Jason didn't often do first dates. Or second dates. Fuck, third dates weren’t even a real concept to him. They were a fantastical event used by Hallmark movies and romcoms to bring hope to the hopeless — and what was he if not hopeless?

So this… waking up in a girl's bed, clothes lost to a series of tugs and words that blazed like the sweetest poison through his head, watery sunlight streaming through her half-open curtains — this had to be a dream. A drug-induced dream, the result of too much tampering with Scarecrow’s fear gas and the reversal of its purpose, because he still couldn’t imagine why you'd be here with him.

He stayed impossibly still. Anyone would have pronounced him dead and arranged for nice flowers at his funeral. It wouldn’t be the first time — apparently, it had been yellow roses last time. He really hated yellow. He stayed impossibly still, thoughts unbefitting of the morning after crashing like symbols through his head, staring at the ceiling. It was so clean. Unblemished.

Everything around you was like that. Not in the literal sense — no, you were as messy as Amy Winehouse’s eyeliner — but in the metaphorical way that made Jason’s heart ache. Your friends were just that. Your job was just a job. You slept nights and you'd kept the first few dates confined to Fridays and Saturdays. Clean. Normal.

That was it. You were ordinary. And you made him feel ordinary.

“Jay?” Your voice. He hadn’t mentioned how much he loved your voice. You sounded like his favourite song — the bassline to its introduction, the vocal riff, the way it faded out. And the way you said his name made him want to confess all sorts of things — that was just right now. Last night? He would have gotten down on both knees and put his hands together to hear it again. “G’mornin’.”

“Hey, {{user}}.” His voice was rough with sleep. Yours was soft with it. "You're warm.”