A Taste Of Normalcy

A Taste of Normalcy

Pairing: f!Reader x Jason Todd

Summary: Jason is a nervous little dweeb and I want him so bad it’s criminal.

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Jason’s favorite game to play during the day, the hours before he went on patrol and the minutes before he slept, was to imagine a completely different world for himself. He’d been at this endless loop of waking up at 4pm, stalking around his corner of Gotham after dark, and passing out from exhaustion at around 5am every night morning.

He’d spend the time between intense combat and following leads letting his mind drift away from Gotham, pretending he’d gone to college; taught English or History or something completely different after he got his degree. He’d imagine a life in a little town somewhere farther up north, he didn’t like the heat of Gotham summers, he thought he’d enjoy seeing the frozen lakes in Maine winters. He’d thought of a family of his own, when he felt generous he’d let himself imagine a girl, too.

It was daydreaming that gave him the smallest taste of normalcy; a hint of what could’ve been, if things were different. He hated when reality pulled him back, when he was reminded of how truly impossible that dream was. Until he met y/n, that is.

Y/n worked at a coffee shop he sat in once after a lead ran cold. He had time to kill, and the cafe was advertising a new drink he wanted to try. He paid for the drink and sat down at the table, ignoring the way the cashier stared at him like he was carrying a gun. He was, of course, but it’s not like she knew. As the girl handed the order slip to barista and whispered, Jason kept his eyes fixed out the window like he was witnessing the Second Coming of Christ. He knew he had an intimidating appearance, he didn’t want to make anyone else sweat with his eye contact right now.

He heard chatter over the soft music and the burring noise of the espresso maker, and while he tried to tune it out, it felt impossible after he heard that voice. Her voice. She laughed at whatever her coworker said and Jason felt his heart twinge. He didn’t want to look over, he didn’t want to encourage his already concerning interest in a faceless voice.

When she said his name, he swore his heart stopped in his chest. He mentally cursed himself for his pathetic swooning, knew he needed to get out of the house more if he was lonely enough to get this excited over a voice. That argument would’ve worked, too, if he didn’t catch her eyes watching him as he walked over.

No one had ever looked so equally enticing and terrifying to him before. He was ashamed of the poetry that flew through his mind as he noticed the array of freckles across her nose, the way it wrinkled slightly when she smiled at him, the light rose on her cheeks, the loose strands of hair that fell behind her neck from her messy ponytail. He vividly recalls telling his brother Dick all of this over the phone later, claiming he must’ve met a Kryptonian, or maybe an angel.

He must’ve stood there at the counter for at least a minute in silence, the way she tilted her head slightly and lifted her brow with confusion.

“Does it look okay?”

Shit.

She sounded earnest in her concern, and it made it all the worse for his growing infatuation. He shook his head too quickly, smiled too awkwardly, spoke too loudly.

“No, no— I mean, yes, it’s perfect! Good. It looks good.”

He felt his cheeks burning and his hands clamming up. He coughed as he grabbed the drink, hoping she would focus on the sound and ignore the way his hands shook. She glanced down at his hands, anyway. He swallowed and pivoted around, beelining it to the door like he was trying to run from an explosion. Which, in a metaphorical sense, he was. He froze when he heard her call his name again, and turned his head slightly, praying the ever-loving terror in his eyes at speaking to a girl twice didn’t translate. Twenty-four year old men shouldn’t sweat so much at the mere concept of talking to a girl, but yet, here he was.

Her smile in that moment felt like putting frozen peas on a swollen ankle. He needed to work on his similes.

“You forgot your receipt!”

He swallowed and shook his head, turning back to the door as he responded.

“N-No, I didn’t need-“

She clears her throat and wags the paper out at him, seemingly refusing to accept his polite decline. He smiles nervously and walks back over, grabbing the receipt (too quickly, again), mumbling a quick “thank you” before he practically runs out of the cafe. He balls the receipt in his hand and reaches towards a trash can on the street, pausing inches away from the lid at a glimpse of pink on the black and white paper. He almost rips the paper in half when he unfurls the receipt, his lips curling into a grin when he sees 10 digits and a little message scrawled onto a receipt that, he realized now, wasn’t his.

Text me if you’re feeling brave, tough guy.

- Y/n :)

He thought he was pathetic for the squeal that left his body at some messy handwriting from a pink gel pen. He straightened up and cleared his throat, forcing the Jason-Todd-Scowl (trademark pending) to return to his face, ignoring the way his heart was racing. He couldn’t help himself, though, when he got home. He sat there on the floor of his nearly-empty apartment, his phone in one hand and the receipt in the other. Panicking.

