jason todd headcanons (IV) 💭
jason atta girl todd. where whenever he's proud of you he'll say "atta girl," or "thas'my girl," even if it's a whisper, a mutter under his breath, as he softly smiles at you.
jason kiss the pain away todd. where he'll be in so much pain but just tells you to kiss the wound; the bandage even, then he'll sigh all the pain away at the touch of your gentle lips. the second your lips brush his hurt, he exhales like it actually worked. “Oh, thank you, baby… s’all better now, see?” he'll smile, half lie, half genuine, because the pain might still be there, but the touch of you makes it feel a whole lot smaller.
jason cash-on-hand todd. usually, it's an amalgamation of dirty money lifted from the people he’s taking down: thugs, traffickers, arms runners, mob couriers. he skims it off the top during raids and street shake-downs, turning their profits into something closer to restitution. he never keeps it for himself. instead, he quietly redirects it. cash envelopes slipped into donation boxes, medical bills anonymously paid off, community centres suddenly finding their rent covered, shelters receiving “no-questions-asked” bundles that just appear in the mail slot. sometimes it goes straight back into the crime alley neighbourhood: groceries for families who need it, fixing busted storefronts, covering funeral costs when the system won’t. he justifies it as balancing the scales. the money was never clean to begin with, so the least he can do is make it useful.
jason book in back pocket todd. don't really need to expand here. just that he often carries orwell or woolf in the back pocket of his navy denim jeans.
jason receipt keeper todd. and no, it’s not for insurance or budgeting purposes. he keeps them because he’s a sentimental freak. every cafe slip, movie ticket, late-night diner bill. all dated receipts, tucked away somewhere safe so he knows exactly when and where each of your dates happened. he’ll never make a big deal about it, but he keeps them. he always keeps them. he even knows how to preserve the receipt ink. years later, there’s a quiet little archive of your relationship sitting in a box, and if it ever came to it, he’d probably frame the whole collection and give it to you on your wedding day.
jason sentimental over expensive gift giver todd. he'll always choose meaning over price tags. while a lot of girls might expect the normalised markers of romance, jewellery, designer bags, flashy gestures, jason’s gifts tend to be quieter. more personal. things that actually mean something. a book you once mentioned in passing, tracked down months later. a repaired version of something you thought was long gone. a damn shell from the first beach you both went to together. the kind of gift that only works if someone’s been paying attention. a lot of his mentality comes from the way he views capitalism and consumer culture. jason has always felt like consumerism works a little like the devil in disguise when it comes to love. it dresses itself up as romance, convincing people that the value of a relationship should be proven through expensive gifts, status symbols, and price tags. to him, he believes that kind of thing messes with the ground where real affection is supposed to grow. muddying something that should be simple and sincere. muddying the importance of presence and rawness. anyone can buy something expensive. that doesn’t mean they actually know you. because of that, he tends to end up with a certain type. his attraction isn’t anchored by visuals so much as character, someone who understands sentiment, who appreciates the thought behind things rather than the status attached to them. someone who sees the weight in small gestures the same way he does. it does narrow the field a bit. some people find it underwhelming, or assume he’s just being cheap. but for the ones who get it, the ones who value the meaning behind it, it ends up becoming one of the strongest parts of the relationship.
jason doesn't fit in your bathtub todd. again, don't really need to expand here. just imagine water already climbing dangerously high as he tries to lower himself in, shoulders hunched, knees awkwardly folding, the whole tub groaning. the second he shifts his weight, water sloshes over the edge, spilling onto the tiles. you’re yelping at him to get out (!!!) before the bathroom floods, and he’s yelping (!!!!) right back that he’s not even in. the end result is a half-empty tub. there's literally more water on the tiles than the tub itself. and jason's standing there like he’s personally been betrayed by the concept of standard bathtub sizes.
