Chapter Text
Jason wouldn't say he was one for New Year's resolutions. Dying before your voice changes and then miraculously reanimating teaches you to take what you can get no matter the time of year. Besides, most of the resolutions he could think of didn't apply to him anymore. Exercise more? He ran around Gotham and beat people up; that's plenty of exercise. Stop smoking? He hadn't done that since Helena saw him and turned all teary-eyed (he's still fairly certain Dick planted her there to guilt trip him into quitting). Improve sleep? Unobtainable due to the bat symbol on his chest. Travel more? Jason had been to the grave and back; he's good, thanks.
But then he'd opened Bruce's Christmas present to him, a first edition of Agatha Christie's The Murder at the Vicarage, and found himself struggling to breathe through the sudden, overwhelming, crushing desire to read. To curl up into the library's window seat and become oblivious to anything but a book, to turn the last page and suddenly realize that the sun had set in the real world as well as the fictional one.
Jason couldn't remember the last time he'd lost himself reading like that.
"I found it at a coffeeshop downtown," Bruce said as Jason stared at the book. "You'd like it there."
"Yeah?" Jason opened the cover and brushed his fingers over the faded note scrawled on the inside cover (he had always liked used books better than new ones; of course B would remember that).
"Old, quaint, overrun with books. Just the kind of spot you'd love," Bruce squeezed his shoulder before standing up to hand more presents out. "And they had a drink named after Jane Austen."
And so on January 1st, Jason stepped inside Beowulf's Brews with his book tucked under his arm. Bruce had been right about the shop, of course; it was exactly the sort of place that Jason loved. The ceiling was entirely wooden, a rich earthy shade that almost appeared to have veins of gold glinting in the beams. The walls were hidden by bookshelves that almost groaned under the weight of their bounty. The shelves weren't sufficient, though; sunlight filtered through the pages of books lined up on the windowsill. A Victrola sang from atop a table in the corner that used a stack of books as its third leg. Books even mingled among the various tea tins and coffee syrups behind the counter from which a woman about Jason's age wrote on the menu board. Her curly brown ponytail swung back and forth as she stretched up on a rickety stool to write with her chalk. The warm, raspy tones of a clarinet drifted through the room, accompanied by the familiar, bittersweet scent of coffee. Jason closed his eyes and took a deep breath, letting the sound and scent and spirit of the place seep into his bones.
"Hi there."
Jason opened his eyes to see the barista smiling at him, chalk still clasped in her hand.
"Hi," he said, walking up to the counter. "Sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt."
"Oh no, you're fine!" She tucked the chalk behind her ear before hopping down from the stool. "You just saved the board from more of my awful penmanship. What can I get for you?"
"Umm," Jason peered at the menu board, which truly was mostly unintelligible. "My dad said you had a Jane Austen drink?"
"The Austen Fog!" she grinned. "It's like an earl grey tea with lavender and vanilla. Perfect for overcast days."
"So, every day in Gotham?"
Her laugh reminded him of Helena's: quiet, light, a little shy, but honest. The girl ducked her head a bit as she laughed, brown-gold eyes disappearing behind brown-gold hair. He couldn't help the smile that broke across his face at the sound of it; he couldn't make the smile go away as he paid for his drink and walked off to find a table. Maybe it was because this place seemed so unlike the rest of Gotham, but Jason just felt . . . lighter. Happier.
Which meant it was the perfect time to read about murder.
Jason was only a few pages into the first chapter when the barista set his drink down in front of him. He looked up and gave her a smile (not the Red Hood's crooked smirk, but also not the gritted teeth from his gala days).
"Thank you . . ." he sneaked a glance at her nametag, then openly stared at the illegible scrawl in confusion, ". . . Groga?"
"Groga?" The girl slapped her hand over her mouth in a vain attempt to stifle her giggles. Forget his helmet; Jason wouldn't need it anymore with how red his face was turning.
"I am so sorr-"
"Oh, please don't apologize!" she gasped through her laughter. "That's the best one yet. I need to add that to the list." She gave one last shuddering giggle before holding out her still-chalkstained hand. "It's Georgiana. Georgiana Bailey."
"Jason Todd." He shook her hand, then wrapped his hands around the warm mug of tea. "Nice to meet you."
"It's lovely to meet you as well, Jason," she said with a bob of her head. "Enjoy your tea, and let me know if you need anything!"