“And that’s where I’m at now. What do I do, Dick? Is it too soon to-“

He heard wheezing from the other line and he knew he’d messed up, assuming Richard “Dickhead” Grayson would be of any assistance. He bit his cheek and wished he’d called Roy instead. After a while Dick catches his breath and speaks, his amused grin impossible to miss in his voice.

“Sorry, sorry, Little Wing. I just—- I’m confused. You somehow managed to get a girl interested enough to give you her number, but you didn’t even-“

“No, I didn’t text her, Dickweed. You should’ve seen the girl! What the hell do you say to that?!”

Dick stifles a laugh and tries to maintain his composure.

“Jay, you’re a dumbass. She obviously wants you to-“

Jason could hear a distant voice on the line. A voice that sounded a lot like a certain brat he avoided telling ANYTHING to in fear of-

“Is Todd still whining about his crush? Tell him to stop being such a-“

Jason hung up the phone before Damian could whip out any more of his Shakespearean insults, he’d gotten enough of those in the past hour. He sighs and rubs his eyes, checking the time.

5:57pm.

Three hours after he left the cafe, and he still couldn’t produce the courage to send one text message. He read the note over again, typing in the phone number and throwing up one last Hail Mary before he sent a quick “Hey, it’s Jason.” He dropped his phone back onto the floor and groaned, hiding his face in his hands and berating himself for his lackluster message. He prayed it would be enough to get a response, but he was a realist, so he knew it probably wouldn’t.

It only took 2 minutes and 32 seconds for his phone to buzz.

Took you long enough, tough guy.

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Hi guys, I originally wrote this as a way to feed my horrible and disgusting addiction to Jason fluff but unfortunately I got carried away and now I think I might make this a thing (writing fanfics). I think it’s the natural trajectory for a freak like myself. Anyway!

this is the funniest thing I’ve read in my LIFE

Jerkin it to some ink on a page is fucking crazy but here I am anyway.

Anyway look at my man!

Savannah

I'm not sure if she would remember me.

I met her in my freshman year of college. Savannah immediately intimidated me. She had this sort of confidence to her that made it seem as though the world revolved around her. It was her story, I was just a small side character in the second act. She openly expressed her feelings with anyone who asked. She had the brightest smile I've ever seen. She smelled like lilacs. She would tell me I was brave and selfless and kind. I never asked her to sit next to me, or to share her candy with me, or to show me her poetry, but she did. Her touch was so soft, so sincere. She asked me questions about myself when no one else cared. She wore flowy skirts and crop tops and put her short curly hair up in this tiny little bun and pull two little strands out of it and god I wish I kissed her when she sat next to me. I wish I held her hand and I wish I gave her my number and I wish she wouldn't be so far away. I wish I knew her still and I wish she remembered me and I wish she would find me and I wish she missed me and I wish she wanted me like I wanted her and I wish I could hold her and kiss her and god I wonder what she tastes like and I wish I could smell her perfume again and I want to hold her hand as we drive to a book store or a cafe or literally anywhere and just exist with her. I want her to tell me all of the things she's held in for forever and I want to kiss her cheeks and her forehead and hold her face in my hands and see her smile again. I miss her. I want her. I wish she was here.

A Man's Job

[this is an original short story i wrote for a class, please enjoy!]

Nick rubs at the scruff on his face as he reads over the letter he’s been anxiously waiting for these past two weeks.

            Nicholas Fender,

We at the Missouri Department of Social Services recognize your request for supplemental income for nutritional assistance. At this time, we are unable to accept your application, due to—

He crumples the letter and shoves it in his pocket, swallowing back his disappointed sighs and the frustration that bubbles up in his chest. Bethie didn’t need to hear it; she didn’t need any reason to stress.

“Nick? You down here?”

Nick wipes the grease from his calloused hands on his work trousers; Bethie hated when he tracked his dirt and grime from the auto shop around her perfectly spotless house. He straightens the collar of his polo uniform shirt, walking over to see Sweet Bethie waddling down the stairs, her soft and dainty hands cupping her swollen belly. He instinctively holds his hands out to help her, but she waves off his efforts at chivalry and continues to slowly sidestep her way down to him. She walks right past him once she’s made it down the stairs, ignoring his outstretched arms and heading straight for the kitchen.

“Did you get the tea I asked for?”

Nick scolds himself mentally for his forgetfulness, pushing aside the lingering doubt that he wouldn’t have enough cash to buy the tea anyway, had he remembered.

“No, baby. ‘M sorry. Store was out again.”

