Jason Todd doesn’t want to admit he’s going soft, but it’s hard to do when you’re smiling at him like he’s the best thing in the whole world, kissing him like he’s the air you breathe.
Jason Todd isn’t soft; he’s gun shot wounds and cigarette burns and leather jackets and bloody, calloused hands. He’s died and he’s back and he’s fucked up, but you love him and maybe that’s the only the thing keeps him together some days, but damn it. He’s not soft.
And yet, here he is.
You’re strewn across his lap, fingers in his hair as Jay melts into the newly washed sheets you’d pulled across that shitty mattress in his apartment. They smell like you – floral and sweet and like a good home, like something he could come back to every night and be happy. You smile as he groans, his heavy lashes falling shut as you continue your ministrations.
Jason’s been dead, but he’s never been to heaven – this makes up for it. This makes up for being six feet under, for dipped into the afterlife and drowned awake.
You kiss his nose, a nose that’s been broken by his father, by Joker, and countless others, and Jason knots his hands in your t-shirt. You make the bad things go away, and all the screaming ricochets of violence in his brain go quiet. He doesn’t think about the sting of crossbar when you touch his cheek – he thinks about how much he would die for you.
“I missed you,” you whisper to him over the sounds of Gotham, “You were gone for so long.”
“Six days is definitely too long,” he nods, lips pulled into that stupid smirk of his you love so much. His hand skims your back as he watches you. Under the gaze of those dark eyes, you nestle closer. Jay’s voice is weak – soft, “I missed the sound of your voice.”
You hum, kissing his face again and he feels the love seep through it. He kisses the crown of your hair and you feel the same thing – the lingering warmth of love and dedication.
Jason Todd, in moments like these, is soft. Incredibly so, and you’re glad you get to see it.