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Your first two months after moving to Gotham City had been (admittedly astonishingly) uneventful, besides the incessant yet distant wailing of sirens. You were certain that taking an internship in Gotham would be the single worst decision of your life since it was common knowledge across the nation that this city was seriously disturbed— and yet, you seemed to be fairing well in your little corner.
You, at the very least, had made sure to pick a good location for an apartment but at the price of its size, for it was a tiny studio apartment with a three by six balcony overlooking the gray roof of a neighboring building. You didn’t rent the place for the view though, so you don’t really mind.
But now, in the third month, something startling came into your little corner of Gotham. Specifically, came crashing through your glass balcony doors.
Maybe if it were a little later in the day you would’ve reacted more violently, but you do nothing more than jump back and spill splatters of your coffee onto the marble countertop as a large something— too quick at first to identify— crashes into the glass, flying shards hitting your living room floors in a sudden shower.
“The….”
As your bleary eyes focus on the thing on your floor, you begin to put the facts in order in a remarkably fast pace, attempting to make sense of the situation.
One, you woke up early this Sunday morning because your creative director wanted you to send something in this afternoon, much to your chagrin.
On the floor, the person clad in cargo pants and a beat up red helmet lets out a groan. You don’t think they’ve noticed you yet.
Two, before you even rented the place, you read up on all the infamously masked heroes and villains of Gotham, but clearly not enough because who was this? And who just threw them straight into your apartment?
“That’s gonna bruise,” they say to themselves. Unsure of what to do, you step away from the kitchen counter, hoping they don’t spot you. Maybe your friends and family members were all right, but at the same time, there was no reason for this superwhatever to hurt you. You were only a civilian after all. And not even from Gotham. That’s hardly fair.
Three, you’re fairly sure a shard of glass dropped into your cup of coffee. Today was not going well. If you had your phone, maybe you’d even send your boss a quick text. Sorry! Can’t make it today. Might be dead, you’d write.
Again, you squint over the counter and at the mysterious individual and notice the red on his chest. Is that… the bat symbol? Relief washes over you like a tidal wave. A good guy right? But the scratched up mask doesn’t really scream purveyor of justice, so you can’t be certain of course.
Before you can duck away, another figure lands heavily on your balcony and strides over with a particular boldness, paying no attention to the glass flecks scattered all around. She emitted glory and she, unlike the person sprawled on your floor, eyes you immediately— but to your surprise does not heed you.
Another grand thing you notice is the magnificent ax she held and you knew, at that very moment, she was not to be trifled with. You continue to say nothing but stare.
“Hey. Get up,” she says, lending a hand to pull the person up by. “No time for a nap.”
“Ngh,” says the mysterious man in response, letting her support him. He dusts the glass off his jacket. “I know that better than anyone.”
Who were either of these figures? You didn’t know there were more members in the Bat Squad, a term you affectionately coined from your Gotham pamphlets. You continued to wonder about all the crevices of the city you didn’t know as you gazed at his backside. Maybe they were newcomers. Or maybe, they’re from the underground. Or—
“Sorry about the mess.”
Your head jerks up as you realize the lady with the magnificent hair is speaking to you. Apparently you weren’t the only one alarmed because the man beside her cocks his head to the side.
“Huh?” he says, then glances over in your direction and stiffens. “Oh jeez,” he continues, his voice reflecting his stunned state, “how long have you been there?”
When you open your mouth to say “the whole time,” no words come out at first and your ears burn. Yikes. “Are these things common around here?” is what you blurt out instead. Good one.
“Not when we’re being careful, but some of us can’t help it,” responds the lady instead. “Actually, most of us. Come on.” She steps out onto the balcony first and leaps off with no hesitance. Suddenly, your life feels sharply meaningless in contrast to these people. But perhaps it was for the better.
Your gaze shifts to the man again, who simply nods at you and also apologizes. “Sorry about this,” he says before turning away and following the lady down onto the concrete streets. You can’t help but continue to gape long after they’ve left and the sirens have died down.
You wonder if break-ins are a good excuse to not come to work around here as you gaze helplessly at your busted balcony doors. If that duo wasn’t out to kill you, your landlord surely will be now.
