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it's 2 a.m.— way too soon for jason to call it quits, but he's hobbling to your place as best he can. fucking thugs got the best of him after an indecisive call based on the shoddy info from an inside guy. and these goons call themselves professionals. it's not like there's an indeed for criminals, but a reference wouldn't hurt. to add to injury, it was b who told him to kick rocks. jason doesn't mind an early night but not when it's at the expense of his ego in front of bats.
making his way down the dingy alley, the gotham weather makes its appearance right on queue. with a sigh, he hauls ass up the fire escape to your window. his grip is still strong despite the slick rungs and exhaustion setting in, the only thing on his mind is slipping into a deep slumber with you in his reach. he's noticed that he drifts off easier with you in his olfactory system.
jason can't remember how he unlocked your window's safety mechanism, thankful for muscle memory regardless of the staunch disapproval of the muscles involved. a grunt punches his airway as he lifts up your window. the rain starts to pelt down on his back as he gets his body through the small opening.
he shuts the window and engages the safety on it. jason knows that you'd appreciate the acoustics of the outside, but he frowns upon knowing that anything, or anyone, might have the chance to slip through unannounced. he takes his shoes off of the little mat you placed just for him— a small upturn on the side of his mouth has him feeling warmer, even with the rain soaking through his back. it takes him longer than he'd like to untie his shoes and not fall.
he takes his helmet off with a psshhh of air and places it on the table conveniently sat next to the mat. he stops breathing when he thinks about the impact he's made on your living space— his own entry, a place for his clothes in your set of drawers, a wonder woman blanket courtesy of your discovery of his fanboy tendencies toward the heroine. you make sure to hush him when he verbalizes how much he's intruded, assuring him that if pieces of him weren't with you, your heart would yearn and ache even more than it already does when he's gone. he gets all clingy and blushy afterwards— works like a charm.
he limps towards the couch, slowly disrobing of his gear, when he sees your form laying across said couch. you've got the stuffed cow that damian gave you after many months of gaining his trust and many, many visits with batcow. his satisfaction with your reaction to the gift was evident by the smug smile he gave jason as you showed batcow herself. jason never admits it outwardly, but the smile on his face when he sees you snuggling with it always gives it away that he's happy damian approves of you, in his own weird way. ah, assassin raised preteens— never can predict their behaviors.
the t.v. is still on, scrolling slowly with roku city on display. he shuffles to the coffee table with a wince, his foot not pleased with the meeting it had with a goon's heavy lead pipe. why a pipe? surely there's better makeshift weapons to chose from.
jason thinks he made a sound, given how you are now staring at him bleary eyed, rubbing at your inner corner to regain focus. you smile at him, scooching up from your supine position and patting the empty space. he plops down with maximal effort to do it gently, but his body really wants to make contact with the plush cushion with haste. as he slumps back, you make a sound of concern before wiggling towards him the best you can with a blanket wrapped around you.
"rough night?"
he lets out a rough hmm telling you all you need to know.
"my poor vigilante, always getting beat up. you let me know where those fuckers are and i'll show them what happens when they mess with my red." you squish his cheeks to make his lips pucker. you can feel his cheeks start to move on their own as he smiles at the thought of you kicking some thug into next week, or at least a trash can in an alleyway.
"what's so funny, huh? don't think i can?"
"oh, i know you can, sweetheart. i've seen plenty'a you kicking names and taking ass. particularly over some shmuck who takes your parking spot."
he takes your hand and kisses your knuckles, rough lips on your softer skin.
"damn right. gotham didn't raise no bitch. so you just point me in the direction of the guy who hurt you— or woman! i don't discriminate. these hands are rated e for everyone."
he snorts so hard it hurts his ribs, specifically in the spot that got jabbed when he turned around, almost like he ran into it. when he grabs at the spot, you hone in on it and place your hand over his.
"how about a soak and a warm meal? my honeybunch deserves it."
you don't allow him to respond before you get up, a little wobbly, and start on your way to the bathroom. he sighs and tries to move himself off the couch, utterly melted into the comfy cushions, but the thought of a hot soak in your salt you keep just for him motivates him to methodically move in such a way not to upset the delayed onset muscles soreness and tender spots.
jason hears the faucet running and the tub filling as you grab under him to help him limp to the tub. he sits on the side of it, acquiescing to your grabbing hands taking his clothes off.
"oh, honey. they made you look like you belong in the discount produce section, all bruised up. don't worry, i'd still buy you," you affirm, kissing his temple.
as he slips in, you turn the water off and take his clothes to the hamper designated for his tactical gear. you don't trust your washer and dryer to take care of all the gunk that he rolls around in fighting crime. plus, you get an excuse to see alfred at the batcave when jason relents to your begging to see his clothes clean for once.
