#chc(oy)

Jason Todd hated grocery stores.

No, scratch that. Jason Todd loathed grocery stores.

The harsh fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, the aisles packed with too many strangers, the squeaky carts with wheels that never rolled straight, the cheap pop music on loop.

It was torture.

It was hell.

And yet, somehow, here he was.

Pushing a cart. In public. In broad daylight.

Like a normal person.

(He was not a normal person. He would never be a normal person. And yet, here he was.)

All because you asked.

Correction: all because you smiled.

That was really all it took.

He could face down armed gangs without flinching, but the second you tilted your head, eyes soft, voice lilting with a “Come with me?”… he was done. Gone. Over. Hook, line, and sinker.

It was like you knew you had him wrapped around your finger.

Yeah that smile.

You wielded it like a weapon, and Jason, the big scary Red Hood, had absolutely zero defenses against it.

So now? He was following you through the cereal aisle, scowling at a display of Pop-Tarts like it owed him money, while you hummed happily to yourself, comparing nutrition labels with more focus than you ever showed on an actual mission.

“Which one do you like better?” you asked, holding up two boxes of cereal like you were presenting evidence in court.

Jason blinked. “They taste the same.”

You gasped like he’d just committed treason. “Excuse me? Cinnamon Crunch and Honey Crunch are not the same.”

“They’re literally just sugar in different shapes.”

“Jason Todd,” you said, scandalized, jabbing a finger at him, “you take that back.”

He smirked, enjoying how your nose crinkled when you were annoyed. “Nope. Gonna stand by it.”

You huffed, rolling your eyes and tossing both boxes into the cart with unnecessary force. Jason didn’t comment—just filed it away in his head. He made a mental note that you wanted both.

(He also made a mental note that you’d probably forget the cereal existed after eating half a bowl, but he wasn’t about to call you out. He liked the way you got excited about little things. He’d buy you ten boxes if it made you smile like that again.)

He loved when you got bossy with him. Loved that you acted like you could keep him in line. (Spoiler alert: you could.)

The trip went like that. You bouncing from aisle to aisle, hair swishing, muttering to yourself about prices, Jason pretending to complain but really just watching you.

He didn’t need to talk much. You filled the air with easy chatter—asking his opinion on pasta sauce, complaining about Roy’s weird obsession with off-brand energy drinks, telling him about the stray cat that had followed you two blocks yesterday.

Jason, meanwhile, was on a mission of his own: stealth-snacking.

Every time you turned your back, he slid another pack of Pop-Tarts or a box of snack cakes into the cart.

“Those are not on the list,” you scolded when he dropped in three packs of Pop-Tarts.

“They’re mission essentials,” he said, deadpan.

“For who?”

“For us?? Obviously.”

You gave him the world’s most dramatic eye-roll. “You’re impossible.”

Jason didn’t reply. He just smirked and kept pushing the cart, pretending he didn’t notice the way your shoulder brushed his arm every few steps. Pretending he wasn’t cataloging every little thing you reached for. Pretending he wasn’t quietly memorizing your grocery list like it was a tactical briefing.

Because here’s the thing: Jason Todd could go toe-to-toe with armed thugs without blinking. But seeing you pause in front of a shelf, tapping your lip thoughtfully while you debated between two brands of tea? That was what really took him out.

He was screwed. Utterly, completely screwed.

And he wouldn’t trade it for anything.

By the time you got to the checkout line, the cart was an absolute mess. Half practical groceries, half Jason’s chaos additions. You stood on tiptoe to unload everything onto the conveyor belt, muttering, “Unbelievable,” under your breath when you unearthed a suspicious number of snack cakes.

Jason leaned lazily against the cart, pretending not to watch the way your hoodie slipped off one shoulder. Pretending not to notice the way you bit your lip while trying to fit everything onto the tiny counter space. Pretending not to think about how easy it would be to just step forward, brush your hair back, kiss the curve of your neck.

He swallowed hard. Looked away.

(He wasn’t doing that here. Not in public. Not with strangers watching. You deserved better than that. When he kissed you—really kissed you—it was going to be somewhere quiet. Somewhere you could both breathe. Somewhere he could actually say it first.)

So instead he shoved his hands deeper into his pockets and let you huff and puff about “irresponsible snack purchases.”

He wanted to help you unload the things onto the conveyor belt, but he knew that was your favorite part.