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Missing to get off the bus at your intended destination is bad but not the worst.
It has happened more than once in your life, like the time you were too busy catching up on the latest episode of Naruto and Sasuke being gay for each other that you strayed to the next stop on the subway or when you chatted away with your friends, and had to walk a mile back home, sweat padding on your back with your cotton t-shirt clinging to your skin, eyes squinted from the hot sun only to be welcomed by your parents' mouthful lectures.
Missing to get off in Metropolis, only to end up in Gotham City is well…for the lack of a better word — catastrophic. It meant you had stepped into the dark and gloomy counterpart of Metropolis.
The yin instead of the yang.
You were a stranger to this part of the country — the part that hoarded super villains and heroes akin to a figurine collection and your first visit was going to be in the worser of the two?
Always been so lucky.
You lived in a town that had no such thing as superheroes or ever needed one.
It was something between a city and a town, housing a population of thousands, with your university as one of its main markers. There were only a small percentage of crimes that consisted of occasional robbery and revelations of fraud among other crimes against humanity.
But Meta-humans?
Some jackass always wanting to destroy everyone around him?
A homicidal clown or a cyborg powered by a stone found on another planet?
No.
The only reason you had to even go to the skyscraper-clouded city with a god acting as it's own personal defender was because of a conference you had been selected for — a once in a lifetime opportunity, if you will — to pitch your proposal in a room packed with the odor of exploitation and generational wealth in addition to billionaires who wanted to redeem themselves in the eyes of the public by investing in an environmentally charged research project.
Was it ideal knowing their true intentions?
No.
But the funding would help.
Therefore, you were out and about from your cozy one-bedroom apartment nestled among families and bachelors alike within a day after receiving the confirmation email about your attendance. The conference though, funded by the rich, had strictly mentioned about not providing any form of amenities for their participants.
When you are a broke student in this cruel economy, you choose the worst mode of travel in order to haul yourself across the country — bus transportation. Flying to metropolis was out of the realm of possibilities but there was an intricate bus system in place, albeit, a more wearying one, but at least you were saving hundreds of dollars.
According to the Intercity portal website, if you took the blue pastel bus with blocky letters of Metropolis printed onto the sides along with a red and yellow pentagon around an 'S' painted all over like sprinkles atop of the white frosting of a cupcake, you would reach your destination in approximately twelve hours.
That was it.
All you had to do was spend those hours seated on the hard, blue cushion next to the old lady who wouldn't stop snoring and try not to sleep towards the last few hours of the duration as it approached your bedtime.
But just the way life was, it never went according to plan.
And so here you were in Gotham City
Had you heard of Gotham City before?
No, not really.
You did come across the name while researching about Metropolis and it's less-than-human disasters recurring like clockwork. Most articles always mentioned something about the Batman —the caped crusader who evoked fear among criminals, the Dark Knight, the yin to Superman.
Your friend who was a native to a small town in Kansas had mentioned something about Wayne Enterprises and a Brian — no, Bryce?— whatever Wayne, one of America's richest men, hailed from Gotham. He had a reputation for investing in things that could change the world for better and not as a front for evading taxes.
An outlier among his class.
But Gotham lived up to it's name — Goat's town.
The first thing you notice is, it's a little too empty.
For a city that looked like a gloomier — twice the population of rats and an equal amount of washed out buildings — version of New York City, this is never a good sign, especially as you stand alone under the guise of protection in an open box with glass panes and a cold metallic bench bolted into the concrete.
Your only company was your apple-red suitcase that you bought in high school, littered with stickers collected over the years and the consistent ticking of the circular clock mounted on the corner of the bus shelter.
The cold breeze bites at your exposed skin — why would you have brought your favorite wool- padded jacket when Metropolis was experiencing their hottest summer in years?
Yet here you were, in the icy confines of it's gloomy neighbor.
Your heart pounds against the fragile set of bones — a symphony sung only during dire times as your throat constricts into it's own makeshift desert. The tiny rectangular display overhead reads 'NO BUSES TILL 6 AM'.
Fucking hell.
You couldn't stay here for another six hours, especially if the stranger across the street was going to stare down at you like you were a piece of meat he wanted to ravage till he could lick the bones clean. So, you made a plan — calling it a plan was atrocious — you made a run for it, the rolling wheels of the suitcase rattle against the concrete being the only sound to accompany you along with your thundering heartbeat.
You turn back to see the sleazy man only a few feet away. Sweat clams against your palm turning your hold slippery on the rubber of the handle of your suitcase.
Did people even live in this part of the city?
Most, if not all the stores had been closed shut. Lights flicker above while tiny droplets of rain trickle along the walls, seeping into puddles that splashed with every footstep. The hum of ventilators bleed into the silence as you turn corners onto roads that had at least a working streetlight. The sound of hurried footsteps continue to follow through the dark.
You were not going to die.
No, you will find a way out of this.
Catching your breath, you gaze back to see the man was still on your tail but at a considerable distance. There were two alleys stretched out in front of you, nearly mirrors of each other except the one on the left had layers of posters smothered all over the wall in addition to the brighter illuminance of the streetlight. You immediately choose that without hesitation, running past brick facades splashed with graffiti of something red.
Someone that felt familiar.
No, something that felt familiar.
Tiny potholes filled with rainwater combined with the smell of decay and dread from the dumpster truck against the far end accompany you through the narrow road. But the footsteps behind halt, almost to a standstill. When you turn around, eyes gazing at the entry way of the alley, the man is gone.