Jason gave her a little wave as she walked away before grabbing his book and hiding his face from anyone's view.
"Kill me again," he whispered.
And since that (per Bruce's command) was not an option, he began reading his murder mystery again.
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"How'd you like the tea?"
Jason blinked, the village of St. Mary Mead fading away to Gotham, the frail figure of Miss Marple replaced by the smiling face of Georgiana.
"Oh, uh, it was good. I liked the lavender flavor."
"Mhmm," she hummed, picking up his mug. "So good you only drank half of it?"
Jason gave a sheepish grin as Georgiana tilted the cup for him to see the contents. "I might have forgotten about it while I was reading?"
"Well," she laughed, "I have to forgive you since it's Miss Marple who's distracting you. I'd offer to get you a refill, but . . ."
She gestured to the window, and Jason was shocked to see that night had fallen, the only illumination coming from the perpetually flickering streetlights.
"Normally we'd stay open longer," Georgiana continued, "but today's a short day with it being New Year's and all. I don't mean to kick you out or anything-"
"Don't sweat it," Jason cut her off, closing his book as he stood up. "I lost track of time anyway."
"Well," she frowned for a moment, eyes fixed on the dregs in the mug she held, then gave a firm nod before turning on her heel. "I'll make you one to go!"
"You don't need to do that," Jason said, eyes widening as Georgiana practically danced behind the counter.
She whirled around to face him and pressed a to-go cup into his hand. "I don't, but I am," she said, her face serious but her eyes smiling. "Steep the bag for about five minutes, then stir it all together. It won't have the frothed milk on top, but it's the best I can do at the moment."
Jason stared at the cup, then looked up at Georgiana. The tea's heat seemed to seep through the thin paper of the cup and into his veins, creeping through his body until he couldn't remember anything but warmth.
"I didn't finish my book," his grip tightened on the cup as the words spilled out of his mouth.
She smiled at him (and the warmth seemed to burn a bit more at the sight of it). "I guess you'll just have to come back and finish it, then."
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It took Jason a few days before he was able to return to Beowulf's Brews. That night as he strolled into Wayne Manor an hour late for family movie night, an alert sounded. Arkham's nonexistent security measures had allowed Calendar Man to slip free from his cell, and every Bat immediately scrambled to corner Julian before he threw a belated New Year's celebration of his own kind. Three long days stretched into one sleepless mission; one day to search, one day to capture, one day to tighten Arkham's security (again), and then Jason was finally able to step back into his newly-found refuge. Georgiana was behind the counter, her raucous curls teased into a braid this time. Her eyes flicked up at the jingling of the doorbell, and Jason could feel the weariness of the last few days seep out of his body as she smiled.
"Jason, you're back!" She brushed a stray curl behind her ear, leaving a streak of chalk dust on her cheek. "I was wondering when you'd show up."
He blinked at her in surprise. "You remember my name?"
Georgiana gave a sheepish shrug and added another chalk mark to her face. "It's not often that someone doesn't finish one of my drinks. Besides," she gestured towards his head, "the white hair is kinda memorable."
"Oh," Jason ran a hand through said hair. "Yeah, I forget about that sometimes."
"Well, I think you look great with it." Her eyes widened for a moment, her cheeks seeming to turn a slightly darker shade of brown. She cleared her throat. "What do you want to drink?"
Jason looked up at the menu board. The chalk streaks on her face made sense now; Georgiana must have been working on the menu again, because there wasn't a word on the board that was legible. "Good question," he said, rubbing the back of his neck.
"You can't read it, can you," she sighed.
"No, I can!" Jason waved his hand in assurance. "I'm just . . . indecisive. Decision paralysis and all that."
"You were squinting, Jason."
Drat.
"Okay, yeah," he conceded with a shrug. "I can't read it."
Georgiana looked up at the board with a sigh. "To be honest, I'm not really sure why my boss has me do the board, but here we are." She turned back to Jason, one hand propped on her hip. "Tell you what, how about you sit down and read your book while I make you a drink. Coffee sound okay to you?"
Coffee sounded life-saving after the past three days, and Jason quickly found himself at the same table as last time, a cinnamon-spice mocha in hand (and Jason would never look at the menu board again if that meant Georgiana would keep giving him creations like this). Raindrops trickled down the windowpane to his right, logs crackled as flames consumed them in the fireplace to his left; and yet both of them faded away as Jason thumbed open his book and traveled to the pastoral countryside of England in order to catch a murderer.
