Chapter Text
It's spring so that means spring cleaning, right? Or at least, it's time to get rid of the junk cluttering your spare room turned art studio. Cheap Gotham apartments didn't really allow the space to be a pack rat. But as you looked at the box in your hands, you knew you could never get rid of this one.
You opened it up and began flipping through some of the drawings. They went all the way back to elementary school, though back then they were no more than awkward drawings of the same person and face done in an unskilled child's hand. Then there was the sixth grade phase of drawing that same face with vaguely anime-like proportions. You quickly shuffled that to the bottom of the pile.
It started to get better in high school. The face looked more distinct now, less generic and with definable features. Even the full body drawings you did actually had some kind of movement and life to them as they were mostly drawn in action shots. It was interesting seeing what two decades worth of improvement drawing the same subject looked like.
“What's this?” A heavily synthesized voice asked. You glanced over your shoulder to see the Red Hood, guns and all, leaning in the doorway. The now familiar sharp smell of metal and smoke hung on him. It was barely 1 a.m. so it must be a slow night.
“You can come in,” you turned back to the papers, “it's just some old art that I've saved over the years.”
“You draw?” Hood slid down the wall across from you, kicking out one long armored leg. “No shit, I had no idea.” He laughed when you smacked his leg.
Befriending a vigilante was absolutely not on your mind when you'd moved to Gotham for college. And yet, there he’d been, bleeding all over your fire escape one night.
Even though you'd heard people whispering about the Red Hood, about him being a crime lord, you'd heard just as many stories about him working with Batman. So he couldn't be all bad, right?
And he hadn't blown your head off when he woke up to you stitching the gash in his leg, so bonus points there.
“Any funny business and I'll shoot faster than you can blink.” A synthesized voice threatened. His voice modulator had been terrifying then, not at all what you'd expected him to sound like (which made sense seeing as he was beating people up in the streets).
You lifted your hands from the wound as his crept towards his thigh holsters. “Well I've got a rent payment due in a week so I'm not trying to get shot.”
“You a doctor?”
“I'm a med student. Or was a med student. Anyway, you were passed out on my fire escape. I couldn't just leave you there.”
“Shit, ‘Wing’s gonna freak.” he muttered and let his head fall back on the floor.
“Can I…?” You motioned to the wounds and he nodded.
When you finished bandaging him, he staggered to his feet and headed to the open window. “Thanks. I'd leave you my insurance card but…” He shrugged, fired his grappling gun, and disappeared despite your protests.
The next time he’d shown up (with the daggers still sticking out of his shoulder!) you insisted that he stay.
“Why should I listen to you?” He argued as you shoved him towards the sofa and stuffed a blanket in his arms. It was a good question considering he was armed and you weren’t. “You said you're not even a med student anymore. What happened, you kill somebody and they kicked you out the program?”
“No I uh…” You looked away, “I have an online store selling my artwork and it took off and I decided maybe I didn't want to do another eight years of school. I liked art more.”
Hood stared at you in silence. Then he let out a loud electronic laugh “No shit. I'm getting stitched up by Salvador Dali.”
“I had very good grades in school, thank you very much! So I'm not a total quack.”
“No, no I'm not mad.” Hood laughed again. “This is perfect. Hey, if I put an order in, will you give me free shipping?” You threw a pillow at his head and he laughed even harder.
He kept coming around after that, sometimes injured, sometimes not. Those nights he just seemed to want company for a couple hours. The helmet stayed on though, despite promising not to sell him out to the first mobster you met. Maybe he took it off after you went to bed and he was crashing on the couch (always gone in the morning before you woke). But you promised not to peek so his face would have to remain a mystery.
A cute mystery hopefully.
“Don't you work with Batman?” You asked one day as you tweezed glass and gravel out of his side, trying to focus on the wound and not the abs. Could you even have a crush on someone if you didn't know what their face looked like or their voice even sounded like?
Because if so, you had a massive one on the Red Hood. And if you weren't sure before, the day you saw him kicking drug dealer ass by the bus stop followed by him insisting on giving you a ride home via grapple gun, cemented it.
“Pretty sure he has better medical equipment than I ever will. Isn’t that Wayne guy bankrolling him? Maybe he has a cute son so I can marry rich.”
