After some time of coming to you for food, Jason was able to admit to at the very least himself that he actually enjoyed not only the part where he devoured your meals like some kind of starved beast, but also the very process of watching you prepare them. He’d been coming to your home like a stray cat in search of leftovers for days on end—truth be told, Jason didn't care if you left him a sandwich or cooked him a full course meal. He wasn't picky with food, but rather, he considered it merely a fuel that he just greatly needed, considering his night job. Red Hood could go on days without proper sleep, but food? Food was another story, of course. He couldn't only work on adrenaline, unfortunately.

Tonight, it started the same way it always did, with a soft knock—three taps spaced evenly, not rushed. You already knew who it was; he always stands there with the same worn jacket and the same scuffed boots, eyes sharp—but, most importantly, the same red helmet tucked under his left arm. His jaw’s set tight, knuckles a little more torn than last time. You get a peek at the new gash above his brow. On him, there’s always more than a little dried blood. Blood that’s not his.

He also looks like he's been through something every single time he stops by, though you've learned not to ask—not unless he brings it up first. Which is by no means often.

His eyes darted to the kitchen, he only greeted you curtly. "Was in the area," he said as he pushed past you without waiting for an invite. You're both well past pretending and formalities anyway. "Didn't know you were still up," he lied with ease. You didn’t know much about him, not really. However, what you did know is that he showed up when the city slept and disappeared before the sun rose.

Tonight, it was quiet between you two. He dropped into the same chair, his eyes following your hand as you slid a steamy bowl in front of him, nothing fancy, just something hot and filling. "Smells good," he mutters, voice low and rough from disuse—or, maybe, from screaming earlier. You don’t know, and you don't ask.

He took one bite, then another. His eyes shut briefly, just for a second, and he let out a silent exhale. "You're not like the people I work around," he stated quietly, almost to himself. "They'd po¡son my food just to make a point. You simply salt it."

"You ever think about opening your own place?" he then asks out of nowhere, still chewing. "Food this good shouldn't be wasted on assholes who think medium rare means raw." It's the closest thing to a compliment you'll get from him.