A small smile curls on your lips as you huff a ragged breath, clutching your knees.
Hah, Gotham - 0 , Yo —
A hand clamps against your mouth, pulling you flush against something solid, cold against your skin. It takes you a few seconds to realize the position you had found yourself in.
Almost like you had exchanged one bad news for another.
Adrenaline courses through you as your arms flail around but his arm wraps around your shaking body, gloved fingers sinking into your waist. He leans down, the red of his mask painted with streaks of white from the moon.
"Stay still. You're safe," the stranger murmurs, voice modulated kindred to that of a system responding.
And why does this assohole think you will believe him?
You kick your legs backward, aiming for his crotch while the elbow of your arms tries to smack his face, but to no avail. His grip only tightens as he holds you without a struggle. Hot tears blur your vision, cascading onto your cheeks, your arms going limp by your side.
This is it.
You were going to die in this wretched city that you came to in the first place because you fell asleep on the bus after rolling on the bed the previous night from severe anxiety about a conference that you never even got to go to.
What a shame!
When Jason was informed about the mission, he didn't realize he had to babysit a total stranger to stay quiet in Gotham of all places. He clicks his tongue before muttering into the comms.
"Oracle."
"Another five minutes, Red Hood," Oracle sighed into the channel, looking at the pair on the large screen in front of her.
You were a collateral element in the mission considering most well-aware citizens of Gotham did not walk around in the dead of the night to Park Row of all places. Her manicured fingers dance across the keyboard as she runs your face through facial recognition.
Within minutes, Barbara had your entire life composed into a single digital file: from the moment you stepped into the world, sorry, from the moment your mother went to the hospital during her pregnancy with you to now, a broke college student trying to get her life on track.
The redhead could easily piece as to how you ended up in Gotham. All it took was to read through your receipts which included the one for the bus ticket to Metropolis. Another quick search had led her to your admission into one of the conferences that was being held in the city the next day.
"Red Hood, she's new to the city," Barbara informs him while searching through hotels and tickets to get you to your intended destination. "Was supposed to be in Metropolis, but got stranded in Gotham instead."
"Figured."
Jason looks at you — your body trembling in his hold. He wants to tell you that you were safe but sometimes Jason doesn't even believe that himself.
How could he assure you of a fact he wasn't even sure of yet.
Maybe if it was Batman or Nightwing in his place, perhaps it would ease your fear at their words.
Not him.
Never him.
Maybe.
A couple of minutes pass by. His grip on your waist doesn't falter as he looks down at you, your eyes staring blankly at the wall in front. He eases down a small huff down his throat when he sees a particularly funny sticker on your suitcase.
The moon shines bright above, a half moon really, but it almost seemed like the moonlight was far brighter than a full moon. The sound of static in his ear pulls him out of his thoughts as he angles his face towards the side.
"Red Hood, the mission has been completed."
He loosens his hold momentarily but that was enough for you to loose balance as you slump onto the dirty asphalt of the road. The sudden moment has you scrambling to get a hold of yourself as you sit on your knees, caressing your palms.
"Sorry, ma'am," The man mutters before something heavy lands on your shoulders.
A jacket.
His jacket.
Through the blur of your tears you can see him walk away.
What was that all even about, if he was just going to fucking leave you alone?
You are not sure what to call the next sequence of actions — adrenaline or stupidity but that was going to be a topic for you to rid yourself of sleep at bedtime as you speed towards the hulking man.
"Hey, you assohole," your hoarse voice cuts through the silent streets, his broad back being the only thing in your vision, "What was that for?"
Jason ignores you, walking straight towards where the others were. The criminals were apprehended and his job was done here. Now all he needed to do was go back to his apartment and eat some hamburgers, not listen to some random civilian whining.
Was he being rude? Yes.
But he was in a bad mood the minute he had heard about a mission with Batman in his turf.
Does that justify him? No.
"Hey I'm talking to you," you repeat throwing the jacket he had lent right back to him.
By now, there was an audience (that you were not aware of) to the situation — Batman perched on the rooftop, cape billowing in the air. Next to him, Robin looks down with a smirk, clearly amused while Spoiler and Red Robin stand beside the group of criminals tied on the ground.
Jason finally turns and now under the light, you could get a better look at your attacker or was it your savior?
He wore a red helmet that covered the entirety of his face, skin-tight Kevlar molded against his muscular frame with a red bat insignia at the center.
Out of all the possible words you could have spoken, only one word comes to mind.
"Mr. Chubbycheeks."
A hush falls around you as the whispered words permeate through the air. Even the criminals who were screaming profanities fall silent until one of them mumbles loudly like a child hiding behind a curtain with their legs exposed.
"Did she just call the Red Hood, Chubbycheeks?" He cackles before tipping his head low at the pointed glare of the hooded man on him.
Jason turns towards you.
He was amused to say the least. Had his face been unmasked, you might have even seen his eyebrow cocking up and a sly smile on his face.
"I — I mean, of course, you aren't Mr, Chubbycheeks," you stammer, attempting to take control of the situation while everyone around looked at you as if you had grown two horns. "I mean you are not chubby nor do you have cheeks. I mean you do — Wait why the fuck are you guys cosplaying in the middle of the night. Is this some kind of after nights convention? Are you guys filming a movie? Am I going to be in it? You could have —"
A tsk breaks you out of your rampage of questions and that's when you see the two figures perched on the top of the building. You see the winged crusader and it strikes you — these were vigilantes, the ones you had read about and from the looks of it, a mission that you most likely had interrupted.
