𝓙𝓪𝓼𝓸𝓷 𝓣𝓸𝓭𝓭 𝔁 𝓑𝓵𝓪𝓬𝓴! 𝓢𝓲𝓷𝓰𝓵𝓮 𝓜𝓸𝓽𝓱𝓮𝓻! 𝓡𝓮𝓪𝓭𝓮𝓻
"𝓗𝓮𝔂. . .𝓘 𝓴𝓷𝓸𝔀 𝓲𝓽 𝓽𝓸𝓸𝓴 𝓶𝓮 𝓪𝓰𝓮𝓼 𝓽𝓸 𝓯𝓲𝓷𝓲𝓼𝓱 𝓽𝓱𝓲𝓼, 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓘 𝓽𝓱𝓪𝓷𝓴 𝓮𝓿𝓮𝓻𝔂𝓸𝓷𝓮 𝔀𝓱𝓸 𝔀𝓪𝓲𝓽𝓮𝓭 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝔀𝓪𝓼 𝓹𝓪𝓽𝓲𝓮𝓷𝓽 𝔀𝓲𝓽𝓱 𝓶𝓮.
𝓘 𝔀𝓪𝓼 𝓼𝓬𝓪𝓻𝓮𝓭 𝓲𝓽 𝔀𝓪𝓼 𝓰𝓸𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓽𝓸 𝓫𝓮 𝓽𝓮𝓻𝓻𝓲𝓫𝓵𝓮, 𝓼𝓸 𝓘 𝓭𝓲𝓭𝓷'𝓽 𝔀𝓪𝓷𝓽 𝓽𝓸 𝓹𝓾𝓫𝓵𝓲𝓼𝓱 𝓲𝓽. 𝓑𝓾𝓽 𝓱𝓮𝔂, 𝓲𝓽'𝓼 𝓭𝓸𝓷𝓮 𝓷𝓸𝔀!
𝓘'𝓶 𝓳𝓾𝓼𝓽 𝓰𝓸𝓷𝓷𝓪 𝓹𝓸𝓼𝓽 𝓲𝓽 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝔀𝓪𝔂 𝓽𝓱𝓪𝓽 𝓶𝓪𝓴𝓮𝓼 𝓶𝓮 𝓱𝓪𝓹𝓹𝔂 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓽𝓱𝓮𝓷 𝓬𝓪𝓵𝓵 𝓲𝓽 𝓪 𝓭𝓪𝔂. 𝓘 𝓲𝓷𝓽𝓮𝓷𝓭 𝓽𝓸 𝓶𝓪𝓴𝓮 𝓽𝓱𝓲𝓼 𝓪 𝓼𝓮𝓻𝓲𝓮𝓼, 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓘'𝓶 𝓪𝓵𝔀𝓪𝔂𝓼 𝓭𝓸𝔀𝓷 𝓯𝓸𝓻 𝓯𝓮𝓮𝓭𝓫𝓪𝓬𝓴 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓼𝓾𝓰𝓰𝓮𝓼𝓽𝓲𝓸𝓷𝓼. 𝓢𝓸 𝓼𝓽𝓪𝔂 𝓲𝓷 𝓽𝓸𝓾𝓬𝓱! 𝓛𝓸𝓿𝓮 𝔂𝓪, 𝓫𝓪𝓫𝓮."
You're gone for far too long. The kid misses you—and Jason misses you too even though he's only seen you a handful of times.
It's irrational and he knows that because you'd barely spoken to each other. But he had his eye on you for a while and if your interview outfit didn't force his attention then nothing ever would. You were quite the vision in red. It would be a feat not to think about you after seeing you dressed up in the color you knew he'd claimed.
So yes, he'd seen you around. But that was all. Well, until now.
Now it's different since he'd agreed to do something for you. Now that he's been close enough to smell your perfume and the hair products you use—now he missed everything about you. Misses your presence and the way you'd pleaded with him whilst hardly saying a word.
Oh god, and the curve of your ass in those slacks—you know, if it were up to him you'd be in his bed with your legs resting on his shoulders, sobbing softly into the hinge of your arm as he worked on relieving some of that stress he could see in the pinch of your brows while your kid slept soundly across the hall.
But the world is a cruel place where nobody gets what they want. At least, not immediately. Even crime lords had to wait sometimes—and right now he had a responsibility.
First, maybe he'd find you a good sitter, and then he could think about bedding you. After he took you out, obviously. He's thinking a burger from that place he loves and a movie at home. Or maybe Caribbean and a date at the park . . .
So Jason spends the next few hours playing with Ezra—who he'd only learned the name of after they'd told him themself—drawing with them, just trying to keep them entertained with tv and games. It was awkward and endearing all at once. He didn't really have experience with kids in a way that truly mattered. Sure, he cared, but being a caretaker for extended periods of time was different than making sure they didn't get hit by cars or abducted.