After an hour or two of sweeping up shards from the floor and sofa, you take a seat on the edge of your mattress, and pull out your laptop, your fingers typing rapidly on the keyboard. Never a better time for some research.
“Red bat… Gotham City,” you say aloud as you type. To your dismay, the search results are sparse. Then again, maybe a name like that would be clear plagiarism and nobody likes a copycat. “Okay then. Red… helmet… Gotham City.” More results show up, but not how you expected them to.
Red Hood. That’s his alias. In your humble opinion, “Red Helmet” seemed like a more fitting name, but maybe that’s just you.
And her… Artemis. She did look familiar, as an Amazon warrior. God, was there an end to this madness.
However only one article drew your attention, one that was fairly recent and stopped a breath in your throat and dropped your heart down to your stomach.
BREAKING! RED HOOD SHOOTS GOVERNOR OF GOTHAM DURING PUBLIC SPEECH
So they were villains. Huh. You suppose you should be glad they spared your life, to be very honest. At this point, you think with a grimace, to have your home torn apart by a fight is like a hazing in Gotham. A ceremony of sorts.
Whatever. Even though he wore the expressionless mask, oddly enough you got goosebumps when Red Hood turned towards you– as if you could feel him give you the once-over in your pajamas and messy hair. That’s a little embarrassing. You hope to never see him again. Or, at the least, have him never see you again.
You chew the inside of your cheek thoughtfully and glance at the time. Oh, shit– if you don’t leave now, you’ll be late for work. Pushing the laptop aside and jumping up, you get ready, but your mind is– if not completely– distracted by the actions just a few hours ago.
Tragically, broken doors weren’t a very solid excuse apparently. You glance back at what was left of the jagged glass momentarily, then turn away, making sure you had your subway fare on the way.
The following week after you get your balcony doors repaired, you don’t speak of the incident to anyone but the repairman, who only nods in consolation. “It’s not unheard of,” he says, and you can only guess how many times events like this occurs. Superheros and supervillains always leave messes that they never seemed to clean up.
Besides that, replacing two glass screens doors? That shit’s expensive. Not everyone has enough cash to blow off on random ass gadgets and in retrospect, this was the beginning to your personal uneasiness with the entire superhuman community.
And you definitely don’t speak of this to any of your family or friends back in your hometown, for you know they’d go bonkers at this near-death experience and try to pull you out of this city themselves.
You trudged along the asphalt sidewalks softly, taking note of the rippling orange sky above you. You would probably appreciate the sunset a little more if you weren’t so exhausted– and if it wasn’t always partially concealed by the looming high rises all around you. All you really want to do is get home quickly, take a shower, and watch enough Masterchef until you feel your true calling as a chef and pass out.
Wait– what about dinner?
You’re not really in the mood for takeout of any kind so it might be a instant ramen kind of night again. You sigh, dropping your gaze down but as you do so, jerk away quickly, realizing you hadn’t been paying attention to where you were going and almost slammed into a stranger on the street. In that hasty attempt to not bump into them, you nearly trip as well.
“Sorry!” you say over your shoulder, but don’t stop walking. But before you completely turn away you think you see him open his mouth to speak, but at that point, the speeding cars and trucks along the streets already hide his voice away and you don’t particularly care enough to stop anyway. Too tired.
Things were not looking up. It began to rain during your walk, and the out of order elevator only impeded your trip up to your floor even further. You take your time going up the stairs, drawing out the creak in every floorboard. But the second you lock the door behind you, you strip quickly out of your rain-stained clothing for a shower and track through the living room to hang up your jacket in the closet.
Huh?
Something flashes from the corner of your eye, and you quickly shift your gaze out the balcony and almost automatically your body goes frigid.
You could’ve sworn that in the pelting rain, you saw a silhouette of someone on the roof of the building across from your apartment, gazing up at you. But when you blink, the illusion vanishes. That was odd, and somewhat frightening. Maybe you’re just seeing things.
These days, you’ve become much too paranoid anyway. You hover your hand over your forehead to check for a fever but that didn’t appear to be the case.