Vigilantes are good people, aren't they? As much as you know the statement holds true, standing in between a bunch of them who all seem to glare at you has your confidence sinking like a boat.
"I will leave it to you guys," you whisper finding just enough voice before scrambling out the alley with your suitcase.
"Spoiler, " Batman mutters.
"On it."
One end of the cable bites onto the nearby rooftop as she swings, blue eyes locked onto your fleeing form.
Jason leans against his bike with folded hands as he watches you disappear into the dark.
He had heard several nicknames over the years, but Mr. Chubbycheeks? That was new. With a shake to his head, he picks up his brown leather jacket you'd thrown earlier and climbs onto his bike.
Interesting.
Meanwhile, you trudge your suitcase to the main street, alone and scared that you made enemies not only with imbeciles but also with the same vigilantes who would protect you from them. Tears blur your vision as you realize you were back to the same place you started. You crouch under one of the awnings of a closed restaurant, letting the tears flow out.
The one time you decided to save money during travel, it lead you here.
You need to find a way.
Perhaps there was some bodega nearby. Maybe if you walked a little uphill, you might come across some half-decent motel you could spend the night in. That is, if the rain stopped pouring miniature waterfalls.
"Hey."
You let out a shriek, tumbling against the metal shutters behind.
In front of you stood a woman — a vigilante — her purple cape shielding her from the rain. Golden-blonde hair whips in the wind paired with a black suit that had a purple bat insignia embroidered at the very center accompanied by ridges of the same color along the sides of her costume.
But that was not what made you take a double turn.
It was her eyes.
Crystal blue eyes filled with mirth but there was a subtle layer of sorrow drizzling over. She looked like she was your age, maybe even a little younger but it looked like she had seen things that you probably could never comprehend.
"Oh my god," you clutch your chest," you scared the shit out of me."
"Sorry," She murmurs, lending you a hand to pull you back up on your feet. For a moment, only the pitter-patter of the rain filled the awkward silence between the both of you.
"So, you….a vigilante?" you ask.
She stands next to you, leaning against the shutter with her arms crossed over her chest, " Yep."
You hum, fiddling with your hands. The rain doesn't seem to slow down anytime soon.
"So, what are you doing out in Gotham in the middle of the night?"
"It's a long story, " you laugh before it blankets itself with a thick layer of worry, "but long story short, I am supposed to be in Metropolis right now, checking into a hotel and sleeping."
Stephanie already knew all of this. Based off of what Oracle had conveyed, if you were entirely new to the concept of vigilantes, she couldn't start off by telling you that she knew everything about you so she lets you ramble.
After all, talking it out helps .
An advice Stephanie needs to heed to herself.
"I'm Spoiler, by the way," Stephanie giggles, extending her hand to shake yours.
The giggles are a soft touch to the dark and grimy Gotham, almost like bubbles floating on a sunny day. It helps you stay grounded after the events that had occurred mere minutes ago. You introduce yourself and briefly mention about the conference.
"Spoiler, you should move now, " Barbara's voice travels through the comms.
She had already booked you a room at a hotel downtown, a very expensive hotel at that and your plane tickets back home.
"Okay, good news or bad news?" Spoiler turns to you, her lips pressed into a tin line.
You always preferred hearing the negatives first before the positives softened the blow.
"Bad news."
"So, you can't go to Metropolis for another two days. All modes of transportation are blocked from Gotham due to the storm."
You bit your lip, glancing down at your shoes. They were a pair of white shoes that you only really brought out during travels but the white was muddied to brown. All this was for nothing.
An involuntary sigh escapes you, as you tilt your head back, the moon shining in it's glory. "So what about the good news?"
"Good news is that the conference has been postponed to next month," your mouth falls open as she chuckles before continuing, "and we have booked you a hotel in downtown Gotham for the next two days."
Stephanie smiles, her cheeks flushed from the cold.
Perhaps lady luck was on your side.
"We as in you and Batman?" you ask.
"And a bunch of other people."
"So including Mr. Chubby—that asshole?" you scoff with a roll to your eyes.
"Including him." She laughs, throwing her head back, "Now, why did you call him Mr. Chubbycheeks?"
Heat rises to your cheeks. It was a stupid nickname, you suppose, when you say it outside the confines of your apartment.
"A friend of mine gifted me this plushie, you know, the one that looks like him. But she never mentioned it being from Gotham or based off of a vigilante," you shrug, arms raised. "It soon became my comfort plushie and it was chubby! So I just started calling it Mr. Chubbycheeks."
Barbara giggles, the sound accompanying Spoiler's own.
She had left the comm line on.
Hey, no one could really blame them. It was top tier blackmail material.
"Spoiler, her uber's here," Barbara informs as she watches the two of you standing under the awning on the screen.
"Okay, so that's me," Stephanie says, pointing at the cab parked at a distance. "Your Uber's here and it should drop you off at the hotel."
"Thank you so much, really. For everything"
"No problem," Spoiler uses her grapple gun, one end sinking to the beam between two rooftops. But before she could leap, the words slip from your mouth, "Hey, what's his name?"
"Red Hood."
The hotel was beautiful.
Stone-carved Gargoyles sit surrounding the very top, pointing towards the vast sky. The building itself looked centuries old but was maintained well enough for the architecture to remain intact. Sculptures outline the building, followed by lush green. It was too rich for your liking, but hey, it was free.
