Chapter Text
Hope is tragic.
Hope is love.
Both hold true . Maybe that's all this living will ever be — choosing one of the two at every moment.
Perhaps life teaches you along the way, that the line between the two is a very blurry one.
Perhaps there exists no line at all.
You did not like books.
No hate to them but you just preferred visual cues more — movies, films, documentaries, art museums.
Everyone in Gotham city knew that — your family, friends, your cute golden retriever Butter who nuzzles into your lap routinely before bedtime, the stray calico cat you pass everyday on the way to university.
Yet here you were — a full three days of attendance at Gotham Public library, holding books as thick as five canvases clamped together and littered with words you will barely ever read. But unlike other people in the cream colored room with wooden borders and portraits of Gotham history hung up on the walls, you were here for something else — more like someone.
On Tuesday, for the first time in twenty-two years of living in the city, you had finally stepped foot into the two story marvel with its carved pillars of stone parading the pointed arch that outlined the entry way. It wasn't like you had never visited a library — you did occasionally visit the small bookstore tucked away in the corner near your old home or the university library at the center of the lush campus— but not this one. You had awed at it's architecture, taking photographs every time you passed by it on the way to meet your parents back in Star City but never had the opportunity to bask in it's ambience.
Until Tuesday.
It had all started with your best friend — Zara — pleading with you to embrace the fresh air rather than stay within the closed quarters of a tiny four walled box of the university's Art Studio, where you had stayed almost for fifteen hours a day, running on five cups of coffee (Bless your heart!). Streaks of red and yellow etched on to your forearm, kneeling on the wooden floor as you added the final touches to your portrait.
"Come on," her voice tuned into a high pitch whine "You need to get out — How long has it been since you went anywhere except the studio and our dorm room?"
Kneeling back on the balls of your feet, you dip the brush onto the scraps of golden paint left in the palette before spraying speckles of it on the canvas by dragging your thumb against the fibrils of the brush.
"Please, just for a few hours." Zara pleads, leaning against the walls, her eyes scrunched in annoyance.
You shake your head before sighing, eyes still locked onto the canvas before you. Hair strands stick to your forehead and the numb feeling returned to your legs from sitting too long in one position.
Perhaps, going out was what you needed.
That's how you had ended up leaned against a wooden shelf full of Zoology books dated from centuries ago in a very haphazardly put together outfit. Your best friend had insisted that whatever books she needed for her thesis was only within the esteemed collection of the public library.
Large sturdy bookshelves lined the walls, the corners turned into comfy reading nooks. Clicking of pens and the scrape of pencils against papers filled the rooms as students and senior citizens sit among the dozens of spaced desks surrounding the central area of the library. 'No talking' signs covered every few inches of the wall, though swiftly ignored till the librarian hisses at the patrons who disregard the rule. Crystal chandeliers glint in the light from the arched stained glass window like the stars shining in the night.
But what had caught your attention more than the glinting gems of the chandelier was the man — more like a Greek god — sat against the cushioned nook. He was easily over 6ft paired with muscles straining against the linen of his black t-shirt while ebony black hair was tousled with slight graying littered out in the front. Emerald-green eyes scan through a thick hard bound book — a classic, you assume — with vigor and with every scrunch of his dark eyebrows marked the intention to complete the artifact.
You hadn't realized how long you stood there still, eyes locked on the man till Zara nudged against your shoulder, pointing towards the front desk. In a way, you were glad the man hadn't noticed you considering you weren't in your best state with all that dark circles as clear as day painted on to your skin, and your outfit was just a hoodie paired with sweatpants.
A sigh escapes your lips at the thought of leaving. An irony from a few hours ago.
You were going to miss seeing that beautiful man.
But curiosity lingers like dust particles that sweeps into nooks and crannies of the mind. He hadn't left your head since you had gotten back, even enveloping the very few hours of sleep you already barely get. And that was how you ended up in Gotham Public library for the second day in a row. After hours spending in the studio, you decided to just entertain a small visit to the library, dressed in a better outfit than last time.