It's just different than when it's family . . . he should probably call them soon.
It feels odd and forced at first. They watch Qubo quietly, your kid on his couch, stiff as a board and clearly uncomfortable being left in the hands of a strange man. Whether or not mommy trusted him didn't matter because mommy wasn't here to reassure them this was okay. And you'd left so quickly after you said he would watch them that Jason's pretty damn sure this kid might think he's a murderer.
Which wouldn't be entirely wrong. But it still stings a hell of a lot when they not so subtly shift away from him on the couch.
It takes a few carefully curated super hero based questions to melt away the tension between the two, and he finds that once the kid is actually talking, he doesn't feel as nervous or awkward as he had before. Ezra was funny for a four or five year old. And he was beginning to genuinely enjoy the little runt's company.
Then dinner rolled around he ended up inside your apartment, looking for something to feed them.
You probably wouldn't question how he got in there. If he was right and you were smart, which he knew that you were, then you both knew the type of man that he was. It shouldn't be shocking that this of all things, was amidst his skill set. Especially with the news reports covering his latest "career choices".
Would it startle you that he could pick a lock so easily? Probably not. At least, it shouldn't. This complex had shoddy construction anyway and it didn't take a rocket scientist to use a rake and a tension wrench.
He just hoped you wouldn't be too upset about it. Hoped you wouldn't assume he let Ezra watch him break into your living space, which, he didn't! Just so you know.
Accommodating popular belief (amongst the Wayne household and his smart-ass best friends, anyway) the infamous Red Hood didn't always take the best care of himself.
(Just because his place was clean didn't mean it was always well stocked. Sometimes he forgot things. It happens.)
And he'd be damned if you came back to the apartments and found out he'd fed your kid freezer burnt salmon.
There was no possible way in hell that he would have you show up after already being stressed over your interview, and then have to be angry with him because he'd neglected to feed your child properly. Disappointment wouldn't suit that pretty face of yours, especially disappointment directed toward him—he wouldn't be able to stand it even in theory.
If he was being truly honest with himself, part of him just wanted to be nosey and see what your place looked like. But the excuse of not wanting to be out and about getting take away with your child when you returned was more appealing. Thought it might sell better.
The two of them ended up cooking spaghetti together. And the kid seemed happy to be back in familiar territory.
While Ezra wolfs down pasta from a bowl too hot for their pace, Jason wanders around and explores a little bit. Should he? No. Doesn't stop him from doing it, though.
Your room, untouched since you'd left, still smells like your perfume. Your bathroom is tidy but the drawers are full of combs and brushes and bath toys, and the cabinets are full of gel, oil, and all kinds of skin and hair products he doesn't know the difference between. He likes that he gets to see into your life a bit. The intimate, boring stuff people don't usually notice or talk about. Maybe he was a creep for snooping but he was curious. And his curiosity is rewarded with bootleg, oversized superhero t-shirts that you must wear to bed considering their worn condition.
They're all hung in your closet or on the back of your bathroom door. Makes him smile a little. He doesn't know exactly why, but it's cute. The image of plush little you, dressed for bed, bonnet on, and a big superhero t-shirt doing its damndest to hide your ass from the emptiness of your bedroom.
What he wouldn't give to take up space on the empty side of your bed. . .
The next twenty or so minutes are spent on the couch with Ezra cuddled up against him, watching some dumb show about a girl detective with a kinda sketchy name. Jason only realized you'd returned when you'd gone to his apartment door instead of your own, expecting them, reasonably, to be where you'd left them. He'd heard you knocking across the hall and opened your door, Ezra half asleep on his hip, both of their shirts stained with marinara—and he felt ridiculous.
Initially you look quite confused but you soon soften as you take in the both of them, and chuckle something so heartbreakingly melodic at the state of their shirts.
Fuck, he wants to see nothing less of you. Of that gentle amusement in your eyes and the oh-so slight flush of your face—good GOD you were beautiful. Are beautiful. A work of art—an absolute mural with that bright smile and those soft, full lips and them big ,dark eyes.
It takes a moment to come back to himself and stop staring like a lunatic. He's in your way, big body taking up all the space in the doorframe, but he doesn't know what to do with himself.
It's hard not to stare, really, with you still dressed up in his color and those slacks that were a size too small. You'd understand that it was a lot to take in, wouldn't you? Caused the eye to wander . . . damn, he could watch your lips move all day.
Suddenly there's the slightly alarming, lingering thought floating around his mind that he must be an awful man. He had to be, right? Because here you were, speaking to him, undoubtedly thanking him, and he wasn't even in the same dimension of consciousness as you. The horny mutt was praying to a god he didn't really know if he respected that you'd let him sink his teeth into your sticky, plush bottom lip and just suck.