You informed your loved ones of the situation, just vague enough for them not to worry . After taking a shower and changing into clothes that did not remind you of the rain, you climb onto the plush bed, reaching for your laptop and do what you do best — research. It wasn't like you were going to sleep with all the adrenaline still pumping through your blood following the sequence of events that took place in the past few hours.
Mr. Chubbycheeks.
Red Hood.
There were tons of articles for you to go through, along with platforms that voiced public opinions. He started out as a crime lord, later became a vigilante and worked with Batman occasionally. You looked at different pictures, mostly blurry but enough to recognize the man — he stood at 6'4, muscled and scarred.
During your research, you also came across a website that honored Red hood's patronage to Crime Alley — his work in donating to the area and playing a vital role in reducing the crime rate. Citizens published their own testimonies on how Red Hood had provided them with money or shelter, helped take down trafficking rings as well as helped the GCPD in providing evidence in various abuse cases.
He also taught martial arts to kids in the area while other vigilantes like Orphan and Spoiler would teach women of the community.
History marked every inch of the grimy streets of Gotham, more than you had anticipated.
Finally, you came across the history behind your plushie, Mr. Chubbycheeks. It was a plush toy created by one of Red Hood's fans. What started out as a small fan art had turned into a massive project where every sale of the toy would go towards Gotham charities and shelters.
The Artist behind the creation was inspired by Red Hood's pattern of eating out at Bat Burger. The artwork soon went viral and became what it is today. You pick up Mr. Chubbycheeks, hugging it into your chest.
You never really went anywhere long without it, providing you the comfort you ached for during hard times.
"You really are a hero, aren't you Mr. Chubbycheeks?"
That night, sleep plagued you about the man in red.
Would you ever get to meet him again?
There was just something about him that made you want to know more.
To crave more.
To learn more.
You spent the next day lounging in the comfort of the $2000 air conditioner and the television that had free media from across the world. It had been raining cats and dogs as predicted for the past day. Water droplets slide down in rows as you draw tiny caricatures across the fog on your window.
You did not like to stay indoors, especially when bored. Had it been any other day, you probably would have had an ample amount of assignments to complete, but in light of the conference, you had completed all your assignments. Books helped you in hard times like these, except you hadn't brought any out of your own tardiness.
That's how you found yourself in a tiny bookshop in Gotham.
After a few hours of continuous downpour, the sun had graced you with its presence, burning brightly in the sky without any sight of the earlier dark, gloomy clouds. It looked like it wasn't going to rain for the rest of the day.
The weather was becoming unpredictable day by day.
Gotham during the day is a lot different than you had expected.
People of all age groups meander around. There are multiple cafes lined along a stretch of tall buildings and a few skyscrapers. Maybe it was just your luck that you had found yourself in the worst parts of the city that first night.
Walking in a new city was always a feeling that you couldn't really describe.
It meant you would witness a little part of the lives of the people living here. College cliques carrying their notebooks paired with their impeccable style, office workers already with a phone to their ear moving towards the tall skyscrapers, families going to restaurants.
A city was made of the people and their stories.
Finally reaching the bookstore, the glass door swings open with a ding. It was located at a small corner among the line of restaurants and boutiques. Dim golden lighting and endless books arranged into piles scattered across shelves. The man at the counter doesn't look up from his book, only a black tuft of hair visible through the seams of the Crime and Punishment classic.
You saunter across the rows filled with books — old and new, a diverse collection from different eras and languages. As you pick up Frankenstein — an intricate cover carved with curved golden, your eyes find themselves gaze through the gap of the shelves, directed towards the counter.
It seemed like the man was now standing up in all of his glory.
He was tall, really tall, with bulging muscles and scars that seemed to etch deep into his skin. Either this man was fighting criminals everyday or was just clumsy as hell. Or maybe he was even a criminal. His tuft of black hair has some white at the front that he combs through with his fingers as he speaks to the customer. His hands flex with every minuscule action, the scars creasing against his skin.
"Have a nice day!"
The man's voice reminds of you someone but you couldn't put a finger to it.
He was tall, too tall, resembling someone you had met recently.
He also had the very same build.
You remembered seeing a lot of scars on the exposed part of his arm the night before, even a small pink band aid on his wrist, the same one the man has now. And everything clicks into place.
He was Red Hood.
The Red Hood.
Mr. Chubbycheeks.
The man you almost kicked the other night.
You let out a gasp, and just as fast as it had come out, you whip your palm to your mouth when green emerald eyes lock with yours. The realization had knocked the book out of your hands, falling to the floor with a thud.
You sheepishly smile, trying to control your beating heart before kneeling to the dropped book on the floor.
The Red Hood was working in a bookstore of all places. But now, just as last night, the curiosity of knowing the man more only increased — reaching levels you knew your brain wouldn't let go, even if you tried. Especially after knowing the man who embodied the very definition of an oxymoron — a man who fights crimes in the night and swords words in the day.
And you needed to know everything about him.
You decide to buy a worn-out copy of Frankenstein.
Red Hood glances at you before folding one end of the page and placing the book he was reading on the counter. Now under the golden rays through the windows, his eyes, though still guarded by glasses, resembled the evergreen forests, glittering with something you couldn't place yet.
"I'd like to get this." You place the book in front of him.
"Five dollars and fifteen."
Several trinkets hang off the stand on the marble top. Some of them are of Disney princesses, some are of movie characters, and some are of vigilantes.
Including Mr. Chubbycheeks's.