There was a minuscule of possibility that you would see the man again. But o.1% of probability was still a chance. And you were not the one to lose hope.
The minuscule of probability had come true.
The man was there, again seated against the wall in the same reading nook. Today he had been wearing a red hoodie, paired with dark black jeans and looked just as beautiful as yesterday. He held the same book, now a few more pages in while his hand gripped a black pen, dotting something on the outline of the pages.
Ever since then, let’s just say you have been a regular .
It’s day 3 at the library.
You really wanted to ask the man out, or at least talk to him but what if he thinks you were a creep?
“Staring doesn’t help now, does it?” Your best friend had remarked last dinner, stirring the boiling pot of pasta. “I know it’s not easy, but just maybe say hi.”
The librarian – an old woman, with round black rimmed spectacles, looks up with steely eyes as she assesses your figure disappearing within the large shelves of books. She probably knew you were here for anything other than books.
Only a reader can identify another one.
The library is less crowded today. More space to view the man seated against the wall of the library, opposite to you — only two huge bookshelves in between. Sunlight flitters through the stained-glass window, casting a deep yellow on his skin that rivaled the very golden color of the painting hung up on the wall next to him.
You realized you had a problem of staring at him the same way as when you did at the magnificent paintings in the museum ever since you were a kid, when your eyes locked with teal ones paired with a very tantalizing smirk on his face. Panic stricken, your eyes swift past him to the window, letting out a makeshift yawn before directing your attention to the book that laid on your lap.
Act cool, you think.
It had been a minute already since that disastrous eye-contact. Surely, he would have returned back to his reading, right? You sneak a glance from the top of your book only to find the space empty. You look around, peeking through the shelves trying to find the mystery man before a deep voice from behind startles you, almost dropping the thick hardbound classic onto your feet.
“Hey, how’s the book? I have been meaning to read it for a while now.” A low pitched voice with a hoarse edge from behind akin to that of a soft thunder in the distance, startled you out of your search for the handsome man.
You yelp, left hand clutching your chest as the book—Wuthering Heights, you think— almost falls to the floor. Your heart thumps, reverberating against your body, quickly averting your eyes to the source of the voice, a bunch of not-so-nice words sitting at the tip of your tongue, only to quickly die in your mouth.
Of course, he had a deep voice.
The same man you had been ogling for the past three days stood right in front of you, a few inches apart. The smell of gasoline and motor oil fill your nostrils. He was even more handsome up close, emerald eyes with a sparkle, few scars spread against his cheek, lips curved into a smile — genuine but with a hint of something underneath.
Amusement?
Curiosity?
Maybe both, you couldn’t really decipher.
“Huh?”
“How’s the book you’re reading?” he repeats, eyes twinkling with mirth.
He leans against the bookshelf, folding his arms causing the black compression T-shirt to stretch across his elbows.
They really do wonders if the right person was wearing it.
“Oh, uhh, it's great." The spine of the book feels brittle under the tremble of your fingertips. "Only a few pages in though. Can't really tell yet,” you beam, with way too much energy for someone who was lying straight through their teeth.
Fake it till you make it, right?
He looks at you, the corners of his mouth turn up even more — now more of a smirk than the delightful smile he had given you the opportunity to relish in moments ago.
Had he seen through your lie? You were not that great of a liar, but it was a —
“Sweetheart, the book’s upside down.”
Oh.
Oh.
Warmth spreads across your face like wildfire, uncontrollable. Your mind clouds as his green eyes bore into yours like he was the vast amazons and you were just a creature stepping in for the first time.
The words leave your mouth before you mean it.
“I-I am actually d-doing a research on whether one can read books upside-down. It’s called the upside-down hypothesis,” you ramble, heart at your throat, hoping he believes your stupid theory .
He looks even more amused if that was possible, eyes glinting in the light turning his eyes into that of clear green algae that lay in the sea.
Fuck.
He probably saw right through you.
Hot and Intelligent, you deduce.
