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Jason’s hair is softer than you expect it to be.
You let a few strands run through your fingers, twirling a few idly, but there’s much to hold onto in the first place. Jason keeps his hair short, short enough that it doesn’t curl and you suspect he cuts it himself with how uneven some of the strands are. It’s a practical hairstyle for a man who spends his nights tumbling through alleys and leaping from rooftops, though it does make you wonder what it would look like if he grew it out for once.
Still. It’s unreasonably soft, like touching the delicate, feathered underbelly of a bird. It’s unfair how nice it is, like it’s made for you to run your hands through. Or maybe it’s unfair just how much his body fascinates you. There are things it will tell you that he won’t, a wordless way to understand him.
“Are you done fondling my head yet?” Jason asks.
You purse your lips, but it’s not as if Jason can see the action. The only part of him that you can even see is the broad expanse of his back and the downy spiral of hair at the crown of his head. “Not at all. You’re the one who asked me to help you wash your hair, so why are you complaining?”
“You’re being weird.”
If his arm wasn’t broken, Jason most likely would have followed up his remark by turning around and pinching your cheek or tugging on your own hair like some playground bully. If you lean far enough forward and place your chin on his shoulder, you could see the edge of white plaster around his right forearm, the little doodles and the get well message you had scribbled with permanent marker until Jason made you stop.
There’s not a lot of room to maneuver in his bathroom, so you’re stuck sitting on the closed lid of his toilet, Jason perched on the edge of his bathtub, feet braced against the cool porcelain. The bathroom smells faintly of bleach, a product of Jason’s obsessive cleanliness, and it reminds you of a hospital room: stark and white and pristine, with no sign that a person even lives here.
Maybe Jason doesn’t use this place at all. It’s not a home for him, you think. It’s just a place for him to stop by when he has no choice. The rest of the place is sparse and utilitarian, with the bare minimum furnishings necessary to function. You wouldn’t be surprised if he only ever came here to pass out on his couch, which bears the soft indent from his body, the only sign of his presence.
But it’s not your job to judge the way he lives. You’re here for a particular purpose. On the counter of the sink, the edge of which presses into your back if you lean far enough, you’ve placed a few towels, shampoo, and plastic water bottles filled with lukewarm tap water.
“I’m assessing my client,” you say. You tap the back of his shoulder. Your knees are pressed against his lower back. There’s not enough room to keep a respectable distance from him.
“You’ve seen my hair before. It’s not like it’s changed since the last time.”
“Yeah, yeah. But it’s so nice. You really don’t use anything? Not even conditioner?”
“Just shampoo and water.”
“People would kill for your hair, Jason,” you say. You grab a towel behind you and drape it around his shoulders. He’s dressed casually, threadbare tanktop and shorts, which reveals the corded muscle of his arms, tan and smooth and flecked with scars you want to mouth and trace with your tongue, one by one. Less out of lust and more out of a perverse fascination with him. Not that you would, of course. Because you’re a well-adjusted, reasonable person.
“Why? You planning on doing that?”
You jump up a little in your seat, but it’s not like he can read your thoughts. “I’d need you to grow it out for me first,” you say. “Tilt your head back a little.” Jason obliges. He’s surprisingly obedient at times like this, relaxing into your touch and letting you maneuver him around. He holds himself unnaturally still, with not even a single tremor or fidgeting gesture to betray himself.
But you’ve seen him in action, know how fast he can be, how suddenly he can throw someone onto the floor they realize he’s even on the move. Somewhere under all the guise of artificial calms lies coiled energy and tension, ready to be unleashed at any moment.
You uncap one of the water bottles, pour a careful, controlled stream of water onto his scalp, just enough to wet it. The shampoo you brought is cheap, some drugstore brand that smells faintly of apples when you pop the cap and squeeze a generous amount into his hair. It only takes a few seconds for it to foam, white bubbles forming a lopsided hat over his black hair. You take your time massaging your fingers through his hair, gently working the lather into his roots, fingernails scraping against his scalp.
Jason still hasn’t told you how he broke his arm. That’s the only reason you’re here, after all, washing his hair for him. Because he can’t get his cast wet, and though you suspect he’s deft enough to figure out a way to do it himself, he still called you in particular and asked you to come over. The way he speaks, plain and straightforward, leaves no wiggle room to question him.
“I need your help,” he said over the phone, and you pressed it so close to your ear it was almost like he was by your side.
And that’s really all you need to know. That he needs you here, and that you’ll show up at a single call. Without question, without complaint, because it’s Jason. Because he never asks for anything from anyone, and the second he does, you would move mountains and part the oceans just to be by his side.
Though you can’t stop thinking about his cast, the broken bones healing the surface, a story it could tell you, if only you could see. If he wants you to know, he’ll tell you. But is it because he trusts you, or because he doesn’t? There are a lot of things he keeps from you about what he does. For your safety, or his. It’s an odd little relationship you have, one where you aren’t sure where the line should be drawn.
“You’re quiet.”
“I’m thinking about you,” you say. You’re still working the shampoo into the fine hairs along his sideburns, being more thorough than you really need to.
He doesn’t react. You wish he had.
“Nothing but bad things,” you add, and that gets a laugh from him, easy and surprised.
“There are plenty of those to think about,” he says ruefully.
“Sure. Like how you ate the last package of pudding I was saving, dripped mud into my apartment after I just cleaned it, and–”
“That’s enough from you,” he admonishes.
“I’m just keeping track of your crimes,” you say. “You’ll need to pay me back at some point.” A beat of silence. “Tilt your head back again and close your eyes.”
He does, so easily, and you stuff another towel around his shoulders and on your lap. You can admire the smooth line of his throat from this position, the fluttering of his eyelashes, and the slight part of his mouth, the swell of his bottom lip, a pleasing shade of pink.
You pour the last of your water over his hair, washing him clean, white suds disappearing like they never existed at all, absorbed into the towels you placed. You run your hand through his wet strands, twirling his white bangs into damp little curls. Jason Todd, pliant in your hands and born again by your touch.
“I’ll pay you back for everything,” Jason says, much too late. “Promise.”
His eyes are still closed, but surely he must feel it when you shift, and bend your head down to press your lips to the part of his hair. Tender, brief, gentle. Your body telling him everything you can’t voice.
“I don’t need you to.”
You lean back again, and Jason braces his good hand against the edge of the tub, tilting his head back until he can look at you, bright, springtime-green eyes meeting yours. It’s funny, to see him upside down like that, the pout of his mouth. “I want to.”
“Why?”
Jason leans further back, letting his wet hair drop onto your shoulder, wetting the thin fabric. It’s not comfortable of a position at all, not when you’re trying to hold the weight of his body half-slumped against you, and Jason is still braced against the edge of the tub. But you don’t want to move and risk Jason moving away, not when you can feel the whole warm length of him, all the muscle and tense energy that melts into something comfortable now that he’s nestled against you.
“Because it’s you,” he says, like it’s the most simple thing in the world. And maybe it is. Maybe it really is.