CW: Pure fluff I promise. Jason is a little self deprecating but you make up for it. silly fic while I work on bigger stuff. A/N: blah blah proper name blah blah. NOT PROOFREAD. ~1.4k words
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Jason Todd was, without question, the biggest loser you had ever dated.
Not in the cruel way people sometimes used the word. He wasn’t mean or lazy or careless. He was just… endearingly hopeless in the most Jason way possible.
He showed up to your apartment at 7:12 p.m. on a Friday night wearing a hoodie that had seen better days, jeans with a rip at the knee he swore was “fashion,” and holding a slightly squished bouquet of grocery-store daisies he’d clearly grabbed last-minute because he forgot to plan ahead.
“Sorry I’m late,” he mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck as he stepped inside. “There was this… thing. With a cat. And a fire escape. Long story.”
You took the flowers, trying not to laugh at how one daisy was already drooping. “A cat-related emergency?”
“Something like that.” He kicked off his boots by the door - mismatched socks, one with a hole in the toe - and followed you into the kitchen like a lost puppy. “I tried to rescue it. Turns out it didn’t need rescuing. It just wanted my shoelaces.”
You arranged the daisies in a mason jar, smiling despite yourself. “My hero.”
Jason flushed, the tips of his ears turning pink. He leaned against the counter, arms crossed over his broad chest, looking every bit the six-foot-something ex-Robin who could bench-press you easily but somehow still managed to trip over his own feet when he was nervous around you.
“I brought dinner too,” he added quickly, like he was trying to make up for the sad flowers. He held up a paper bag from the Thai place two blocks away. “Your favourite. Extra spicy, no peanuts, and I got those weird little crispy things you like on the side.”
Your heart did the familiar flutter it always did when Jason remembered the small things. You took the bag from him, brushing your fingers against his on purpose. He jolted like you’d shocked him, then tried to play it cool by shoving his hands in his hoodie pockets.
“You’re sweet,” you said, leaning up to kiss his cheek.
He turned beet red. “I’m not sweet. I’m… competent. Sometimes.”
“Competent at being a loser,” you teased, bumping your hip against his as you unpacked the food. “Remember last week when you tried to cook me breakfast and set off the smoke alarm?”
Jason groaned, covering his face with both hands. “I told you the toaster was possessed. That thing hates me.”
“It was bread. You burned toast.”
“I was distracted,” he mumbled through his fingers. “You were wearing my shirt. With nothing underneath. My brain just… stopped working.”
You laughed, the sound bright in your tiny kitchen. Jason peeked at you between his fingers, eyes soft and a little awed, like he still couldn’t believe he got to stand here with you.
“Come eat before it gets cold,” you said, grabbing plates.
He helped - sort of. He set the table by putting forks on the wrong side and knocking over a glass of water in the process. You cleaned it up while he apologized profusely and offered to buy you a new tablecloth (you didn’t have one). Then he pulled out your chair like a gentleman from an old movie before realising he’d sat in the wrong seat himself.
“Shit- sorry,” he muttered, switching places so fast he nearly tripped over the leg of the chair.
You shook your head, smiling as you sat down. “You’re such a dork.”
“Your dork,” he corrected immediately, then winced. “I mean- if you still want me to be. Your dork. Not that I’m assuming-“
“Shut up and eat your noodles.”
He shut up. For about thirty seconds.
Dinner was simple and perfect. He told you about his day-mostly patrolling, a little bookstore browsing, one awkward encounter with a barista who recognised him from an incident where he spilt his drink all over himself and gave him free coffee out of pity. You told him about your classes and the ridiculous group project where your partner kept suggesting sparkly fonts for a serious presentation.
Jason listened like every word you said was the most important thing in the world. He nodded at the right times, asked follow-up questions, and only interrupted once to steal a piece of chicken from your plate when you weren’t looking.
“Hey!” you protested, laughing.
“Tax,” he said solemnly. “For being the best girlfriend in Gotham.”
You kicked his shin lightly under the table. He pretended it hurt, clutching his leg and making exaggerated wounded noises until you leaned over and kissed the spot better. Then he went quiet again, cheeks pink, eyes soft.
After dinner you migrated to the couch. Jason immediately flopped down and opened his arms, and you crawled into them without hesitation, settling against his chest. He was warm and solid, one big hand rubbing slow circles on your back while the other played with the ends of your hair.
“You’re quiet tonight,” you murmured after a while.
He hummed, the sound vibrating through his chest. “Just thinking.”
“You.” Simple. Honest. A little embarrassed. “How lucky I am. How I still don’t really get why you put up with me.”
You lifted your head to look at him. “Because you make me laugh. Because you remember how I take my coffee. Because you show up with sad flowers and burned toast and still manage to make my whole day better. Because you’re you, Jason. My loser.”
He made a face. “I hate when you call me that.”
You grinned and poked his side. He squirmed, trying not to laugh, then caught your hand and brought it to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to your knuckles. The gesture was so gentle it made your chest ache in the best way.
“I’m not good at a lot of things,” he said quietly, eyes on your joined hands. “I’m loud. I’m messy. I still have nightmares that make me wake up swinging. I forget important dates and I burn toast and I’m pretty sure I’m one bad day away from accidentally setting the kitchen on fire again. But I’m really, really good at loving you. I hope that counts for something.”
You shifted until you were straddling his lap, framing his face with both hands. His eyes widened, but he didn’t pull away. Instead his hands settled on your hips—careful, respectful, like he was still afraid he might break something precious.
“It counts for everything,” you told him. “I don’t need perfect. I need you. The guy who rescues cats from fire escapes and apologizes to furniture when he bumps into it. The guy who leaves little notes in my textbooks even though his handwriting is terrible. The guy who looks at me like I hung the moon even when I’m wearing ratty pajamas and yelling at the TV.”
Jason’s throat worked. He leaned up and kissed you - slow and sweet, the kind of kiss that tasted like Thai food and home and the quiet certainty that you were exactly where you were supposed to be. His hands stayed on your hips, thumbs stroking gentle circles through your hoodie.
When you pulled back, his lips were a little swollen and his eyes were shining.
“I love you,” he said, simple and raw. “Even if I’m a loser.”
You smiled, brushing his hair back from his forehead. “I love you too. My favourite loser.”
He grinned - bright, boyish, and a little crooked - and pulled you down for another kiss. This one lingered longer, turning soft and lazy as the night deepened around you. Eventually you ended up curled together on the couch, his arm around your shoulders, your head on his chest, some mindless show playing on the TV that neither of you were really watching.
Jason’s fingers traced idle patterns on your arm. “Can I stay tonight?” he asked quietly.
“You better,” you mumbled, already half-asleep. “Who else is going to protect me from the possessed toaster in the morning?”
He chuckled, the sound rumbling under your ear. “I’ll fight it with my life.”
You smiled into his shirt. “My hero.”
Outside, Gotham kept being Gotham - sirens in the distance, rain starting to patter against the window. Inside your tiny apartment, the world felt smaller and safer. Jason Todd might be a mess. He might burn toast and forget dates and sometimes look at you like he still couldn’t believe you chose him.
And as you drifted off to the steady beat of his heart, his arm tightening around you like he never wanted to let go, you knew you wouldn’t trade your loser boyfriend for anyone else in the world.
A/N: I’m back to school on Monday.. help me..