“Well, uhm, nice to meet you, got to get back home. It's late you know," your voice raises to an unusually high pitch, ears burning hot against the skin. It was barely 4pm on a Sunday. You still had ample amount of time to get back home but he didn't need to know that. "Gotham. Murder. Batman.”
“Okay, bye," you say, hands waving before turning steadfast towards the exit. You wanted to turn, try memorizing his face since it was going to be the last time you see him after all. Before you could put more thought to it, your head turned like reflex, catching a glimpse of black hair and his green eyes that stared at you with amusement. Groaning you turn back to finally step out of the premises.
Why did you have to embarrass yourself in front of a man — a beautiful man at that?
You were never going to step into the library again.
You were never going to meet that man again.
But fate had other plans.
Tapping your knuckles in a rhythm against the circular wooden table, you sigh, eyes wandering across the room. Plain white canvases are stacked on top of each other, while bottles of paint lay scattered across the floor. You had pinned various pictures of Gotham vigilantes onto the corkboard perched at the center of the wall, facing you.
You had your final thesis exhibition less than a month away and you still had three paintings to be done. The only silver lining was that you had references for at least two of them. Countless photographs uploaded by fans and haters alike had given you ample amount of data to take advantage of.
Except for one vigilante — The Red Hood.
There were no pictures of him in the internet. None. Almost like if anything did pop up, some force behind a computer screen, took it down immediately. The only inkling of information you had of him were from the people themselves, talking about how the vigilante had saved them or saw him in passing.
Thus, the information you had was scarce.
All you knew was the man was 6'4 , all muscles and had a red bat across his suit. Nothing really that could help you paint a whole canvas. You could use your imagination but your thesis was centered around vigilantes and the one thing you had to make sure was that they were as true as it could get.
You had decided to do your final projects about the heroes you grew up with — The art of vigilantism. It would be your first major project and the fruit of all the hard work of over four years. What made this assignment even more special was every individual would exhibit their work at the Art building of Gotham University and three students out of a class of two hundred would be picked to exhibit the same at the Metropolitan Museum of Gotham.
It would be your dream come true to feature your works enclosed within the walls of the very museum you visited religiously every year since you were a child.
But it was more than that. Your dream was to exhibit your art all around the world, to deliver stories from different sections of life, to let imagination take over when looking at abstract pieces.
But most of all, you wanted one person to see your art.
The second robin.
But in order for that to even be a possibility, you had to complete the painting of Red Hood.
And so, you decided to take matters into your own hands.
Was this a dumb idea?
Probably.
But you don't think there was anything else you could have done. Black shirt, black pants, black hood, black mask. You looked like a robber waiting for your next victim to mug. But this was also the easiest way to camouflage against the dark alleys of Park Row. Hanging around your neck is an expensive camera you brought in the first year of university after saving money since you were thirteen by selling artworks and winning competitions.
The smell of rotting flesh and chemicals fill in the alley. You scan your surroundings, taking a peek at the empty street as your heart hammers in your chest. Where was he ? You were on time — he should be patrolling the premises . There weren't many people around and based on the various testimonials of people on Reddit , this was where Red Hood would appear. And if you were lucky enough you could take pictures of him mid fight or maybe even ask —
There's a sudden crunch of gravel that fills your ears and before you could react, a hand clamps onto your shoulder. A shriek passes your lips as you turn to face your would be mugger or worse, only to meet glaring emerald eyes.
There he stood, your library crush who was staring daggers at you like you were a criminal. He looked a little different under the flickering golden light emanating from the electric pole a little ahead of you.
Wrapped in a leather jacket, holding a black helmet in one of his hands. His eyes, the same ones you saw with amusement dancing was now muddled with slight anger and annoyance. You don't think he recognized you — of course, he didn't if you had your face covered, with only your eyes peaking through.
"What are you doing?"
You hold your hands up before pointing towards your mask. He nods, albeit his grip on your shoulder not loosening. You remove the black mask obscuring the lower half of your face. He immediately removes his hand, his eyes softening as he takes a quick step back.
