#jason peter

He likes your best friend. Not because he’s inclined to in any specific way (they’re nice in the way most people are nice, pleasant, if not a little boring and unworthy by his refined standards), but because he likes what you like, and especially things that make you happy.

But Jason also likes being home (on floor in front of the couch, shoulders between your legs while you absentmindedly pick at his hair and he cleans his gun, the both of you pretending not to be invested in whatever adult cartoon Roy most recently recommended. In fact, when you’d promised you’d be home by three, it was so that you could have dinner made by six, a shower together (and maybe just a tiny bit of sex) by eight, so he could head out for his scheduled patrol by nine.

(And be home by five am, so he could kiss you at least one more time before you had to leave for work.)

He could go on.

Not to mention, Jason burns; turns red as rust and Manhattan clam chowder when left in the sun too long (a phenomenon that remains unnamed yet oddly frequent among Gotham natives), which is simply just to say, in this little suburb an hour outside the city (when you aren’t going 90 in the carpool lane on a motorcycle), it’s all finally catching up to him. He can feel the pink on his cheeks.

In front of him, your dessert sweats. Fresh mascarpone cream seeping from between the now leaning, three-tier stack of biscuits, layered with the start of summer’s blackberries and drizzled with syrup. Still, you chatter away, the afternoon sun glinting off the spoon near your plate, as if to call attention to the fact that you haven’t even noticed.

“Eat with me!” it calls, and then as if to mock Jason’s poor sense of humor, “this whole thing is mildly irritating and definitely a waste of your time!”

He can’t take it anymore (you’d responded to the text he’d sent from the men’s room an hour ago, promising you’d pack it up as soon as you finished the food, but he knows now was silly of him to assume you’d be able to get anything in your mouth when you were that wrapped up in talking) and his body moves on its own: he picks up the spoon, leans across the table, and cuts through the top layer of your cakes without any care for decorum…or chivalry. The cream oozes, some of the syrup dripping down the side, and still, you don’t react.

“Honey,” he says, flat and low and grumpy, the only warning you get before he’s holding the bite up, inches from your lips. “Don’t let it melt.”

You blink. Your conversation stutters, falters, then dies completely as your eyes find his, and then the spoon.

“Oh,” you say, a little surprised, a little soft. Then, you smile, and Jason curses himself for ever being annoyed in the first place. “Thanks, baby.”

You take the bite graciously, tugging the spoon from his hands gently to finish off the bite. You wipe the corners of your lips, then lean in to give him the briefest of pecks, one that leaves his mouth sticky and warm with melting sugar. It’s almost enough to distract him from the fact he’s trying to lure you home… but you’re pulling away before he even has the time to fully close his eyes and enjoy it (as much as he’s eager to) and the spoon is set down in it’s original spot.

“Sorry,” you giggle to your friend, though your embarrassment is only half genuine, much to his relief.

He has to resist the urge to groan. And to make a sour face. And to express his frustration by scooping up a wad of whip cream and swiping it across your cheek (which is what he’d do if you were in private, not that he even needs the excuse to lick sweetness right off your face).

He gives it two minutes before he’s pressing another bite your way. Again, there’s no warning, no teasing, no words before there’s a heaping spoon of blackberries and cream mere centimeters from your mouth and his deep, blue eyes are narrowed in that particular, Jason Todd way, telling you: either you eat this, or… you eat this.

He thinks, at the very least, you’re finally picking up on the hint, as when you accept the bite, you roll your eyes and give him a playful glare. Jason doesn’t let you escape with the spoon however, this time pulling it from your mouth to let it rest between his forefingers as a clear reminder: you are going to finish this dessert, say goodbye, and go home… even if he has to be by his hand that it happens.

If you were a much more cruel partner than the one that you are, you’d offer back something biting, tease Jason, make a show of savoring the treat, and maybe even share a taste by exchanging tongue with him (as you sometimes do when you’re alone and eating something sweet)… instead, however, you offer him your hand under the table, fingers brushing the topside of his knuckles in a quiet, deliberate, and (most importantly) sweet way he will never admit makes him tender immediately.

Interlinked, your thumb starts to smooth over the scars that wrap around his skin, soothing any raw scabs in a wordless apology and a promise all at once. You don’t need to say anything, even though you still can’t, not really, not unless you want risk offending your friend. He knows you’ll apologize to him later, the way you always save the more intimate and vulnerable parts of your relationship, the parts you’re both still learning how to navigate, for when you’re alone together.

Jason exhales, something caught between relief and satisfied resignation. He’s happy to wait now that he knows he won’t really have to, so long as you let him keep this up.