Nevertheless, the evening is quiet. You’ve become accustomed to the hustle and bustle, already having learned to tune them out. Maybe Gotham was suiting you more than you thought it would.
Dragging a hand over your face, you hum and pull open your fridge, only to find it bare, save for some old onions. The cupboards don’t prove to be any better, and you glance out your dreary windows, feeling torn between the warmth of your home and your grumbling stomach.
With a painfulness in your heart, you dig out your umbrella from the depths of your closet and set off downstairs for a quick trip to the supermarket, or even a close by general store. By now, the sunset was almost entirely gone with bloated clouds taking the place of its hazy, vibrant streaks. The sidewalks are barren of people, and there’s a sort of solace you get from the misty, city atmosphere.
You check your phone. It’s not that late yet but the gloomy skies only quicken the pace of the night, the only visible light being the glowing windows from up above and the streetlamps tinged orange. You fast walk.
“It’s not safe to walk alone at night, you know.”
You whirl around to the sound, and there– leaning against the brick wall of an old building– is the face of a person you’d never thought you’d see again in person. Well, technically a helmet. It’s a familiar outfit, with a jacket and cargo pants and… thigh holsters. And you know he’s speaking to you because, well, no one else was dumb enough to go outside on a rainy night in Gotham for a quick bite to eat.
So caught up in your alarm and spontaneous vertigo, a squeak escapes your lips and you clench your jaw. Your fingers tighten around your umbrella handle and you wonder if there’s any point in even trying to call the police now. Forget dinner. You take a wide step back, about to book it as if your life depended on it (which it probably did), but then he pulls away from the wall towards you and calls out. “Wait!”
Was it stupid? Was it stupid to run from a masked criminal who has guns and most likely, two extremely steady hands? Most definitely. You can be an idiot, but you’re not that dumb. Or were you?
Regardless, you let him walk closer until only a few meters remained between the two of you. You wouldn’t be surprised if he could hear how loudly your heart thrummed in your chest, but he doesn’t say a word.
For an extended period, neither you nor him speak, and it is as though he expects you to say something, anything, first. You don’t grant him that luxury however and only stare at him, perplexed, when he rubs his neck awkwardly.
“Jason Todd.”
“What?” is your eloquent response.
He shifts his weight from either foot. “Uh… I’m Jason Todd. You?”
Weakly, you tell him your name, and he echoes it. “Nice,” he says, and that’s it.
“Sorry for wrecking your apartment. A buddy of mine was going through a rough patch and we were trying to stop him.”
“It’s really… fine, don’t worry about it.”
“You’re not from around here, are you?
You shake your head violently.
“In that case, listen to me when I say you shouldn’t be walking the streets after curfew, alright?”
Was he really warning you? A villain? Telling you to keep safe? Unsure as to where this conversation was about to go, you pause before you speak. “O… kay?”
“Okay?” Jason repeats, and you shrink.
“Sorry, I really don’t know what…,” you trail off. If you didn’t know any better, you would think he was trying to put the moves on you.
He goes silent. Then, more to himself, he mutters, “This isn’t how I thought this would go.” In one fluid motion, he releases the helmet and pulls it clean off, shaking his hair loose.
Shocked he’d just reveal his identity out in public like that, you furrow your brows. And then it hits you– you’ve seen that face before. “You–!”
He cracks a loose smile. “Yeah. Thought it might make it a little easier for us to talk if I took this thing off–”
“– I bumped into you a few hours ago! If this is about that, I’m really, really sorry!” you say, tripping over your own words in your spiraling self-destruction. Oh, no. Maybe you’ve really ticked off this guy so much that he’s letting you see his face before he shoots you straight in the temples or something, oh my God. You brace yourself for something because damn– you knew this was a bad idea.
“Oh,” you hear him say. “Hold on… you don’t know?”
You lift your gaze. “What?”
“You really don’t know.” He lets out a brief laugh, hand running through his rain-streaked hair. You'd feel bad for not offering him the shade of your umbrella, if not for his alignment. “Oh, man. What the hell.”
“Uhh…”
“Listen,” he says, “I’ll make this as painless as possible, okay?”
