you started yawning — not sweeping you up dramatically, but lifting you with easy care, like you were something precious. He set you down on the mattress gently, then climbed in beside you, pulling the blankets over both of you.

You curled into his side, head on his chest. His arm came around you — loose, warm, protective without caging.

“Stay the night?” you murmured, already half-asleep.

“Wouldn’t leave even if you kicked me out,” he whispered back. His fingers stroked slowly through your hair. “This… this is the best part of my day. Coming here. Being normal with you.”

You pressed a kiss to his collarbone. “Then keep coming back. Every night if you want.”

He was quiet for a long time. Then, so softly you almost missed it:

“I think I’m starting to believe I can.”

You fell asleep to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat and the gentle rise and fall of his chest — no nightmares tonight, no Red Hood lurking at the edges. Just Jason learning how to be home.

In the morning, you woke to the smell of coffee and the sound of Jason humming off-key in the kitchen as he attempted pancakes. He was still in last night’s sweatpants, hair sleep-mussed, looking more relaxed than you’d ever seen him.

When he noticed you watching from the doorway, he gave you that shy half-smile again and held up the spatula like a peace offering.

“Round two?” he asked. “I promise not to burn them this time.”

You crossed the room and wrapped your arms around his waist from behind, pressing your cheek to his back.

“Round two sounds perfect.”

And for the first time in a long time, Jason Todd believed it might actually be.

a/n : can you tell im part Italian

@fancy-possum © 2026. All work belongs to me and I have not used ANY ai platform to ‘enhance’ my writing. I do not consent to my writing being tweaked, reposted on other platforms, translated or fed into ai. FUCK AI.

The reward for the quickest a media made me do fanart goes to these guys ☝️☝️☝️

Now that we know that the little red AI is Caine, the original program. He seemingly.. absorbed? Killed?? Merged with?? The newer, "better" program.

The show choosing to follow up his furious crashout over being the "lesser of the two" with a shot of his red and blue glitched eyes seems to be implying that he's made up of two programs. The other one's still in there.

He's clearly resentful of the blue program, whether it be the actual, non-NPC Abel, or whatever. It was his replacement. The product of a better mind. A quieter, smoother, better program.