"Whoa, you're that girl from the library," His frown morphs into a smile, biceps flexing as his palm threads through his hair. "What are you doing here at this time?"
"Well, I was just—" you put your head in your hands. What were you going to do. "I was just here to take photos of the scenery , the graffiti art , murals—"
You take a look at him, trying to come up with a good excuse that would also support your facade from the library. But it felt like someone had vacuumed your mind of all your thoughts except for the goal you had initially, when you decided to come to Crime Alley. You peak a glance, your head tilting a little to look at his face — Wait a minute.
"How tall are you?"
The sudden question has him stumbling a little as he feels your gaze skimming across his body.
"around 6 feet 4 —"
"Hmm, you are as tall as him and you clearly go the gym" you poke at his muscles while he looks bewildered like an animal in the zoo. It was like a light bulb had just switched on above your head, a bright smile crawling on to your lips.
“Can you cosplay as Red hood for me, pretty please?”
There's a brief moment of silence except for the howling of some neighborhood dogs and rustling of rodents in the trash. He stood there, open mouthed and wide eyed like his brain hadn't caught up to what you were saying.
"I'm sorry, what?"
You don't know if it was the fact that you had just realized he could probably say no and you had no backup plan for what you were going to do but you felt like your chest was closing in, waves of deep black dread, pools in your heart.
“Can you cosplay as Red hood for me , pretty please? Myentire futureisdependedntonthisportrait —" Your voice had changed from confident to almost on the verge of a full blown panic attack —flashes of your dream crumbling right in front of you— words jumbled against each other as they left your mouth.
"Hey Hey, slow down" He grips your shoulders swaying you to look at him. "Take a deep breath with me."
He inhales a gulp of air, as you follow for a count of five times. Each time ending with your chest a little lighter than before. You slump against the brick wall, swallowing saliva to relive your parched throat. He leans against the wall next to you, just silent but still there. You don't know how long the both you just stood there, basking under the streetlight.
"Thank you." you murmur, turning to look at him. He nods.
"Okay, so why do you want me to cosplay as Red Hood and make a painting of him?" He asks, hands tucked into the pockets of his black leather jacket. "I thought you were a literature student."
Heat settles under the skin of your neck, hot with embarrassment. How do you even explain this? You sigh, giving up. It looked like he was going to reject your proposal of cosplaying as Red Hood. There was nothing to lose if you were never going to see him again.
"Well I'm not. I'm sorry," your voice softer."I-I had to come up with an excuse before I embarrassed myself even more which I suppose wasn't helpful at the end of the day anyway. But I though you were hot— I meant attractive. I was building the courage to ask you out but I - I kind of fumbled clearly."
He grins, lips splitting into pearly teeth.
"I'm an art major and my final thesis is based on the vigilante's of Gotham City including Red Hood. I haven't personally seen him , so I thought maybe I could take photos to use as a reference."
He hums before looking up towards the night sky.
"Okay."
You whip your head to look at him, his eyes fixed on yours.
"Okay?" you repeat, shock still gripping your voice at the edges.
He hums.
"Oh my god, thank you so much." You grin, jumping with a punch into the air. "In return, I can do a portrait of you — all free of cost."
"Okay."
You had just achieved the first step towards your dream. Giggles bubble in your throat from the sheer excitement but you calm yourself down as to not get too ahead of yourself. Moreover, you still needed to know that man and ensure he was not a criminal before taking him up as your muse. You introduce yourself with a hand extending towards him.
"What's your name?"
"Jason. Jason Todd" He says, his hand shaking yours . You could feel the tiny scars on his skin, the hardened roughness under the pad of his fingertips though they laid softly against yours in his touch.
"I have a question, why do you think I'm not the Red Hood."
You hadn't really thought about that. After all, wasn't the red hood supposed to be wearing something red. And surely there was more than one man who was over six feet and three inches in all of Gotham. But most of all…
"I don't think he is dumb enough to cosplay as himself."
Well, clearly Jason was dumb.