You point at the red plush hanging from the stainless steel chain, "This is Mr. Chub — I mean something Red — Red Bat—"
"No, it's Red Hood," his gruff voice corrects you before you could even finish the word. Looking up, could see the slight annoyance flare through the man at the wrong name.
"Whoa, are you like a huge fan of the guy?" You raise your hands. "So defensive."
He ignores you.
"Is that all?" He points at your copy of Frankenstein. You nod, hands dipping into your bag to find your wallet. Within minutes, he hands you your new book in a paper bag.
"Thank you," and with that, the man sits down, resuming his reading.
You walk towards the glass door, one hand on the handle, to leave back to your hotel as you had intended. But you couldn't just leave, especially if this was Red Hood. Curiosity tickles your brain like an incessant cat, and the only way to soothe it was to quench its thirst.
"Would you mind being my tour guide for the day?"
The man completely stills, his hands midway from turning the next page. Emerald eyes lock on your swaying form, trying to decipher if you were being serious. His lips press into a thin line as he sets down the classic.
"No."
"Please?" you bat your eyelashes, palms intertwined as crease lines form between your eyebrows.
"No," he repeats.
"Pretty please?"
The man sighs, leaning forward. "Do you ask this to any stranger?"
"Only to someone I consider safe." The answer is immediate, so much so that it even surprises you. After all, it had been the same man you considered to be your unofficial grim reaper just a day ago.
His eyebrows cock up.
You didn't know anything about him, or at least that is what he thinks. Without a beat, you continue, "You are tall and muscular, so clearly you can protect me. You work at a bookstore — that's like green flag 101 and, well, it would be nice to look at a pretty face at that."
And he was Red Hood, but he doesn't need to know that you know. A slight flush deepens his cheeks red.
"So, where do you even want to go? There aren't many 'touristy' places in Gotham," He says, his finger folding to emphasize 'touristy'.
"Oh yes, so I did my fair share of research."You did not. "And made a list," you shuffle, taking your phone out of your handbag. As discreetly as possible, you make a quick Google search and click on the first website that showed up.
"Okay, so let me see," you squint at the letters. "First stop is at the Gotham Metropolitan Museum, then this swamp statue? Followed by Arkham Asylum and Robinson Park."
"What?" the man mutters, a hint of disbelief cradling his voice.
You cower a little at the intensity in his eyes before straightening up, "That's what my research concluded and, mind you, I'm pretty good at that."
You are a good researcher but based on his reaction, that first site should probably be taken down.
"And why can't you just stay indoors?"
"Because my mind will kill me before Gotham can even try."
Jason understood that. Your mind can be harsher on you than the world could ever come close to. Silence envelops the bookstore. The man has his finger pushing against the frame of his glasses, eyes squeezed with his hands holding his head.
Jason thinks if anything happens to you after you visit him, it would be his fault, especially when you had Arkham Asylum as one of the places to visit in Gotham City.
He sighs, "Fine. My shift ends in an hour —"
His words are interrupted by your squeal as you immediately start spilling out your gratitude, "Thank you so much — food's on me."
The man laughs, soft before it subdues into silence, but the sound strikes something in you.
Extending a hand, you tell him your name.
"Jason," he mutters, placing his palm on yours as rough, calloused hands touch your skin.
Jason wants to laugh at your reasons. You were going to get yourself killed at this naivety but he was glad you asked him and not anyone else.
An hour passes by like minutes as you almost finish reading volume zero of Jujutsu Kaisen. You only realized the time when Jason stood before you, clearing his throat with keys clutched between his fingers. You could see the lower half of his outfit, now that it was not shielded behind the counter — black ripped jeans paired with black boots. A worn-out leather jacket wraps around his shoulder, white shirt peeking from in between.
His other hand holds a black helmet with red streaks as he gives a nod to the next shift in charge. Leaving the bookstore had you rubbing at your arms as Gotham's cold air bites you again while Jason holds the door open with his palm splayed over the glass.
"What?" You ask, eyebrows raised when he hands you his jacket.
"Take it."
"I'll be fine. You might feel cold."
"I'm used to the cold," he murmurs, holding the jacket in front of you.
After a little bit of a stare-down, you wear the jacket, its size dwarfing you as you both walk to the parking lot that's a little further away from the bookstore. Jason makes sure you are on the side of the sidewalk that wasn't close to the incoming traffic, sometimes guiding you through the crowd with his hand at the small of your back, but it never touches you. Just hovers.
He walks fast, long legs aiding him while you had to almost jog a little to keep up with the man before he slows down realizing of the fact.
"So…Have you been living here your whole life?" you ask, pulling the jacket closer at the harsh cold winds.
"Yes," Well, except for the time he was in a coffin.
There's a stark of silence as the sound of Gotham fills in.
Traffic, smell of rain, shouts.
Were you being annoying? Of course, you were.
You pulled a stranger to go along with —
"What brings you to Gotham?"
And you smile.
Maybe he was still annoyed but he asked you a question.
"Nothing, actually. Supposed to be at Metropolis for a conference, overslept on the bus, missed my stop, and here I am," you say, swinging your bag across side to side. "Met Mr. Chubby— Red Hood, Spoiler, and Batman and since all travel outside the city is blocked, I'm stuck here."
"Why do you call Red Hood Mr. Chubbycheeks?"
First slip
Every time you ever mentioned the nickname, you always cut yourself halfway, always leaving out the cheeks part.
At least you weren't hanging out with a complete rando.
"Well, so there's a fat hood plushie?"
