Friends Don’t Do What We Do

Friends don’t do what we do

Jason Todd x fem!reader

Warnings: none

Authors note: this is my first time ever doing something like this, I’m not a writer by conventional means but I could not leave you all hanging after blowing up my blurb

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“That’s a nice jacket.” Your greedy gaze takes in the leather comfortably draping his body.

He eyes you carefully, “Thanks.”

“You got candy in there?” You grin up at him.

“Sweetheart, ask for what you really want.” You hate the way he’s able to coax you into yourself, grounding you with the idea that he’s not like eveyone else. He doesn’t flinch at your forwardness.

“Can I…explore your pockets a bit..?”

You aren’t snoopy by nature (yes you are) , but the desire to more about him drew you into asking this absurd question.

He leans closer to you on the couch, offering his pocket. He carefully takes in the details of your face. You’d wilt under anyone else’s scrutiny, but his attention lacks judgment.

Tentatively you reach in.

He feels your hand digging around. This is the only way he can stomach letting you touch him, between a layer of thick fabric…it feels nice.

“Massive pockets. You carry your bike in here?”

Your heart leaps at the way his laugh softens his voice, “Yeah sweets sometimes I put ‘er in there.”

Your hand wraps around cool metal, heavy in your palm as you lift it into the light of the room.

A pocket knife.

“Oh.” Your eyes gleam dangerously, “You stab someone with this before?” You pop open the blade, checking for blood, before he gently confiscates it, clicking it closed.

“A stab from this’d be a paper cut.” He lifts it away from your reaching hands.

“Then what do you have it for?” He gives you a wry smile, “Has no one taught you anything about—” he pulls his hand away as you reach for it, “—survival?”

“Mmm…not really, no.” You quip. Whether or not it’s sarcasm, he mentally adds to the list of things he needs to teach you.

You reach in again, pulling out a folded piece of paper, you carefully un-crumple it, glancing up at him briefly, waiting to see if he stops you. He only holds your gaze. “Nothing juicy huh?” Your eyes scan a grocery list.

Oh Ho Ho. “Pomegranates?”

“They’re in season…” he murmurs as you read on.

“You put C4 on your grocery list?”

His brows scrunch confusedly, your gasp interrupts his rebuttal, “Chloroform?!” He rips the paper out of your hands, and double checks the list. Bread, chips, peanut butter, mozzarella, eggs, etc.

He sighs, “You don’t buy chloroform at the grocery store, you make it.”

“How?” He gives you a disapproving look, you return it with a grin of your own as you reach in again.

“Shiny…” The three bullets are weighty, all smooth, and cold in your palm.

You let him confiscate those, reveling in his gentleness, and the contrast of his warm, rough fingers. His nearly somber expression catches you off guard, like a cold breeze through a sweater meant to keep you warm. The bullets are a heavier weight, in his hand.

“You’re worse than a crow.” He mutters.

You reach in again, “…my hair tie.”

“Mh.” His noncommittal answer soothes your poorly concealed nerves. What needn’t be said, or brought to the light; whatever this was between you.

He confiscates yet another item from your palm, pulling it on his wrist. “This is mine too.”