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"Do you ever get weird stares from the baristas when you order this looking like that?" you ask as you lean against the railing of your balcony, looking down at the whipped cream that melts into the coffee that you're holding. The seasons have started to turn, summer ending with a deep sigh as the colder weather and coloured leaves begin to roll in.
The coffee, warm in your hands, is a sort of balm against it all.
"Nah," Redhood shrugs as he climbs over the railing to join you. "Perk of them working the midnight shift - it's when all this shit happens."
"Well, thank you," you murmur, but you only lean forward a fraction before he's leaning away, staring at you through the white slits of his helmet. You know what he'll say - you've heard the cautious reminders that you shouldn't get to close to him like this, not while you're out in the open where anyone can see.
You'd point out the obvious - that Redhood bringing you coffee in the middle of the night is already raising too many red flags, that his love for you has made him a bit soft and a bit unaware.
But you won't point it out - because he knows. You can see it in the guilt that has his shoulders rigid and his gaze flickering around the surrounding buildings. And you won't point it out because you're a bit too relieved to be bothered by it - a bit too safe in his love to feel afraid of whatever lies beyond it.
"Quiet night, then, I guess?" you ask gently, sipping the coffee and letting the sweetness of it warm something inside you. "If you're here, I mean."
"Quiet enough," he agrees, and you purse your lips at the gaps of what he's left unsaid.
"You don't need to check up on me like this, you know," you offer. "I mean, what could happen? I'm at home, safe."
"What are you doing up this late, baby?" Jason asks instead of responding, a blunt counter to your request. You shrug and look down at your coffee.
"I dunno," you murmur. "Couldn't sleep. Doesn't come easy all the time."
"Mhm," is his knowing response, and you shoot him an unimpressed look.
"I don't need Redhood to save me from a bad night's sleep," you retort, but your voice is gentle, still - kind and rounded in a way that it always is with him.
"Not Redhood, no," Jason corrects gently, and you freeze where you were swirling your coffee idly in the styrofoam cup. When you look up at him, up to the white slits of his mask, you find that it's just Jason staring back at you.
You click your tongue in disapproval, looking away and out toward the city instead. But Redhood's finger hooks under you chin to bring your gaze back to his own, and he ducks his head a bit to make sure that you're really looking.
"Those are some awful blurred lines, don't you think?" you ask gently, and he just hums in response, his thumb sweeping over your cheek.
"Haven't they always been?"
"No, not really," you point out. Jason tilts his head a bit in that way that you know means he's about to disagree with you, and you step back to sip your coffee rather pointedly as his hand falls to his side.
"I think they aways were," he offers softly, and you scoff a bit, the noise weak as your grip tightens on your coffee cup.
"I don't think I spent so long not knowing you for it to have always been like that," you say sternly, and Jason leans in just a bit.
"You've always known me, baby," he murmurs, his voice a gentle echo that rattles through the metal railing of the balcony. You press your lips together into a thin line, years of memories flitting through your head as you bite your tongue.
Jason, always - on the other side of the locked bathroom door, blood on his hands as he messily stitches himself back together.
Jason, every time - waking, gasping and sweating from nightmares and disappearing into the living room, pushing you ever so gently back into bed and promising to be back in a few minutes. Knowing that he won't - knowing that you'll wake up in the morning to cold sheets and an empty bed.
Jason, still - looking at you now like he knows you, like he knows exactly what's rattling through your head. You look down at the whipped cream that's melted into your coffee, deflated and crushed into the small cup.
Because Jason always knows your order, always knows when you'll want it and where you're standing, listless and sleepless, on the balcony and looking out toward the city as if you'll find him somewhere out there.
Because he always finds you first. Every time.
"Where'd you go, baby?" he asks gently, and when he nudges your shoulder with his, you startle and the coffee sloshes in your hands. Jason catches onto it before you do, of course, wrapping his hand around yours and steadying your grip.
"Nowhere," you murmur, and he lets out a disbelieving little huff. "I'm right here."
"No, you're not," Jason shakes his head, and you bite your tongue again as you wonder how he can always tell - even when you can't. You look down, scuffing your shoe against the little mat that you'd thrown out onto the balcony months ago.
But summer's almost over - the pricking of the wind against your face reminds you so. Nights like these are fleeting these days - coming to a close as the cold sets in.
"You know," Jason muses, and he leans against the railing and shifts his weight. "Nights like this are my favourite."
"Like this?" you echo. He nods, his hand trailing up and down your arm as you sip your coffee.
"Yea," he continues softly. "I know you don't really need me here."
"No," you say quickly, the guilt of it all catching up to you. "No, Jason, I just -"
"It's ok," he murmurs. "I just mean… um. I need this."
"No, you don't," you murmur gently, knocking your knuckles gently against the cheek of his helmet, the honesty of it all shocking you a bit. "You're alright out there."
"Am I?" he asks sort of hollowly, and your hand smooths down over his shoulder.
"I won't disappear just because you can't see me, you know," you offer in response, and Jason freezes like he's been caught. "Our home is always here - you know, that whole… safe place to land thing. It's still here, even when you're out there. It's always here for you to come back to."
"I know it is," Jason says rather haltingly, tipping his head down to stare at the floor, as if he could hide his face - as if you could see right through his mask. "I'm not -"
"You don't have to prove it," you interrupt him gently, and he lets you, his hands gripping the railing of the balcony. "You don't have to justify anything, or… or explain it. I'm just reminding you."
"I don't know how you do this, baby," is all he responds with, his voice a wavering sigh. "It's like you see right through me."
You laugh at that, a startled, disbelieving sort of thing, and Jason reaches to take your hand in his.
"Well," you sigh, "I don't know. Maybe I just know you."
"Yea," he murmurs in response. Another wave of cold wind blows through, but Jason's form blocks you from its path, the breeze hitting his shoulders and nothing much else. "You know I think you always have."