Archive of Our Own

The chilled air wafting from the fridge stings your cheeks, and your fingers ache with growing numbness. You're crouched low to the ground so you can rifle through the bottom drawers, eyes rapidly scanning for some way to maneuver the newly bought head of cauliflower into an empty space.

It’s not only your eyes that move with hummingbird-quickness, but also the way words flow past your lips, your voice the only noise to disturb the otherwise quiet kitchen.  

"Oh, so, I was saying to Rachel—the girl next door, by the way—that the bright blue door at that bookstore I like should be kept that way, but Mr. Perry—the owner of the bookstore, by the way—says that he thinks matching the door to the red awning outside is a better idea, so he’s gonna paint it this weird, reddish-brownish colour, kinda muddy if you ask me, and—"

You pause, hands spread flat across your thighs while you eye the bag of capsicums, their red flesh gleaming in the fluorescent-blue light. Where should you put those, if you want space for the cauliflower?

"I'm telling you,” you sigh, “it's like playing Tetris to get all the groceries inside this tiny thing."

The complaint is thrown over your shoulder, and behind you—with his spine pressed against the hard edge of the counter—Jason thumbs through his phone. He's ruffled in a clean, freshly showered way, and his eyes tiredly scan over the texts Tim's sent him—all pertaining to a shared case.

He's only reading the texts superficially. He's tuned himself into your streamline of conscious thought, finding the sound of your voice cathartic, even if it's broken by the occasional thud of something being shoved into an open corner of the fridge.

"But anyway," you continue, standing to your full height with the capiscums in hand. You carefully search the grated shelves for another empty space in your tiny fridge. "Mr. Perry's a little rude. I tried telling him how much of an icon the bright blue door is—like it's part of that little bookstore now—and he got all prickly with me and told me to stay out of his business. And I mean..."

You trail off momentarily, finding a small cranny to shove the capsicums into. You let out a huff before letting the fridge door glide shut, the seal latching. You glance at Jason, eyes travelling to the device in his scarred hand, and push out a breath through your nose.

It doesn’t really bother you, at least that’s what you think to yourself, and you keep speaking anyway—a stubbornness inside you to finish the story you started rising up like a haughty nose and jutted chin. You move around Jason’s form, stepping towards the sink where the square window above lets pale, brownish light seep into the cramped kitchen. Jason inhales deeply, the sound wrapping around you.

"I meant it in a nice way, of course," you shrug one shoulder, before turning the tap on. Rushing water roars inside the basin, bubbling near the drain before you shove the plug inside. "Like, I wasn't trying to boss him around or order him not to do something, but I wanted to give my opinion, y'know?”

Squeezing a few squirts of dishwasher soap into the warm, slowly rising water in the basin, you shake your hand violently inside the water until foamy bubbles ripple, dripping from your fingers as you grab a dirty plate tossed to the side of the sink, as well as the neon yellow sponge.

Methodically, you start scrubbing away traces of scrambled eggs and ketchup from the porcelain. 

You sigh softly, “And it’s just… like, I don’t understand why he feels he should paint over something so bright and fun like that—maybe I’m just sentimental to the blue—but to paint it such a dull colour, oh!”

Your arm drops, sponge and plate stilling mid-scrub. “Did I mention he’s painting it red? But like, a really dull red, almost brown—” 

“You told me that already,” is Jason’s monotonous reply.  

You suck in a sharp inhale, head snapping to the side. Jason heaves out a breath, seafoam gaze still stuck on his phone with a certain weariness—the kind that seems indirectly aimed at you. You watch with hurt sliding between your ribs like a knife as Jason brings a hand to roughly rub at his jaw, settling there like an act of repressed agitation. 

“Oh, okay,” you murmur, head dipping back to the milky water lapping at your hands. A burn settles inside your throat, something akin to shame trapezing over your head.

I really need to stop rambling so much. He’s probably tired. 

You don’t usually reign yourself in when it comes down to talking, not unless you’re speaking to people you don’t know on a personal or intimate level—but Jason are those things and more. Sometimes it feels like you know each other like the moon knows the stars, or the tides know the shore. You are so fundamentally connected to each other that it doesn’t occur to you to hold yourself back.

