Work Text:
It’s around 2:30 am and you are still up and awake. You came home just a half an hour ago, having worked overtime, and since your sleeping schedule has been kind of corrupted lately, you don’t feel like going to bed at all. It’s a quiet night for Gotham standards, no sirens, no screams – you have even dared to leave your window open to let some of that late summer air in. You trudge through your tiny kitchen, kneel down in front of the fridge and grab a beer. You ponder if that Chinese takeout is possibly still edible and whether it’s worth trying, when something snaps you out of these very important thoughts. You hear ominous shuffling in your living room.
“Rufus,” you shout, “You hungry, too? Give me a second.”
You stand up and almost jump when something fluffy touches your ankle.
Oh, so … not the cat then.
You close the fridge, as silently as possible, and make your way towards the living room, ready to face whatever beast is sneaking around in there. But: please, don’t let it be a rat again. Don’t let it be a dove, either. Let it be something nice – why is it never something good that falls through your window? Now you regret having left that thing open in the first place, and you regret having a lazy little fucker for a cat, which has absolutely no interest in keeping your apartment vermin-free – actually you suddenly remember to regret a lot of bad life choices that led to you living in this dumpster of a building in some dark corner of Gotham. You look at your cat, utterly disappointed in it and life in general; it gazes right back at you, unperturbed, and obviously can’t be bothered with your antics right now, because it silently retreats to your bedroom.
“Traitor,” you whisper, followed by a heavy sigh, before you finally open the door.
And … It’s most definitely not a rat. Certainly not a dirty dove either.
It’s just that rather handsome stranger you normally – and quite frequently – meet in a tiny bookshop down in Old Gotham, who looks a lot like the Red Hood right now.
… Wait, what?!
“Your hand is like a holy place that my hand is unworthy to visit. If you’re offended by the touch of my hand, my two lips are standing here like blushing pilgrims, ready to make things better with a kiss.”
… What?!
You stand there in your ratty pajamas, hair still wet from showering with an incredulous look on your face. He stares at you, a tell-tale smirk on his lips. And you would have recognized that guy anywhere – very tall, broad-shouldered, prettiest eyes and wild hair. White highlights, seriously? He’s wearing the same leather jacket as usual, but now it’s paired up with a disconcerting amount of weaponry, very clingy body armour and army pants. Still hot, though, you think, which is in no way helpful.
You hold on to your beer for dear life while trying to process the situation at hand. He’s close, almost a little too close, but your living room doesn’t have that much space to offer to begin with, so it might not be on purpose. Then again … it still feels kind of nice, in a dangerous sort of way. He smells like cigarettes and gunpowder, like leather and steel and you fall for him, hard. You’ve been falling for him ever since he casually quoted Carlyle the other day. And now he’s here, right in the middle of your filthy flat all geared up like fucking Red Hood, parading his helmet around while quoting Shakespeare – Romeo and Juliet, to be specific. It’s kind of endearing, really, but at the same time just totally, totally weird. Probably a little crazy – creepy, your mind corrects, – too.
“Well,” you start, when he comes to a halt in his speech, “This is… interesting.”
“Interesting?” he repeats. “I was trying for romantic.”
“Oh,” you say, nonplussed, and still petrified, “We could have gone for coffee first.”
He huffs, crosses his arms in front of his chest and you file away how cute he looks pouting with that slight tint of red colouring his cheeks – and you can’t help but notice that the flex of the muscle on his arms really is fucking impressive.
“So, you are the Red Hood,” you try, if only just to say something, anything to escape the enclosing silence.
“Sometimes…” he says and looks at anything but you.
You don’t miss a beat; don’t let the quiet fall again: “And you really like literature.”
“Yeah, I do,” he smiles – genuinely smiles now – and it’s beautiful, “Maybe a little too much.”
And this eases the lingering awkwardness, because it’s common ground, something you already know about him. The tension leaves your shoulders; you loosen your grip around the bottle in your hand, all wet from condensing water. The beer is probably warm by now, now that you came to remember it – gross – you look at it distastefully and suddenly your manners kick in. “Want one, too?” you ask gesturing at what you mean. He nods and you make your way over to the fridge, put the old bottle away and grab two new ones.
Upon returning, you find that he has shed his jacket. The helmet’s placed on one of your crowded shelves. It looks eerily right there.
“My name’s Jason, by the way,” he offers and you hand him his beer.
You blink when he sinks down on your couch. “Shouldn’t you be more secretive with that whole vigilante/villain-stuff?”
“Shouldn’t you be more alarmed when people appear uninvited in the middle of the night?”
“I live in Gotham. Besides, I would have totally invited you in. Well, if you would have talked to me, that is, which you didn’t do before, not until recently.” When he looks like he is about to interject, you add: “Snarky remarks about books and authors – no matter how striking – don’t count.”
He groans – and sounds downright sexy – then he lets himself fall even deeper into those fluffy cushions, and states: “I’m no good at this, am I?”
“I think you are doing just fine. Shakespeare, however, might have been a little too much,” you provide.
He laughs at that and it’s deep and rich and you could easily get used to this sound. It’s almost unsettling how much you enjoy his presence already and how little you think about the implications of what him being the Red Hood – an occasional crime lord and possible serialkiller – means. Then again, you could always score way worse in Gotham.
“I realized I might have been a little off game. But, to defend at least some of my dignity, you caught me by surprise.”
“Some Romeo you are”, you sigh dramatically, amusement still evident in your eyes.
“Relax, Juliet. I plan to take you out properly next time. And I’m paying for that pizza we are going to order now.”