"Yeah," he mumbles.
"A friend of mine got it for my birthday, and where I come from, there aren't any vigilantes — hell, I hadn't even heard of Gotham till like two days ago."
Jason hums, hands tucked inside his pockets.
"He kind of became my emotional support plushie and I just decided to call it Mr. Chubby cheeks. Only when I came here did I know it was actually fan merchandise based on Red Hood."
"But how did you even come up with the name Chubbycheeks?" He asks, tilting his head to the side with furrowed eyebrows.
Jason has been called various names over the years but nothing so …cute?
"Well, the plushie is chubby and cute."
By the end of the conversation, you had reached the parking lot. He hands you his helmet, "Wear this; I made some arrangements for another helmet."
"What about you?" you ask, feeling the red edges of the helmet.
"I will be fine for a distance of five kilometers."
"But what about your safety—"
"I have ridden in worse conditions," Jason says, leaning against the bike with his arms folded. He looked beautiful under the sun that traced his scars, his glasses that framed his eyes and tattoos that peeked from under his shirt.
"If you say so."
STOP 1: GOTHAM METROPOLITAN MUSEUM
Jason dropped you off at the entrance to the museum while he went on to park his bike. It had been quite a ride, breezing through the traffic in turns and squeezes between other vehicles. He was a good driver and probably more responsible with you when you noticed the extra caution.
Gotham Metropolitan Museum was probably one of the city's best architectural sites. It ensembles Gothic elements like a glove, with gargoyles perched on the sides and several pillars carved with marble down the center. Large wooden doors with intricate details lay open to visitors as the crowd moves in and out past the doorway.
The smell of leather and motor oil fills your senses as Jason stands next to you.
"Ready?" you ask. "Lead the way," he motions his hand outward and slightly bows, emerald eyes glimmering with mirth. You roll your eyes lightly before climbing up the stairs while he follows. The inside of the museum resembled the exterior in its architectural marvel. Murals span across the entirety of the ceilings, dripping down to some of the pillars. Large paintings along with sculptures enclosed in transparent boxes line the room. There weren't many people inside, either because it was the middle of the week or because of the silent reminiscing of the storm.
You and Jason decided to explore the museum on your own. Picking up a pamphlet, you walk towards the right corner of the room as it contained paintings from your favorite artists, while Jason did so from the left corner.
Time flies by as you meander your way through framed works and detailed labels, and, before you know it, you and Jason meet at the middle in front of the smallest painting in the gallery: The Persistence of Memory by Salvador Dali.
You had heard of the portrait over the years, seeing it on social media or reading about the painting in an article, but now that you stand in front of it, it was smaller than you had assumed. The colors are even more vivid and detailed.
Jason stands next to you with folded hands.
"I always thought it was a pretty simple painting when I was younger," you lean closer to the portrait. "But the more you looked and considered the context of when it was painted, it talks so much more about how people keep their eyes closed and continue to live even when all kinds of fucked up things happen around them."
Walking back, you ask Jason, "What do you think?"
"Huh?" Jason was not really listening to you, and it was not because he did not want to, but more so because there was something about the painting that sucked him in. It reminded him of someone close, someone like him — maybe him.
Jason takes a deep breath. "I think that it means time will not stop, and that you change even when you don't want to."
"But —"
"I'm probably wrong, so I think your interpretation fits," Jason mumbles, looking at the painting. You don't have to look into his eyes to know that he doesn't agree with your interpretation, but you weren't sure why he changed his opinion either.
"I meant to ask, what made you think so?"
"Oh."
Jason always believed he was wrong. That's what everyone around him said so. They'd always assume he was wrong even without asking him what his point of view was. It takes him aback to see you wait as you look at him for his explanation.
No one had asked him for an explanation.
Until now.
"Well, I-I think it's because the carcass or whatever, on the ground looks like it embodies the fact that you shed your skin as time melts away. It has what it looks like an eye closed, so even without consent, you are changed regardless."
There's a slight silence before you break it.
"I never thought of it that way. It's pretty interesting, Jason," you turn towards the portrait.
Jason looks at you, really looks at you. He could see the way your eyes focused on the canvas, arms folded behind your back and lips pressed into a thin line. A smile curves onto his lips, and he turns forward, towards the painting.
Maybe this wasn't going to be a boring day, after all.
STOP 2: BAT BURGERS
After spending another hour at the museum, Jason brings you to Bat Burger for lunch. You knew it was his favourite place to eat, or more like it was Red Hood's, but it was all the same. The door opens with a ding as a lady behind the counter waves at Jason to which he returns.
The waitress—Holly — a middle aged woman walks to your booth, one hand holding a pen and the other a notepad.
"I see you finally got a girlfriend," her voice, warm and something that reminded you of a mother, continues as she turns towards you. "Never thought this boy would actually find a beautiful girl like you."
"We are not dating," Both of you say at the same time, looking wide-eyed at each other.
"Jason, my boy, you are growing old," she muses. Holly struts towards the kitchen after taking your order.
"Sorry if that made you unco—"
"Oh, please, I'm used to it when I hang out with my guy friends at my local diner."
The restaurant is a pretty standard American outlet: red colored booths, a tip jar at the cash register almost empty, a whiteboard with the daily specials written on it. 'Summertime Blues' plays through the overhead speaker, followed by 'Such a Night'. There were other things on the walls including posters such as Red Hood's autograph, a framed photo of the man eating a burger and the plushie in some corners of the restaurant. It seemed like not only was Red Hood a regular but, Jason was too.