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"Good book?"
Jason looked up from where he'd been staring at his book's cover. Georgiana stood across from him, a cleaning rag in hand.
"Yeah, it was good." He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. "Not my favorite of Agatha Christie's books, but still a solid mystery."
"It must not have been too good of a book," Georgiana raised an eyebrow as she picked up his coffee mug. "You drank the whole thing this time. You obviously weren't distracted enough."
Jason snorted. "Is that our goal now? Find the book that makes me ignore your coffee?"
Georgiana shrugged, a teasing smile on her lips. "It would be a worthy battle. Your books versus my coffee."
Jason leaned forward. "You really want to go to war with me?" he asked, his voice low and quiet. "It usually doesn't end well for my opponents."
And then he held his breath, willing his muscles to stay locked in place, as Georgiana bent down and put them face to face.
"Bring it, pretty boy."
His eyes widened.
Her eyebrows raised.
They lasted only five seconds before their laughter echoed among the bookshelves.
"Okay, but can I ask a favor?" Georgiana asked once they had caught their breath again.
"Shoot."
Instead of speaking, Georgiana disappeared into the backroom behind the counter. She reappeared a few seconds later, something clutched to her chest. It was a book, well-made but well-loved, bound with emerald-hued leather and embossed with golden lettering which spelled out the name Jane Eyre.
"Read this first," Georgiana demanded as she held the book out to him. "It's my favorite book, and love it or hate it, you have to read it."
Jason gently took the book from her hand and smoothed his fingers over the title. "Make me another of those mochas and I'll start today."
His mug was refilled before he finished the first chapter.
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"This is your favorite book?" Jason tapped his knuckles on the book's cover. "Mr. Rochester is a jerk, and that's coming from someone like me."
"First of all, you're the nicest jerk I've ever met," Georgiana said, tapping her fingers on the cover as well. "Second, Rochester is a jerk, yes, but he's a jerk who reforms! Just because his reformation happens off-page doesn't make it any less valid."
Jason sucked a breath through his teeth. "I can't believe you just equated me with Rochester. I'm not sure I can survive this wound."
"Oh please," Georgiana said with a laugh, "I would never equate you with Rochester. He's much better with words, and he's rich!"
Suddenly, Jason's coffee was the most interesting thing in the room.
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"Did you finish it?"
"All one-thousand two-hundred twenty-three pages of it," Jason groaned, leaning forward across the table, "only for it to end in a cliffhanger. Please tell me you have the next book."
Georgiana giggled, resting her chin in her palm. "I have the next book, but it's not going to help you any."
Jason's eyes narrowed. "Why not?"
"Because," she grinned, "he's not done writing the series."
". . . I hate you."
"Journey before destination, Jason."
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"Jason Wayne? Wayne as in Wayne Wayne?"
The man in question snorted at the flabbergasted look on Georgiana's face. "No, Wayne as in Bruce Wayne."
". . . you're incorrigible, but I'll let it slide since you're rich and I feel stupid for not recognizing your face."
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"Are you actually allowed to give me refills of specialty drinks, Georgiana?"
"Who's going to stop me?" she said as she replaced his empty cup with a full one of chai latte. "My nonexistent coworkers? Besides, you're my friend. It's my treat."
Jason raised an eyebrow. "Are we friends?"
She winked at him. "Well, technically my friends call me Jo."
"And if I don't call you Jo?"
"Then I'll drink that chai myself."
Jason saluted her with the cup before taking a sip. "Thanks, Jo."
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Jason stared at the darkened door of Beowulf's Brews, trying to make sense of the "Closed" sign on the door. No light came from within save for the ever-twinkling fairy lights he'd helped Jo string around the menu board ("Maybe the extra light will help customers read it!" she'd said). He pulled out his phone to check the date. Thursday, but it wasn't a holiday, and there hadn't been a rogue attack in the area for weeks, so why were they closed?
It was then that he noticed it; a piece of paper lay on the ground, half under the door of the shop. Jason bent down to pick it up only to read his name in blocky letters. He opened the note, squinted, then threw back his head and laughed.
"Jason,
I used my best penmanship, so if you can't read this it's your own fault. The store's water line broke or something, so we're closed today and tomorrow. I didn't want you to worry.
I know you're going to complain about my handwriting, so here's my number. That way I can just text you next time we close unexpectedly.