You finish dessert slowly but obediently, taking the bites when he offers them, unabashedly disregarding the awkwardness that begins to fester without even needing to end your conversation. Though polite enough not to comment (as you’ve probably already mentioned to them Jason’s tendencies as a partner on the days he’s not desperate enough to tag along), your friend seems to pick up on the shift too, wrapping up the conversation with a glance at their phone and money for their portion and a tip passed your way. They excuse themselves with a hug and a cheerful goodbye that Jason barely manages to acknowledge in kind (though he does, again, for your sake).

Once they’re gone, the sudden silence is filled by the scraping of the fork against the soggy crumbs of your plate. Jason feeds you the spoon of syrup and mush one last time, and you can help but to giggle, a hand over your mouth as you chew, finally acknowledging the impatience that led to this whole scheme.

“Somewhere you trying to go, handsome?”

He scoffs lightly, trying but failing to seem unbothered when he begins roughly stacking your plates, “we have plans, might I remind you?”

“Oh?” you peer at him, failing to hide the sarcasm in your voice, “I had no idea. Really.”

“You said we’d be home,” he emphasizes with his dark eyebrows raised, “by three. Guess what? It’s four.”

(Jason is more of a homebody than he likes to admit, or at least, a stickler for getting his own way, which right now, includes taking both of your bodies home.)

You smile at him for real this time—genuinely, warmly, in a way that reaches something sore and soft behind his ribs.

“Yeah,” you peer at him, “But snuggling doesn’t exactly prompt rushing, does it?”

He gives you his flattest look, unamused, and even you have to admit, justified.

“My poor baby,” you laugh, standing and brushing crumbs from your clothes before reaching to gently brush Jason’s bangs out of his eyes. “I’m teasing. Let’s go snuggle.”

He ignores the sappy jab (really, the truth) and stands, too. He throws down a fat wad on cash on the check and reaches for your bag before you can, slinging it over his shoulder. You pull on the strap (see: attempt to make him relinquish the needless favor), but he’s already stomping back to his bike before you can even start another silly spat.

It’s not that Jason is jealous. It’s not.

You’re only just coming out of the nursery when you catch sight of the stains in the hallway mirror–right where your nipples sit, over the large Wayne Enterprises logo of your shirt–cussing because now you’ve gotta change clothes and you're unsure if your raw nipples can take the friction of another bra and t-shirt sliding over your chest. 

Jason hasn’t exactly hid the nipple cream, but he keeps it on his side of the bed so that he can do the honors of applying it for you, which would be weird, but…you’ve seen his entrails on multiple occasions, plus you birthed his baby and the entire time, he had his head between your legs to watch. That aside, however, he actually knows what the hell he’s doing, cupping and kneading your chest before bed each night, one last round of filling up your pump for his shift to feed the baby before licking up the rest himself. Then, he’s slathering you in lotion, fully assured that you’re empty and content enough to sleep until it’s your turn for the baby.

(You’ve found that you’ve come to love his calloused and rough hands even more than you did previously: the ridges and notches of skin scratching every itch, feeding every urge, and serving to answer to your every need, grounding you in ways you often don’t always notice, but instead, always feel.) 

But then the man himself is appearing in the threshold, acting smug and surprised to see you as though he wasn’t already on his way to pester you in the nursery, where he’d likely pull you from your fussing with folding and refolding the baby clothes so you could sit on his lap in the room’s armchair and eventually fall asleep with your face in his neck. 

And he’s walking up and pressing his belly to yours, your sore tits nudging against where he is most firm and they are swollen, causing you to inhale sharply, huff just a little out of surprise—

Before you realize Jason’s cornered you on purpose.

(You can’t escape those eyes, not even for a second, always catching the smallest of things; the dribble of spit about to land on your shoulder when you’re burping the baby, the air bubbles that haven’t quite yet settled in a freshly made baba, the single loose thread about to unravel their little crocheted hat.)

One side of his lips tilt up, and you glare—not annoyed so much as unimpressed by his scheme. You’d much rather his initial plan, or the one that ends ups up with you in your own bedroom, taking advantage of the next 45 minutes without a baby in either of your arms, than be out here, cranky from the chill of your milk cooling on your shirt, leaving wet marks your husband will both enjoy and tease you relentlessly for (both verbally and physically). 

“What?” you mutter, trying not to shirk away from his prying gaze, unpacking you the way he’s always been able to (even now that the two of you have softened in ways only parenthood can allow for), with caution and vigilance lingering in every small movement.  

“Nothin’,” he smiles, leaning in to press his nose to yours, hands wrapping around your hips to cup your ass and pull your hips to his. You can feel the outline of something in his pants–not yet fully tented, but still chubbing with heat, and you barely brush against it when you move to curl your fingers in his belt. 