He should beg you for your forgiveness one day. He'll probably just lay his head between your thighs for a few hours instead.
His space cadet moment ends because you've stopped talking and are already moving by, slipping past him into your apartment, door closing behind the three of you.
How domestic. So sugary sweet you could get arthralgia simply from proximity.
Jason feels the press of your hand against his chest for the briefest of moments and he swore—fuck the pit, fuck every feeling of abandonment, fuck this body that didn't feel like his own for years, fuck all of the empty, dirty, filthy things he battled with internally : he could swear that he saw god in you.
Felt her in your touch, in the warmth of your gaze, in the unearned familiarity that you'd fed him, the weary and loathsome dog that he was, from the very palm of your hand.
You'd lived across from each other for ages yet had hardly ever spoken, but you trusted him. You shouldn't, but you did. And he resented how his heart melted at the thought.
The words fall out of him before he can stop himself, so soft and so genuine—never before had he wanted so desperately to cater to anyone and make sure their needs were fulfilled in this way.
Oh goodness, and when you chuckle and smile at him he can feel heat bloom in his chest.
"M'always tired, baby . . . ain't nu'n new."
Your arms extend for your tired child, who he hands over. They sit on the fat of your hip, blinking sleepily at nothing in particular while you fuss over them in a hushed tone, smiling.
There isn't much to do besides stand somewhat awkwardly and admire you. He didn't want to leave and he didn't know what to do with his hands now that they were so, so empty. So they slip into his pockets in an effort to fill themselves again.
"N'how was the interview?"
There's this sound that comes out of you, this deep tired sigh that pours forth from your lips and he wonders if you'd run into any trouble. That building could catch fire so easily. He'd burn the whole chain down if they'd given you any problems for any reason at all—make the whole thing look like an odd series of unfortunate, coincidental accidents. If you wanted him to. If you'd just ask. Something hungry and possessive in his gut told him he'd to anything for you if you'd just ask.
"It was fine," you mutter, sounding unsure. "I . . . I think it went well, but you know how it is."
When you rub your eyes, yawning, he finds himself leaning closer. Like he can't help himself, like his body desperately wants to be beside yours and he can't quite figure out a sole motivation for such a direction.
"How was today? Ez ain't give you too much trouble, did they?"
When you smile all soft and sleepy, he almost mistakes it for fondness. Were you fond of him? What would you have to be fond of . . . in him? Even if it didn't make the most sense, he doesn't want you to stop. He wants you to be fond. He wants you to think softly of him.
When he returns the same look, you shift imperceptibly closer.
"Uhh,,, nah, nah. They're funny. Funny kid. They drew you a picture, it's . . ."
He gestures vaguely toward the fridge where a god awful drawing of the three of you dressed as —what was supposed to be—Wonder Woman, Superman and Cyborg respectively, sat proudly held crooked with those cheap plastic letter magnets from the dollar store. You'd hardly noticed it in your state of exhaustion but you get a kick out of it and chuckle while he grins something amused right there along with you.
Not only had he been drawn as a hero, but that hero was Superman. Go fuckin' figure.
and breath fails him when you reach toward that little white patch amongst his hair and twirl it around your finger in the hopes of getting the proper Superman cowlick effect. His hair is stubborn, though, and it won't curl the way you want.
It's not like Jason minds the invasion of his personal space very much. In fact, he kind of welcomes it—hopes it doesn't curl so you'll have an excuse to touch him even more. So he can continue to gaze down at you. But your hand does retreat eventually, much to his irritation.
"Guess your kid isn't exactly detective of the year."
You kiss your teeth and deadpan,
"Yeah? Well. They're four."
And the two of you share a soft laugh while he really takes you in. Your sticky lipgloss, your beautiful brown skin, your hair. The urge to toy with your coils is incredibly strong hut you'd probably spent so much time making it look so nice.
"I had a nice time with them. Really... call me whenever you need okay?"
It feels like such a loss when he has to drag himself back to his own empty apartment. Like the five steps between your door and his was an ocean he'd never again cross. But he thinks about you—he thinks about you and he stays awake because he can't stop himself from thinking.
And it's only after he'd caught himself smiling at the memory of Ezra loosely clinging to your shirt as you kissed their head that he realizes it might not just be physical attraction.
"Oh shit." A groan escapes him as he rubs a hand down his face, annoyed, as if doing so would get rid of the realization and put everything back to normal. It doesn't.
God, having crushes is the fucking worst.
a / n : i ended up having Jason kinda hate having a crush because i always feel like i'm being taken to the pear of anguish when i have a crush. it's like being on punishment. anyway, y'all remember sally bollywood? shit felt like a fever dream.