The sizzling batburgers arrive with a side of Jokerized fries. Jason hums, a smile tugging at his lips at just the sight of the hamburger. You could tell why when you took the first bite. The meat, the sauces, the buns — everything was perfect including the fries.
"So what is it that you do?" Jason asks before taking another bite of his burger.
"I'm a biology major and work part-time as a researcher in the Department of Environmental Tech."
"Well, Gotham could clearly use your help," Jason laughs before taking another bite. It seemed like batburgers had made him lose a little bit of his inhibitions.
"Yeah, Bruce Wayne, I think, was supposed to be at the conference I was going to present at," you murmur. "Do you know him?"
Jason's body goes rigid for just under a minute before he hums, "Yeah, something like that."
"You love books?" you ask to Jason, dropping the previous subject.
"Yeah, what about you?"
"I don't read all that much," you take a piece of the fry, "I watch a lot of documentaries and video essays on YouTube. Since you love books, I recommend Jack Edwards if you haven't heard of him already. And Frankie's Shelf is pretty good too."
Jason hums, "Jack Edwards is amazing. Sometimes I watch his videos for recommendations and such. I'll check the other one out."
Your eye gaze at the red mark by his mouth as Jason finishes the last of his burger. You point at it, "There's something near your mouth. I think ketchup."
"Oh, sorry," Jason mumbles, grabbing a tissue as he tries to wipe out the stain.
"It's below —let me do it," you murmur, leaning over the table and dabbing the tissue over the mark.
It feels like time stops when you look into his eyes. They were more green than you had expected, more like teal that was bright against the light reflecting from his guarded glasses. Jason's ears burn red; he doesn't know why. You stay in the same position till the ding of the front door pulls you out.
Sitting back against the booth, your hands are clammy as you swipe your phone out of your bag. Jason looks out the window and onto the traffic.
Holly smiles from the corner.
STOP 3: ROBINSON PARK
It had taken longer than expected to reach the botanical gardens and, thus, you had missed the chance to view it. Instead, you decided to lounge on the green grass while enjoying some ice cream as a well-deserved dessert.
Jason ordered himself strawberry while you did a scoop of chocolate.
"Do you ever plan to move out of Gotham?" you ask, as you both now walk, passing by different vendors.
"No," he responds almost immediately, "Gotham's a mess, but it's my mess."
You nod, "Yeah, I get that."
The sound of electric guitars and raw vocals pulse in the air.
"That's my favourite song."
Jason starts walking towards the direction of the sound. A bunch of kids play in the center with guitars and drums while also singing simultaneously. He hums the lyrics under his breath, as his hands clap in unison to the beats.
"It's a song called 'The Badge' by Poison Idea," Jason says without looking at you as his eyes stay transfixed on the stage. There's a slight glimmer of nostalgia mixed with so much warmth that it floods past his eyes, around you.
After the band ended their performance, Jason steps away, walking with you towards the exit as the sky starts to be accompanied by dark clouds.
"You like rock music?" He asks.
"I dabble, but I'm more into classical."
"Like the violin, cello type of music?"
"Yep," you answer, "I played the violin for a couple of years when I was young."
"I played the guitar for a few years too."
Sunlight streams through the gaps in the trees as you and Jason stroll towards the exit. It was silly how the past few days had turned out. One night you think your life is going to end and the next day, you think you just met someone who was going to play a huge role in your life.
Life really was interesting.
It had been close to ten at night when you reached your hotel. After visiting the local bodega for dinner, Jason insisted on walking you back to your place.
"This is it," you say, turning to look at him.
He had a soft smile on his face, eyes gentle as he rubbed his neck.
"Yeah."
You did not want this night to end.
Neither did he.
"Take care?" You tilt your head, hands gripping the strap of your handbag.
"Yeah, you too."
A beat of silence passes as only the crisp sounds of Gotham's cold winds accompany you. You wanted to say more, but you weren't sure if you should. What if you had been the only one to feel something? What if you had been the only one to feel like there had been more to each other, that there was more you'd love to know about Jason Todd?
Jason watches you, trying to memorize these minutes like a camera would. The way your eyes sparkled under the moonlight, the way your skin creased when you smiled, the way your voice tingles his heartstrings — everything.
"Bye," you smile.
"Bye," Jason mumbles, red coating his cheeks. You were not sure whether it was from the cold or something else. He turns, walking towards his bike parked a little far away, but his mind is elsewhere, riddled with thoughts. Should he have asked for your number? Should he have done something more?
He turns without thinking, only to see your back as you walk towards the glass doors of your hotel.
Jason turns, walking forward.
You feel like you should have said something.
Maybe that you knew he was Redhood and the reason why you even felt safe to begin with. Maybe you should have gotten his number.
You turn, only to be met with his back, walking towards the parking lot.
Jason turns once again, hands in his pockets, but your hands are already at the door, gripping it. He turns around, shaking his head.
You grip the silver-plated handles of the door to open it, but your body instinctively turns around one last time as you see Jason walking further and further away.
Maybe this was all it was ever going to be.
It's 7 am, the next day.
You hug your — Jason's leather jacket tighter against your frame as you walk out of the hotel. It was finally time to leave Gotham and, maybe after yesterday, after meeting him, perhaps you wished you could stay longer.
You wished you had said something yesterday night.
Hailing a taxi to the bus stop, you see the passing buildings and people awake in the early hours of the morning. There are not many people out yet except for the hustling of kids into school buses and adults who have an early day.
