Chapter Text
This was a pretty average scene, actually. The apartment was quiet except for the soft hum of the ceiling fan and the occasional rustle of a turning page. Jason was sunk into his couch, feet up on the coffee table, a paperback in one hand and the other resting lightly on the small of Clover's back. Tonight, the novel seemed to be a monster romance of some sort that he was deeply engrossed in and a thick blanket was draped over his lap to combat the slight chill he always felt, ever since the Pit. Clover was curled up beside him, a thick robotics book slumped in her lap, her cheek pressed against his thigh. She also had a blanket draped over her, covering her almost entirely from chest to feet.
Jason looked down from his book when she let out a soft exhale, the kind that came with slipping a little deeper into sleep. Her highlighter had rolled onto the floor, and one of her hands dangled limply over the edge of the couch. He smiled faintly and adjusted the throw blanket around her shoulders. Then he carded his fingers through her hair.
“You know,” he said softly to no one. “you're gonna crease up chapter eight if you're not careful.”
Clover didn't stir, she just snuggled closer, her face relaxed in that rare, peaceful way he didn't get to see often. Her hoodie sleeve was bunched up around her elbow, revealing the faint outlines of her joint supports underneath. He brushed a stray lock of hair from her eyes and rested his hand gently against the top of her head.
For someone who lived with so much fire, she looked unbelievably soft like this.
Jason went back to his book, slower now, half reading and half listening to the even rhythm of her breathing. He didn't need action or adrenaline tonight - just this moment, the weight of her trust, and the feeling of home.
Warmth. That was the first thing she felt. Then the weight of something heavy - no, not something, someone - beneath her cheek. Her brain struggled through the fog of sleep, trying to make sense of the soft fabric under her face and the steady rise and fall of breath beside her. Clover blinked awake slowly, the low light of the living room coming into focus. Her textbook was half-shut across her lap, one of her hands still curled loosely over a highlighted page. She realized she must’ve fallen asleep right in the middle of studying - again.
Jason didn’t seem to mind. He was still reading, one arm loosely draped around her, his fingers absentmindedly brushing through her hair. She felt the faintest smile tug at the corners of her mouth.
“You make a surprisingly good pillow,” she mumbled, voice still gravelly with sleep.
Jason glanced down, a soft huff of amusement escaping him. “Yeah? You make a terrible lap desk. Crumpled up page two-seventy-six.”
Clover groaned and buried her face against his leg for a second, laughing quietly. “Ugh, that was the chapter on fluid dynamics, too…”
Jason set his book aside and looked down at her with that quiet, fond expression he rarely wore for anyone else. “Wanna move to bed?”
She shook her head, eyes already fluttering closed again. “Not yet. ‘M comfy.”
And Jason didn’t press it. He just leaned back, arm wrapped protectively around her, and let her doze off again. Because if she wanted peace - this soft, safe kind of peace - he’d give it to her as long as she needed.
When Clover woke again, Jason stood at the stove in a faded Gotham Knights t-shirt, flipping pancakes with the kind of focus usually reserved for disarming bombs. Clover padded in, her space buns askew, one sleeve of her hoodie slipping off her shoulder and her cane in hand. She looked like she’d lost a fight with a textbook - and possibly a nap - but she smelled pancakes, and that was reason enough to surface from the depths of sleep.
“You’re gonna burn those if you keep flipping them like you’re interrogating them,” she murmured, voice still thick with sleep.
Jason glanced back at her with a smirk. “You say that like you aren’t about to eat six of them.”
She slid onto a barstool at the counter, resting her chin on her arms. “If I eat six, it’s because you put something addictive in the batter.”
“Love,” he said dryly, stacking the pancakes onto a plate and setting them in front of her. “And cinnamon.”
Clover grinned, reaching for the syrup. She watched him move around the kitchen, quietly impressed by how he always made room for her - whether it was clearing counter space so she didn’t trip over anything, or leaving her favorite mug by the coffee machine.
“You’re kind of stupidly good at this whole ‘home’ thing,” she said, voice softer now.
Jason turned and leaned against the counter, arms crossed. “Yeah, well…you’re the first person who’s made me want to be.”
She looked down, hiding a flustered smile behind her mug. “Okay, you can burn the pancakes all you want after that.”
Jason chuckled, the sound low and warm as he stepped away from the counter and ruffled her hair gently as he approached. “Careful, Cloverfield. Keep saying cute stuff like that and I’ll start thinking I’m actually good at this.”
“You are,” she said without hesitation, eyes following him as he grabbed two forks and joined her at the counter. “Don’t argue. I’m right. I’ve got a sleep-deprived moral high ground.”
He passed her a fork and sat beside her, close enough for their arms to brush. “Sleep-deprived and still stubborn. That’s my Lucky Clover.” He bumped her knee gently under the counter.
Clover rolled her eyes, but she didn’t pull away. “Your Lucky Clover, huh?”
Jason raised an eyebrow, giving her that half-challenging, half-teasing look he wore best. “Anyone else here eating my pancakes in a hoodie three sizes too big?”
She glanced down at the hoodie - it was definitely his - and smiled into her syrup-drenched bite. “Fair point, Jaybird.”
They ate in a comfortable silence for a few minutes, the kind that only came from long trust and lazy mornings. Outside, the city was waking up—but inside, it was just them, pancakes, and the soft thrum of a life they'd slowly, quietly started building together.