"you get all pruney and yell for me to wash your back, okay? gonna get started on sustenance."
you pet his greasy helmet hair before leaving the steamy bathroom. jason doesn't know what he did to deserve you, but he considers getting tortured, dying, resurrecting, and dealing with gotham's bullshit being enough penance for his own heaven on earth. his mind swims in memories of you taking care of him at his lowest, and he sinks lower into the saline rich water. his muscles are lax— well, the ones that will fit under the water. a large frame is no match for the gotham-sized tub that your place came with. his knees sit above the water, and his shoulders stick out, cold to the air.
a smell reaches his senses, one that he identifies as potatoes of the fried variety. he feels his mouth salivating at the vision of french fries, salted to perfection with a glob of ketchup. his body reacts to the thought by reminding him he's only human, and fighting goons really works up an appetite.
knocking on the door frame, you enter the bathroom with your apron on. jason now notices how you're dressed, previously preoccupied with the fatigue and lethargy brought upon by his profession. a worn t-shirt of his with a pair of his boxer shorts. his heart palpitates with the knowledge that they're his clothes you're wearing, that you chose something of his to keep close to your skin. he feels weaker than a cat now.
"lean forward for me, honeybunch. gotta get you squeaky clean."
with careful hands, you help him clean himself. the water is still warm but bordering on lukewarm, which is a stark contrast from his colder limbs. regardless of the time in heated water, jason always stays on the cold side. his core temperature most definitely can't be the normal average of 98.6°f that comes with a human body. but you can't complain when it's hot outside and you have a giant icicle all to yourself.
you lift up from your hunched form and tell him you'll be back. he takes this time to drain the tub and hoist himself up on the side with a greater effort than he anticipated. the cold air has his skin prickling with goose flesh, but not for long. the warmth of dryer fresh towels has him leaning into your touch, rubbing along his arms and shoulders.
"careful. if you fall, you take me with you," you warn as he gets out.
"wouldn't dream of it, sweetheart." he cranes his neck awkwardly to kiss your hand resting on his shoulder.
"okay, romeo. get decent."
you give him some clothes he's left ahead of time and get denied when you offer assistance. he claims to be able to finish up the job, which you eye him suspiciously for. getting shooed out has you mockingly mouthing at him, all the way to the kitchen which he can hear the whole time.
a scrape of the chair has you peering over your shoulder to find your jason sitting at the table. you made sure to provide the cushion you bought for times like this for his spot, giving you peace of mind that his ass was at least somewhat comfortable.
"o-kay, we have a delicacy from my part of gotham. and if you don't like it, i'm stuffin' it down you. because you will learn to like it." you point at him with the wooden spoon you've been using to stir a pot with.
"you think i'm really that picky?"
he places his injured foot on the chair across from him, easing some of the hurt. he still needs to apply bandages to parts of him that won't heal that easily.
"i don't know, mr. i was raised by bruce fuckin' wayne. deny it all you'd like, i know your ass was fed good by alfred."
jason holds his hand up, surrendering to the truth you speak.
"and i know about the lobster thermidor. consider this my request to be included— or at least bring me a doggy bag," you rant while assembling the plate.
"yeah, yeah, i hear ya. but don't complain when you have to endure the guests that accompany the meal."
"sorry to you, but i'm built different." you sit the plate in front of him. "i can socialize with your siblings, no problem. and with you clinging onto me the whole time."
he opens his mouth to retaliate, but comes up with nothing, so he just shrugs. you smirk and turn to grab a pair of silverware.
"this is a garbage plate. as a commoner, we learned to survive off trash and junk food. and you'll learn to love it as long as you're with me." you scooch your chair up to him and start grabbing at the condiments.
he sets his hand on your knee and rubs your kneecap.
"this consists of a base of mac salad and homefries, salted to your preference, then smothered in some chili sauce with a couple beef patties with cheese. all infused with my love." you shake up the ketchup and mustard. "and then you put these on to your hearts desire."
he grabs at the bottles and squirts a moderate amount of each on.
"now, we make it homogeneous," you instruct as you cut and mix, enough to make it look like one big plate of, well, garbage.
"i know you like spice, but i can't have your gastrointestinal system vetoing my meal in my own bed." you lift the spoonful of mush to his face. "next time, when you're not prone to passing out from full body exhaustion and a food coma."
"countin' on it." he opens his mouth to receive a piece of your love to him.
he loves junk food as much as the next human being in the modern world. he's been to batburger many a time, but this. this is something else entirely. maybe it is because of the love you put into it. he groans and closes his eyes, making you grin and steal your own bite.
"my angel, my beloved, love'a my life," he mumbles, still chewing. "this's manna. you've bestowed the food'a the heavens upon me."
"it's rude to talk with your mouth full, but i can overlook it with how nice you're bein' to me." you wipe some of the mustard off his lip.
he grabs you hand and kisses your thumb. you share a smile before shoving another spoonful in his mouth. a glass of water is placed under his nose, pressing him to gulp some down, which he does without complaint.
"you finish a few more bites and we'll get you all tucked in, hm?" jason's eyebrows furrow at the idea of not finishing the garbage sat before him, which you knowingly sigh at. "i'll wrap it up for tomorrow. it'll be all for you, big guy."
he grins, swallows, and opens his mouth, signaling for you to feed him more.
"you're lucky you're so cute."
eventually, you both end up in bed, snuggled under the covers with jason all bandaged up. you're tucked up behind him, legs intertwined, so you can rub his stomach. he may be banged up on the outside, but on the inside he's filled with love from you and a nice helping of garbage plate. he falls asleep with the smell of you and mustard and the thought of tomorrow— he gets to repeat the good parts all over again.