I should, you scold mentally, hands going through the motion of cleaning the dishes. You’re so focused on how you rotate the sponge around the rim of the plate and the way a painful weight is beginning to sit on your chest, that you don’t notice in your peripheral how Jason’s lifted his head from his phone, creased eyes combing across the side of your face.

“Doll?” Jason’s voice cuts through the static that’s enveloped you, and you can’t bring yourself to look at him, afraid that you’ll find confirmation for what you think is true. 

You hum in a small acknowledgement. 

Silence only greets you, and the weight of it is even more stifling than your critical scolding. Hesitantly, you glance to your right. 

Jason watches you with thinly-veiled confusion, brows pinched tightly as he watches the way your lips thin, jaw going tight. He quickly shoves his phone into the pocket of his sweatpants, arms crossing over his chest.

He says your name, “... what’s wrong?” 

You avert your gaze—not doe-like or timidly, but out of a necessary need to grovel in your embarrassment without it showing. Eyes are the windows to the soul, are they not?

“Nothing,” you answer dismissively.

A drawn out pause stretches between the two of you, slow and heavy like syrup, but like anything too sweet, it leaves behind a burn that continues to grow hotter inside your throat. You don’t catch the way Jason’s face splits open with realisation, brows lifting and eyelids pulling back before sliding shut again in regret. 

“No, no,” Jason sighs, shaking his head while pushing himself away from the counter. You watch with parted lips as he snatches the drying-towel hanging over the oven’s handle, sliding up to you. His skin pulses heat from his recent shower, and you lose all the breath in your lungs as Jason pulls your hands from the sink and swaddles them in the drying-cloth, dabbing away the wetness.

“Don’t do that,” Jason murmurs, and this time you’re the one frowning. Confused, you let Jason pat your hands dry completely before guiding you away from the sink, the drying-cloth discarded onto the counter. “Don’t go quiet on me like that.”

You swallow hard, “I didn’t—”

“Nuh-uh,” Jason tuts sharply, shaking his head. His eyes hold yours insistently, before they soften like molten lead. “You went quiet on me. What’s wrong?” 

You don’t want to meet his gaze, but you sag under his touch like you always do, neck craned to look up at him.

“I was talking too much… wasn’t I?” you say it softly, and Jason’s shoulders lose their tension, dropping like weights.

“No—Doll,” he tilts his head down, eyes the colour of blue-tinted glass pinning you in place. “You were not talking too much, you never do—” 

“You seemed annoyed,” you interject, weakly gesturing to him, as if to convey that his entire being had screamed it to you. 

“Not at you,” Jason corrects immediately, and his fingers wrap gently around your wrists. “Tim was being a little b—” 

You give him a pointed look, and Jason’s words still on his tongue.  

“... a little infuriating. He was being cryptic and vague over text, holding this stupid case over me. He’s trying to be funny and it was getting on my nerves. I was not upset at you. I promise.” 

You draw in a deep breath through your nose, tuned into the slow caress of Jason’s thumb against your pulse point. He’s watching you, dark hair streaked almost grey from the kitchen’s dim light, and pale eyes flickering across your face. 

Jason, with regret coiled inside his gut, watches as you sag further into him, nodding your head softly. 

"Yeah… okay,” you relent, slowly opening up to his explanation like a blooming flower, petals falling open to accept the sun.

“Hey,” Jason pulls you closer to him, pressing a firm kiss to your temple. “I’m not lying. I wasn’t annoyed with you—and even with Tim bugging me, I was listening.” 

Giddiness sprouts inside your chest. “Yeah?” 

Jason hums, pressing a softer kiss to your cheek. “Yeah, I was. You were talking about Mr. Perry wanting to change the colour of the door from blue to red, an ugly red. But when I said you had already said that before when you mentioned it twice, I didn’t mean to sound…” 

“Annoyed?” you offer, and a smile spreads across your face. 

Jason smirks, shaking his head. “Mhm-hm. Annoyed.”  

Strong arms gather you into Jason's broad chest, one hand pressed to the back of your head. You melt into him, his shirt crisp and smelling of lavender scented fabric-softener. He’s warm, and his skin shares that heat with you readily, almost desperately.

But it doesn’t compare to the warmth slipping between your ribs to settle comfortably.

“Thank you for saying that,” you murmur quietly, and Jason squeezes you fondly, laying another kiss to your scalp.

thank you for reading, God bless <33