Hood snorted (or what you thought was an electronic version of a snort). “Yeah but he's further away. You're right around the corner. Plus getting stitched up by an artist makes me feel like a work of art.” Now it was your turn to snort.
Despite his teasing, Hood seemed to be a genuine fan of your art, always eager to see your new pieces.
Go figure. A gun toting vigilante was your cheerleader.
Tonight he picked up one of the drawings closer to him, thankfully a decent looking one from high school, and studied it. “Who's this?”
“It's just some character I've been drawing literally my entire life.” You held up an old sketch from elementary school. “For some reason this face has always stuck with me.”
Hood picked up a college era sketch. Each of your recent ones had more and more distinguishing details, making each one feel more alive. As if a little more personality were showing through. In your hands you held one from a week ago, a full-sized portrait with the man looking slightly off to the side, into the distance.
“This is the most recent one I've done. I think it's my favorite too.” He not only had the streak of white hair that you'd added a couple of years ago but a small scar by the right eyebrow too and now a knick on his jaw. The corner of his mouth was curled into what could almost be a smile. And those were just a few of the significant features. This one had so much minute detail it could have been photo realistic.
“He looked sad in a lot of my older drawings. But now...I think he looks peaceful. Honestly, I'm amazed I managed to capture so much personality in it. It makes me wonder what color his eyes are. I've only drawn him in pencil. And it feels weird calling him...him. I wonder what his name is.”
Suddenly realizing how utterly crazy you sounded, you glanced up at the Red Hood with a blush. “I know I could just make up a name, it's a character that I've created, but I don't know. He feels real and none of the names I've thought of fit him.”
The Red Hood stared back at you, silent and unmoving. The drawing he'd been holding lay discarded on the pile with the others. Oh great. The gunman who put on a costume and beat up people as a hobby thought you were the crazy one now.
“Anyway, it's just some art.” You started to gather all the drawings up flustered. But his gloved hand stilled yours.
“Why do you want to know?” He asked in what sounded like an attempt at a soft voice. The blank white eyes of the mask bored into you.
“I want to know his story.” You answered honestly.
He sat still as a statue for another minute. Then he slowly reached up and unlatched his helmet with a soft hiss of air. “His eyes are blue.” He pulled the hood off and set it in his lap. His real voice was deep, a hint of roughness to that Gotham accent. But unlike the modulated one, it had a smooth warmth. “Or if you want to get technical,” Hood peeled off the red domino mask and his eyes hesitantly met yours. “Teal.”
Compared to your drawings, the face before you now was bursting with life. It took your breath away. There was that strong jaw you'd been trying to capture for years, the exact curve of his nose, the small scar by his brow, sharp eyes, the exact amount of freckles there should be on his cheeks, the light bounce in his messy black waves with that striking shock of white. All that was missing was the subtle, peaceful smile from the last drawing.
“And his name?” The words were barely a whisper.
“Jason Todd.”
You couldn't help but move closer. Slowly, so he could stop you if he wanted, you raised a hand to Hood's–no, Jason’s–face. Awestruck, you traced his cheekbones, down to his jaw, up to his brow, swiped a thumb across his freckles.
“That fits,” You smiled at him, “Hi Jason.”
There was that gentle smile at last.
“Hi.” Jason said with a small chuckle. His warm and calloused hand found your face, gloves discarded, and ran his thumb tenderly across your cheek, like you'd done to him. “Guess we were always destined to meet, huh?”
“I guess so.” You were still mesmerized, drinking in every single detail. There was an overwhelming sense of relief and you were sure Jason felt it too since the tension had melted away from his face and shoulders.
“And I guess I can finally do this.” Jason whispered before he leaned in and kissed you. His lips were slightly chapped but warm, firm, and gentle. So incredibly gentle. When he finally broke away, your head was spinning, gripping his wrists as if to steady yourself.
“You certainly took your time.” You said once you caught your breath. Jason laughed and pressed your foreheads together. It made your stomach flutter. His pulse beat like a drum under your fingertips, reminding you this was real. He was real.
“Had to wait ‘till you got my good side.” And with a cheeky grin, he caught your mouth in another searing kiss.