“What are you–” Without warning, he pulls up his gray, layered costume underneath the jacket, and there on his hip was something written in dark letters. You force yourself to tear your eyes away from his scar-marred skin back to his pale blue eyes.
“No,” you say with incredulity, “that can’t be.”
He drops his shirt back down. “Well, sweetheart, I didn’t write this on myself.”
“How would I not notice it on myself?” You grimace and glance down at your hands.
Jason only shrugs. “Maybe it’s on your back?”
“Are you sure other people haven’t said this to you? I mean, let’s be real here, any regular citizen could’ve said that,” you rattled off in disbelief. Was he conning you? It wouldn’t be the first time people have attempted to be other people’s significant others. But somehow, he didn’t look the type to do that.
“Do you think I’d want this mark in my line of business? I thought it might be good to, y’know, introduce myself at least.”
Finally, you take a shaky exhale, and stepping closer, tip the umbrella over his head. His eyes widen but he does not say a single word. There’s less than meter of space between you, and there’s something bright in the way he’s peering at you through the grayness that surrounds you both.
“Jason,” you say deliberately. “if you’re telling the truth, what exactly do you want us to be? It might be too early to say, but…”
“What do you mean?” His voice is no louder than a murmur over the splattering rainfall, and he searches your face.
“You said it yourself, didn’t you? I don’t want a tattoo to…,” you pause, “impose on you, I guess. Even if you are a criminal.”
“A criminal,” he echoes. “I see.” Something in his tone stops you in your tracks, and there’s an inkling of a feeling you’ve wronged him.
You shoot him a tilted glance. “Are you, Jason? A criminal?”
“Hard to say,” is his simple answer, and you think you’re finally seeing him in transparent light.
An acknowledging hum escapes you. “Can we meet again?” you ask.
He opens his mouth but nothing comes out, so you continue. “Let’s meet right here again in a week. Same time. If one of us doesn’t show, I guess we’ll know. Does that sound good?” Your eyes trace over the red helmet in his hands and despite the worn nature, it has not lost its gleam.
“Yeah,” he says in a soft tone. “That sounds good.”
“Nice to meet you, Jason.”
He clicks the helmet back in place. “You too. Stay safe.”
Even as you walk away, you still feel the weight of his gaze on your back, unwavering until you turn the corner. You don’t realize you’ve been smiling until you pass by a car window and catch a glimpse of your own bright countenance on your way back home from the market. It completely stuns you.
It was a surprising turn of events. You always thought you’d be an established person of society with your life– all put together before meeting your soulmate, as most people are. Or even not meeting them at all, ever, in this lifetime. It doesn’t help when your soulmate is someone who wouldn’t benefit from you either.
In fact, as the days passed and you gazed out the window, you only became increasingly more frightened of all possible outcomes. It was like a whole Punnet square where there was exactly a 25% chance of both of you showing.
You weren’t too proud to not admit your dread in both getting rejected before anything even happened, and getting to meet (once again, for the third time) the single person people spend entire lives searching for. It’s bizarre.
Later that evening, you took off every article of clothing in the bathroom, in search of that cursed mark. It ultimately ended up on the back of your right thigh, where bold font read (with the help of a handheld mirror) in all caps, HOW LONG HAVE YOU BEEN THERE. It looked ominous as hell seared on your flesh and you’re just glad it wasn’t all that visible and that you didn’t have to shave your scalp to find out either.
You can’t imagine finding ARE THESE THINGS COMMON AROUND HERE on your hip being all that pleasant either.
A week passes and on the day, you’re nothing but antsy. All your classes were a blur, and you haven’t caught a single shadow of him all week, and that only heightens your assurance that he has officially ghosted on you. You wonder if Jason told Artemis about you. You wonder if he has told anyone about you, because all week you’ve been wondering if you should tell someone about him.
But what would you say? “Hey, mom, guess what? Met the love of my life and he’s one of those superhumans in Gotham! Also I don’t think he likes me! Anyway, how are you doing?” A shiver goes down your spine as you mull over that scenario. Needless to say, you haven’t told any particular person yet.