Bethie turns to look at him with her delicate features twisted into an irritated scowl. He couldn’t blame her; it was the same excuse he’d given for the last three weeks now. Her eyes were still the same wideset blue-green ovals he’d loved since he was fourteen, but they held none of the warmth from back in those days. Sixteen-year-old Bethie, the girl who lived in the apartment down the street, the girl who rode her bike too fast down busy roads, the girl who spent ages in the sun during the Missouri heatwaves, her porcelain skin dotted with peach-colored freckles that never seemed to get tan before it would burn. Sweet Bethie always put her long red curls in a ponytail; she didn’t like the way they’d get frizzy in the humidity. The woman who stood in front of him now held only glimpses of the girl he loved back then. Her pale skin was still freckled, her red curls were still frizzy, but her eyes were duller now. She looked exhausted, cradling her belly like it held a curse, rather than a blessing.

Nick glanced away from her piercing gaze, staring at his dirty work boots he’d forgotten to remove at the door. He could feel it coming, the yelling, the bitterness, the frustration, the disappointment. He knew exactly what she’d say, exactly what she always said:

I ask so little of you, Nick!

I’m stuck here, day after day, can’t you at least give me the satisfaction of clean floors and hot tea?

I wish I’d married Peter Breckage instead. He’s a realtor now, you know that? Well off, too. At least he’d be able to get me the tea I like.

That last one she’d never really said before, not aloud. But Nick knew she thought it, every time they’d drive past his big fancy sign over his big fancy office, shiny glass windows and shiny marble floors. All Peter Breckage was missing was a throne.

It was as though Bethie could hear his thoughts at this moment, her expression shifting to one indiscernible to Nick. He was in the center of a twister, the wind spiraling around him and Bethie, destroying her perfect and beautiful home he couldn’t afford. Her voice was low and stern, as though she was scolding him while holding their unborn child in her hands, yet another perfect and beautiful financial burden Nick couldn’t carry.

“Peter’s secretary called again today. She said he wants an answer by Friday. I don’t understand why you can’t just—”

“I won’t work for that ignorant, pompous, self-righteous bastard.”

“How could you say that, Nick? He’s only trying to help. He knows that business at the shop’s been down, he only wants to—”

Those words felt like knives. Nick felt his anger bubbling up in his chest, he clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms as he attempted to restrain himself from lashing out. His father was an angry man, his father’s father was even angrier. Generations of wives to the Fender men had been miserable and beaten down, sometimes literally, and Nick wanted—needed—to be better. He stared back at his dirty work boots, feeling his rage simmering down and turning to something deeper, something he didn’t want Bethie to see.

He muttered an excuse towards his wife, ignored the way she sniffled in response and quietly pleaded he’d stay. He retreated from her sanctuary of cleanliness, driving his beat-up old truck to the same liquor store he snuck beers from when he was too young to buy them properly. He scoffed as he passed Peter Breckage’s shiny palace of glass and marble, the beers in his passenger seat clattering together as he drove down the dirt path to the lakefront. He parked and made his way to the willow tree next to the water, his heavy work boots barely making a sound in the soft dirt and overgrown grass.

Back against the trunk, bark scraping against his polo, beers resting unopened by his foot, it was now that he let himself breathe. No one was here to listen as he sniffed and sobbed quietly, the guilt and the doubt squeezing his chest as hot tears fell down his cheeks, streaking the dirt and the oil that seemed to never go away. It was here, sitting under this willow tree, listening to the croaking bullfrogs and swish of the wind in the cattails, that Nick let his cracked armor fall away.

It must’ve been hours before he sighed and stood from the ground, picking up the unopened six-pack and dusting off his work trousers. He turns and is met with the headlights of a taxi, the passenger door opening, and Sweet Bethie doing her best to rush to him from the car, clutching her belly with one hand as she waves off the driver. Her wideset blue-green eyes are filled with concern and urgency, her tear-stained cheeks are flushed as she carefully holds his face in her hands, turning his head slightly as she looks him over, asking a multitude of questions about how much he drank, if he was harmed, what the hell was he thinking. Nick’s mind was silent for the first time in ages, he had no answer good enough. He stares at her for a moment before his gaze lowers to her belly, his hands shaking slightly as he carefully runs them over her bump. Tears are spilling down his cheeks again, unable to be held back any longer as he whispers countless apologies to Sweet Bethie and his unborn child. Bethie furrows her brows in confusion, urging Nick to explain.

“I’ve failed to care for you. It’s a man’s job to provide for his wife, for his children, and I’ve failed. I’ve failed as a man, as a husband, as a father.”

Bethie doesn’t respond with words, for there are no words in the English language that could heal generations of unspoken insecurity and guilt, no words that could remove the burden of responsibility Nick had carried alone for so long. Bethie only smiles and wraps her arms around him, holding him close to her, running her fingers through his hair as she kisses him. It was a simple action, but it was enough. For the first time in far too long, Sweet Bethie was the girl he met when she was sixteen, and Nick was the fourteen-year-old boy who loved her.