Jo"
Note in one hand and phone in the other, Jason saved the number and sent off a text.
Jason: Good thing your numbers are more legible than your letters.
CupOfJo: Jerk.
CupOfJo: So how's your day been?
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Jo glared at Jason as she set his latte on the table. "You should've warned me not to read that during my lunch break."
"I refuse to claim responsibility for that," he said with a laugh. "It's a book about cholera, of course it was gonna be gross."
"Mmhm," the glare didn't let up. "If that's the case, I refuse to claim responsibility for what's in that latte."
Jason's hand froze, the cup an inch from his lips. "Jo, what's in the latte?"
Her ponytail swung back and forth as she walked away.
"Jo?"
("Oat milk, Jason," she said ten minutes later when he finally tasted it. "I put oat milk in it because I ran out of regular.")
("You're a cruel woman, Jo," he'd replied.)
(She gave him a refill anyway.)
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"You said Damian likes animals, right?"
The question was accompanied by some sort of s'mores mocha concoction being placed in front of Jason. Jo must have been experimenting again.
"Yeah, he's got a soft spot for them. Definitely likes them better than people."
Jo hummed, tapping her lip with her finger. "And you haven't found a birthday present for him yet, right?"
Jason took a sip of the mocha before answering (and realized again that he'd have to tell Tim about this place eventually; the kid would kill for coffee like this). "Nope. No idea."
"Got it," and she walked away.
(Before Jason left, a book wrapped in brown paper was placed on his table; and while he couldn't read the label, he would've sworn Jo wrote, "To: Damian, Love: Jason.")
(Damian finished the book before his birthday was over.)
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". . . but Pride and Prejudice is still her best work."
Book abandoned on the table, Jason glared half-seriously at Jo from where she sat across from him. The coffee in the pot she'd set down between them was probably cold by now, but it wasn't like any customers had come in for the last hour to interrupt their conversation. The last eight months had set their routine in stone; Jason would come to the shop after finishing his classes for the day, Jo would make whatever drink came to mind (somehow it always seemed to be exactly what he was craving), and then she would inevitably come by to inquire about the book he was reading. On those rare days where the weather sequestered everyone in their homes or when there were no other patrons in the shop, Jo would make herself a drink and sit down with Jason. Sometimes she would select her own book and they would read in silence. Sometimes they would discuss the latest book they'd finish. But more often than not, the books would sit forgotten on the table as they talked about everything else in their lives (and maybe he'd never told her about the mask, never admitted that secret that seemed to define everything else in his life, but somehow he felt like she knew him nonetheless).
Jo rolled her eyes at Jason. "I'm not saying it isn't. I'm just saying that the proposal in Persuasion is superior to the one in Pride and Prejudice."
"So you're saying that Persuasion is better than Pride and Prejudice."
"Fine, yes!" Jo laughed as she threw her hands in the air. "I think Persuasion is Austen's best work. Happy?"
Jason sniffed haughtily, channeling Damian as best he could. "With betrayal? Never. You plied me with coffee but slipped poison in the cup. I can't believe someone named after Georgiana Darcy could do such a thing."
Jo gave a sound that was half groan, half laugh and buried her head in her arms. "You're insufferable."
"And you're tolerable, I suppose."
A muffled snort sounded from Jo. "But not handsome enough to tempt you, right?"
And Jason meant to snark right back at her. Meant to continue the teasing and establish once and forever that Pride and Prejudice was the superior Austen novel-
But then the setting sun's light streamed through the windowpane to set Jo's curls aflame, and when she lifted her head to catch his gaze he couldn't count the shades of brown in her eyes, and that familiar warmth that accompanied her smile seemed to lance through his whole body and burn until there was nothing left but her.
And maybe she'd burned away all language from his mind, because for all of his love of books Jason couldn't conjure any words of his own that could possibly tell her what he'd just realized.
"Jason?"
But maybe his words weren't what he needed.
"I-I sometimes," he stopped, swallowed, and then dropped his gaze to where his hands rested on the worn wood of the table, "I sometimes have a queer feeling with regard to you--especially when you are near me, as now; it is as if I had a string somewhere under my left ribs, rightly and inextricably knotted to a similar string situated in the corresponding quarter of your little frame. And . . ."
And then there was no more need for words, because a chalk-dusted hand slipped into his, and the sunlight turned everything golden.