But despite all the uncertainty, one thing lay clear, and it was that you’d respect any decision he was to make. This became a mantra through the day.
You plan on arriving, no matter the consequence. Admittedly, you couldn’t help but feel intrigued by him, and the more you think about that moment you drew him in under the umbrella with you, it seemed more and more distant. Unrealistic. Absurd, even. And yet the most alarming part of it all was how at ease you’d become at the end.
You like that feeling, you think.
You arrive at approximately eight at night, a block away from your apartment. This was the time and location, right? It was dark last time, so maybe your calculations were wrong. You glance about the stragglers on the street, keeping your fists tight in your pockets to avoid fidgeting.
Maybe you should leave. Sometimes, life just be like that sometimes. But for some reason, you can’t drag yourself away. You card your fingers through your hair, contemplating deeply and chewing your lip. In a desperate attempt to bide your time, you tip your head back and let yourself lean on the very edge of the railing next to the bus station.
You hope it doesn’t start raining again, for you’d be unprepared.
Your breathing shallows as you shut your eyes, feeling the air pulse all around you and the snippets of stranger’s dialogue flutter in the wind.
“You tired or something?”
Your eyes snap open at the voice, and you’re just floored. Oh, wow.
You’d been building up your acceptance in never seeing him again, but here he was standing in front of you, looking… slightly flustered. As if he ran to get here. You’re overcome with the sporadic urge to neaten his wind-swept hair and almost do so when you take your hands out of your pockets but stop in action.
“Hello,” you say simply, eyes wide.
“Hey.”
“I–” you both say at the same time, and he lets out a huffy laugh. “You go first,” he says.
“To be honest, I’m surprised you’re here.”
“Me too. But then I thought, there’s no harm in just meeting, right?”
“Yeah. And you’re not wearing your helmet.”
“No.” A smile twitches at the edge of his mouth. “Didn’t think you’d be calling me Red Hood anytime soon.”
“Maybe not. Plus, I did end up finding the tattoo.”
“Of course you did. There’s no reason for me to lie about that. Can I see? Or,” he suddenly stops, and you notice his ears reddening. Somehow, you find it charming. “Maybe not now.”
A breezy laugh escapes you. “Yeah, probably not now. We’ve only met three times after all.” Glancing over his casual attire, you chuckle again.
“What’s so funny?” He peers down at his own sweatshirt.
“No, nothing– it’s just that… I’d never think the guy I almost bumped into on the street has a secret identity. Guess that’s good work on your part, huh?”
“More like a requirement,” he snorts.
“You told me who you were pretty quickly though.”
“You didn’t look the type to snitch.”
“No?” you muse, your voice light. “Maybe. Maybe not. Can’t guarantee that.”
“Won’t know until I know then.”
“And do you want to know?”
He doesn’t skip a beat as he responds. “Kind of, yeah.”
You cross your arms, and look at him carefully again, taking note of the glow in his eyes and and his strong features.
Jason quirks his eyebrows up. “Do you look at everyone you meet like this?”
“No. I think it’s just you.”
“Should I be flattered?”
You only give him an ambiguous smile, and he smirks.
“So what now?” he asks curiously.
“I don’t know. You’ve lived here all your life, right?”
“Right.”
“Then why don’t you show me some of the cool spots around here?”
His eyes shine with mirth as he grins. “Alright. I know just the place.”
“Thought you were going to tell me it’s passed curfew.”
“Well, you’re with me, aren’t you? I’m an outlaw, sweetheart.” He pulls away. “We’re not the best at following rules.”
--
Three days earlier, Jason sat on the beat up couch, chewing popcorn thoughtfully. Before him, the television screen flashes bright, but on mute. And beside him, an Amazon wiped at her battle ax with a rag.
“So like,” says Jason, “how– how do you think I should go about telling them?”
“Telling them what?”
“Well, that I died. That I’ve been resurrected.” He pauses his loud chewing. “Do they even need to know that?”
“Yes,” Artemis looks up, bemused. “Yes, I do think that’s vital information, Jason.”
“Then, how?”
“The same way you’re going to tell them that your two best friends is a vagabond and a Superman clone. With clarity.”
That’s fair.