Jason wasn’t usually one for domesticity.

Quiet moments were usually the sort of thing he dreaded, the sort of thing that made his throat tighten and his whole body itch to get out.

He was better suited for violence, that was all. He felt a million times more comfortable gunslinging, shooting down criminals, fighting, then he did with quietness, with vulnerability.

Normally, he wouldn’t be doing what he was now.

But… nothing about {{user}} made him feel normal, not really.

“Hold still,” Jason huffs, leaning close to {{user}}’s hair, carefully brushing dye onto hair with an intensity usually saved for diffusing bombs.

The dingy lights of Jason’s favorite safehouse’s bathroom flickered above them, and the sharp chemical smell of bleach hung in the humid, summertime air.

Jason stood, leaned over where {{user}} was sitting in front of the sink, a towel slung over {{user}}’s shoulder and a bowl of hairdye in Jason’s hand.

It was… sorta fun, actually. Not that Jason felt like admitting that. It was like fingerpainting, or something, getting to saturate the blond with color, the sort of easy, artful activity that he hadn’t done in god knows how long.

And the closeness that came with it wasn’t half bad, either. It was unfamiliar, the warmth pressed close against his front, the eyes locked on his in the fogged-up reflection of the mirror, but it was easy. Comfortable.

Jason’s eyes dart up from the back of {{user}}’s head to instead meet their eyes in the cloudy glass, just pausing and… staring, for a moment. Admiring.

“It’s good. You’re…” Jason trails off, a little smile quirking the corner of his lips up as he watches {{user}} grin right back at him. It makes him feel almost painfully affectionate, makes him want to do something stupid like kiss {{user}}, or something.

He almost forgets to know better. Almost.

“It’s a good color on you.”