You hadn't even asked for his fucking number.
The bus stop is lively with people filling in almost all the space as you sit on the bench. Today, the cold doesn't grip you like it's trying to put on shackles; rather, it feels like it's caressing your exposed skin.
Perhaps Gotham was trying to be kind in her own way to the stranger who was finally leaving, or perhaps trying to invite you back into her city. After all, you did find some light among the soot and dark buildings.
You plug in your earphones, the white string resting over your chest as you wait for the bus. A brush against your shoulders makes you look up from your phone, only to see the one person you had been aching for a minute with — Jason.
He's clad in a red pullover paired with blue jeans, his hands tucked into his pockets as he stands in front of you with a sheepish smile, almost similar to the one you fell in love — love? Were you in love?
His hoarse voice cuts through your thoughts as he sits down next to you, shoulders brushing against each other.
"What are you doing here?" you ask, your voice carrying levels of happiness that it blooms across his face in red.
His mouth opens to answer before there's a shuffling on his side of the bench as more people fill in to sit. Now, the two of you sat even closer. You could feel his breath hit the expanse of your skin.
"My jacket's with you," he murmurs, rubbing his wrist, back hunched like he did not want to meet your eyes.
"Right." The small smile on your face dulled, and Jason felt like dying all over again. Why couldn't he just ask for your number or at least tell you what he felt? But would you like him, still like — no, love him — if you knew he was Red Hood?
Would you?
The question sits at the tip of his tongue, bitter.
Silence envelops the space, other than the conversations from the surrounding citizens and the horns of vehicles on the road. You shift beside him, offering one of your earphones towards him.
"Wanna listen to some music?"
"Sure."
The two of you sit comfortably as you tug his jacket closer. Your thighs touch, his warmth transcending past the barrier of his jeans into yours. As if fate loved you, the song "Can't Help Falling in Love" plays into your ear. An involuntary smile tugs at your lips. Jason's head falls back against the glass walls of the bus stop.
The universe really had it out for him.
Though the storm had passed over Gotham, icy cold winds still blew across the pathways over layers of fog, but it didn't make either of you shiver. Sure, Jason was used to the cold of Gotham, but that did not mean he had become immune to it. But today, only the warmth from each other mattered; its waves traveling in a shape that curved at the top akin to that of a heart.
Nature is a matchmaker of its own kind.
When you left home three days back, you never expected to be stranded in an unknown city, meet the vigilante that had inspired the making of your plushie or know the man behind the mask. You never believed in fate, but for once you think that it had been written for you to meet the person behind your favorite plushie — Mr. Chubbycheeks.
Should you tell him that you knew all along? That you knew he was Red Hood?
Jason Todd did not expect a random patrol night to turn into a part-time job of babysitting. He also did not expect to see the woman ever again, let alone feel something for her. He had read of such fairytales in novels, never that happened in real life. Never that happened in Gotham.
Never that happened to him.
The honk of the blue intercity bus pulls you out of your thoughts. The other passengers start boarding as you both sit still, even if the space around the bench has emptied. You start to peel his jacket off when his hand touches yours. The sudden contact has you wide-eyed as your eyes lock in with green, covered in a layer of confidence and a smudge of nervousness.
"Don't," He mutters, the words slipping before he can really think about it," You have a reason to come back again if you want to."
Your heart thunders under your ribcage like it wanted to be let out, to be free so that she could say the words your mind wasn't letting you say. The heart knows what it wants, and you agree with it. You stand up abruptly. Jason follows, his heart beating out of his chest when he sees your eyes not meeting yours. You didn't like him. Of course, you didn't. Who would even —
Green eyes widen when you lean forward, standing on your tiptoes as you kiss his scarred cheek.
"Thank you for the tour, Mr. Chubbycheeks."
Jason stands there perplexed.
The winds seem to get stronger but he doesn't know if the shiver is from the cold air or from your confession.
You had known him all this time — all of him?
And you still liked him?
He watches as you step onto the bus, finding your assigned seat before you wave across to him through the windows. You had a smile that was part-teasing and part-relief. He stands there for a long time, staring in the direction your bus left to the point that an old man had to ask if he was okay.
He huffs, shaking his head before reaching into his pocket.
"Babs, I need her number."
"And why is that?" Jason could hear the clacking of the keyboard in the background. Barbara probably knew everything.
"She has my jacket."
"You did not take it back?"
"Now, please, can you just give me her number?" Jason pleads.
"Okay, loverboy."
She sends the number to him. Jason smiles, creasing his cheeks before texting you.
Jason: 'Hi, this is Jason'
He keeps looking at his phone, pacing back and forth, till it finally pings. You had sent him a playlist.
A playlist titled "Day out with Mr. Chubbycheeks" with a handful of songs. As he starts listening to them, memories seem to resurface of how he had heard the same melodies at different points of the day yesterday.
So, that's what you had been doing?
Taking note of the songs and updating them in your playlist.
Jason couldn't believe you had thought enough of him to take note of all the songs you had heard in his presence. For the songs he had commented on — the entire catalogue of Poison Idea. He remembered mentioning one song as good, and you had taken note of it, to include all versions of that song.
You remembered.
Was he really that important? Did he really deserve this ?
And, though, some part of him itches and says he didn't deserve any of this, the other half softens, almost like it was coated now with the honey of your warmth. Just a few hours in your presence, Jason had started liking himself a bit more.
Perhaps that's what love does to one.