“You’re lying.” 

(Jason seems to like this domestic life he has with you, a little more than he cares to admit–out loud, at least.) 

“Just wanted a kiss, maybe,” he feigns innocence, teeth visible through his sly grin. “‘not gonna make me ask for one, are you?”

You exhale sharply, and though you raise an eyebrow, you also lift your chin, welcoming the way his mouth settles heavy on yours, curving against your lips, pressing them open wetly until your eyes are closing and you’re leaning into his frame where his arms are waiting to pull you as close as possible.

Jason pulls back, but doesn’t quite recede from you; his eyes dark and pretty eyelashes heavy in the low, evening light of the hallway…so you wait (letting him give you more delicate pecks on the mouth, cheeks, eyelids, in between each of his breaths) and wait and wait, til his hands finally start to creep, up from your hips, where his thumbs tickle your belly, still soft and wrinkled from your labor, to your waist where they begin pushing up your shirt. He fingers the low edge of your nursing bra, tickling the soft underside of your boobs as he begins to move the band upward. 

“Todd…” you warn, fidgeting in his hold as his form, his hands, his eyes overtake you, slowly stretching the elastic up and over, until it has crumpled the fabric of your t-shirt against your collarbones and your tits are free.    

Still, his eyes only crinkle at the sides, as they have started to do more and more the longer you’ve been together.

“You’re leaking, mama,” he whispers, moving his hands from your bra to where you’re now exposed, heated flesh going chilly from exposure, warming where he cups 

“And?”

He smirks, “‘just wanna help, is all.”

One of his fingers glides down your nipple gently, and milk starts to bead when he presses (not hard enough to bruise, but enough to have you keening, your at least for a second, til his hand is swiping your skin and he’s sucking the fatty drippings into his mouth and sucking. Hard. 

“Yeah?” you breathe, staring into his eyes, watching just the same. “Then why don’t you go and get my pump?”

(He does, obediently, not before turning back to give you those eyes one more time, as if to say, later, soon as baby is fed–

-

Takes JT a bit to manage the… washing a toddler’s hair thing, too. The amount of times your daughter has ended up with water in her eyes because he forgot to cup his hand over her forehead when he was pouring the clean water over her head… is just, lmao.

He’s good at giving your tykes showers, speedy at it, in and out when there’s not enough time in the evening to have them at the park for two hours and splash around in the tub (Todd children need the exercise, otherwise they’re up all night long, kicking around in your bed sheets—which is funny because Jason is more bothered by it than you, especially when they pinch his nose to get him to stop snoring. It always ends up with them scruffed by the necks as he drags them back to their own beds, giggling).

But baths are a whole other story. They’re part of your routine, and the kids prefer it that way, cuz you know which toys need to float on which side of the tub, and which rag belongs to who, and how to successfully tilt the kids’ heads back so that you can rinse their hair without the soap running into their eyes.

Jason, on the other hand, forgets. Or doesn’t forget, but makes bath time so splashy and fun that he forget that rinse time isn’t just about pouring water over their little heads to make them laugh.

The kids always have fun when dad gives them a bath…until water is getting in someone’s eyes or up someone’s nose (and then returning the gesture before Jason can wrangle the chaos it all causes and stop water from going up the walls) and you have to pop in and give all of them (Jason included, given his clothes are already soaking wet from the splashing) a rough scrub just to finish the job.

-

Jason Todd also struggles with getting his children to wear jackets. Function over fashion is his motto, as he tries to make your daughter put a large puffer over the shiny princess dress she chose to wear, much to her tiny, toddler-version of chagrin. She’s a wiggly one, just like him, making him do the labor of stuffing her in the jacket arm by arm.

“’M not cold, daddy.”

He’s just got her other arm through the sleeve of the coat when he realizes she shook the first one free.

Jason sighs, on his knees in the foyer, sounding like he sounds when he’s arguing with his brothers; half-humorous, more defeated. “You’re gonna be, sweetheart.”

She looks just like him with her cute lips curled downward. “No, ‘m not.”

“Yes,” he manages to wrap both of her little hands in his grip so that she can’t weasel her way out of his next attempts to get her back in the jacket. He gives her his most serious eyes, and the two of them glare identically at one another as he pulls the zipper up to her throat. “You are.”

Worst is when he manages to get a little hat on her, too, right on top the dark braid you so carefully weaved over her shoulder. She stomps, pulling away from him and swatting when he reaches back out to try and settle it over her forehead.

“Dada, my hair, it’ll muss.”

And Jason Peter is sighing and sticking one big hand on the crown of her head. “It stays on until the park. Then we’ll fix the muss.”

-

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.