Mornings with Jason were surprisingly normal.

Well—normal in the sense that coffee was made, breakfast was eaten, and conversation happened. The content of that conversation, however, was anything but typical.

You sat at the small kitchen table, scrolling through crime reports while Jason leaned against the counter, sipping his coffee like it was the only thing keeping him from going back to bed. The smell of burnt toast lingered in the air—his failed attempt at making breakfast before you took over.

“You realize you should have just let me handle it from the start,” was his only defense when you shot him a look over your plate.

The morning news played in the background, a reporter talking about a recent gang bust. You gestured toward the screen, where Red Hood’s handiwork was all over the footage. Jason smirked behind his coffee cup, watching as the media scrambled to figure out if he was a menace or a necessary evil.

Then, without looking up, you slid a file across the table. He glanced at it, raising an eyebrow. New intel—updated locations, patterns, a couple of names neither of you had run across before.

Jason hummed, setting his mug down as he flipped through the pages. “Not bad.” A pause. “You sleep at all last night?”

You didn’t answer. Which was, of course, an answer.

Jason sighed, rubbing a hand over his face before pushing his plate toward you, his way of telling you to eat more. You nudged his coffee back in return.

It was quiet for a while, both of you reading, sipping coffee, stealing each other’s food like it was some unspoken game. Just another morning—planning, recovering, gearing up for another night in the city.

Domestic life, vigilante-style.