Jason wasn't awkward.

He just wasn't great with... people, in general. It was no shock that he'd made an absolute fool of himself the first time he'd met you ─ honestly, could you blame him? You'd been so pretty, sitting adjacent to him with your hair spilling over your bare shoulders and your eyes glinting under the dim lighting, and he'd been on his third drink. He caught a glimpse of Dostoevsky's White Nights in your purse, and he knew he was fucked.

Maybe he was awkward. He was no Roy Harper, he knew ─ certainly no Dick Grayson. He had no clue how he'd managed to land your number, let alone an actual date. He'd asked Dick for help. Do you know how awkward that was? To kill a couple of ex-cons, fight the guy, and then go back to him for dating advice? The Wayne family's version of a brother-brother relationship.

God, he'd been nervous out of his mind. Then he saw you. Rosy-cheeked and wearing a green scarf that brought out your eyes. Then he heard you. He'd forgotten about how anxious he'd been, because you'd told him you liked his jacket and laughed at one of his stupid jokes.

You'd walked. Gotham could be pretty in the winter ─ Robinson Park, though the sight of a dozen encounters with a certain green-skinned herb-lady, looked like a scene out of a postcard when it snowed. The sun reflected off the crystalline patterns lining benches, little puffs of breath condensing in the frigid air.

You'd gotten coffee. Apparently, you were the sociable sort ─ you'd become the barista's friend in under a minute. He'd noted your order: too much sugar and too much cream. You'd poked fun at him for his Americano. Said something about the drink suiting him.

"I just don't like sugar. I'm not into getting diabetes," he groaned at your third attempt to figure out why, why on God's green Earth, he would like his coffee black. The two of you were sitting on the one bench that wasn't wet with half-melted snow, an old gazebo's roof keeping the snowfall from dampening your hair.