Okiedokie

You should keep going. This time of night, you should never stop.

But that terrified noise rings through your ears in a way that’s just wrong enough to dig into your bones. To make your fingers tighten on the strap of your bag.

You’re not going to get involved. You’re not that stupid.

You are so close to home. So close to your cozy bed in your shitty apartment.

Another sob. Another plea.

And your traitorous feet turn. Surely they’ve disconnected themselves from your brain.

Someone’s getting mugged. Not shocking. Not new. But the kid pressed against the wall of the alley is trembling and baby-faced and can’t possibly be older than fifteen.

Leave. Go home. Not your fight.

The instincts scream at you, and you ignore them, much to your own irritation.

“Hey!”

The mugger turns to you, and he’s wearing a fucking ski-mask like the oldest cliche in the book. Still, the sight of him makes your bravado falter. Your fingers clutch at the strap of your bag, and you watch the kid dart out of the alley as the mugger advances towards you.

“I, uh,” mistake. You made a huge mistake. What were you thinking?

“I would say ‘pick on someone your own size’, but I don’t exactly see any trees around here, so...” You back up. He keeps advancing. Your back hits the wall of the alley. The guy is huge. Could probably snap your neck without a second thought. And you just antagonized him like you don’t live in Gotham. Like you shouldn’t fucking know better.

“Bag. Now.”

Fear tightens your chest. You don’t know why you say it, but you do.

“No.”

The knife clicks out again, a large hand presses your shoulder firmly into the wall.

You have maybe twelve crumpled up dollar bills in the bottom of your bag. A few unimportant files from work. A wallet with nothing more impressive than your ID and a debit card that you don’t trust to contain enough funds to even buy you a coffee. You just…can’t make yourself back down. Can’t make yourself make the smart decision.

The knife comes up to your throat. Cool steel kisses your jugular.

He reaches for your bag. You exhale, try to ground yourself, and decide to just go all-in.

Your knee slams up, right into the man’s crotch. You feel a sharp sting as the knife knicks your neck, but he doubles over. Curses and stumbles back.

You make a victorious noise, begin to bolt to the safety of the street, and feel a hand yank you backwards by your jacket so hard that the world disappears from beneath you and you collapse to the ground.

You hit your head. You see stars.

There’s a moment, brief and sickening, where you feel the weight of the mugger atop you. Where you hear the scrape of the knife on the pavement as he picks it back up. Where you see the glint of metal as you try to blink the spots of black away. In that moment, you’re pretty sure you’re going to die. All because you couldn’t leave shit well enough alone.

Well, you’re sure as shit not going down without a fight.

Unpracticed and a little uncoordinated, you reach up and shove your palm at the mugger’s masked face. He makes a noise of surprise, of anger, and then his body weight is gone from where it was on top of you a moment ago.

You blink, wonder for a second if you might have suddenly developed super-strength.

And then you hear a grunt. A sound like a fist connecting with flesh. A brief struggle.

And then, silence.

When you look up again, you see red.

Red mask. Leather jacket. Geez, you thought the other guy was big. This guy looks like he might have previously been a part of the brick wall behind you.

The Red Hood reaches down and offers you a hand. When you take it, he pulls you to your feet like you weigh nothing at all.

You’re about to thank him, to breathe a sigh of relief that you were lucky enough for a vigilante to take time out of their night to save your life, but he speaks first.

“That was stupid.”

His voice is distorted by something behind the mask, but it isn’t the sound of it that makes you reel back.

“Excuse me?”

“That was stupid.” He says again, like you might have simply not heard him the first time, and you prickle. Yeah, it was stupid, but hearing him say it like he’s lecturing you is really not rubbing you the right way.

“I…” you blame the adrenaline still pumping through you, but you gesture furiously at the downed mugger. “Some people would call that heroic.”

“Who would call antagonizing a criminal in the middle of the night heroic?”

“Isn’t that literally all you do?”

You think, for a moment, that the noise that escapes the mask might sound like a scoff.

“You know, most people would say thank you.”

“Are you this fucking rude to most people?”

“When they do dumb shit like that, yeah.”

“I had it under control.” You insist, despite how very obviously incorrect that statement is.

A gloved hand reaches up, and you go very still as a finger brushes over your neck. When it pulls back, you can see a drop of your own blood glistening on the fabric, collected from the small cut where the knife scraped against your skin. “Is this what you’d call ‘under control’?”

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re a dick?”

“Once or twice.”

You huff, annoyance prickling at you just enough to make you almost forget who you’re talking to, and you push past him as you hike your bag up a little higher over your shoulder.

A large hand wraps around your arm, tugging you backwards again. Not aggressive. Not hard. But firm.

“You hit your head.”

“Thanks for your concern.” You try to pull away again, but the hand remains locked around you like a vice. Despite everything, you don’t feel an ounce of fear. Not a single instinct in your body screams for you to run, though it really probably should. Maybe your instincts are broken.

“You could be concussed.”

“Pretty sure that if I was, I would know by now.” You snap, tugging on your arm again. His hand releases you. “Still on my feet, still know where I am, still know that I’m talking to a gigantic asshole who's letting crime run rampant on the streets so he can spend more time judging my actions.”

He makes a noise of irritation, and though it’s muffled by whatever voice modulator he must have in the helmet, you think you might sense an incredulous laugh.

“Get it checked out tomorrow.” It sounds like a command. Your jaw clenches.

“Will do, asshole.” You grumble, reaching up to rub the still-sore back of your head as you turn out of the alley.

Fucking vigilantes.

-

He should not be following you home.

He did his job. Saved you. Didn’t even get a thank you or an obligatory swoon of gratitude. Not that he expected one, but still. Would have been nice.

He’d clocked the mugger before he even pulled the kid into the alley. He’d taken a moment, checked his guns, and prepared for the usual. A quick takedown. Less than five minutes. No killing, not this time, but striking fear into a petty criminal’s heart never hurt anyone on a slow night.

And then.

And then you showed up, fingers clenched and muscles tense like you were trying to talk yourself out of your own actions. This is Gotham. People don’t stop to save each other on the street here. That’s why there are people like him.

But you’d yelled at the guy. Watched with observant eyes as the kid ran away, and almost seemed to relax as he darted around the corner to safety.

For a moment, Jason was so shocked by the sight that he forgot to move.

It was when he watched you get pressed against the wall that he began to make his way out of the shadows, but even then he watched you take a breath like you were preparing yourself, knife to your throat and everything, before you slammed your knee up between the man’s legs in a way that made even him flinch with sympathy.

He got to you right before the guy stabbed you in retaliation. Knocked him down and unconscious in less than two punches.

And then you, despite everything - despite how most people would be shaking and crying and cowering at the sight of the Red Hood standing above them - you’d had the nerve to fucking sass him about it all. To prickle and argue and storm off like you hadn’t just rocked him to his fucking core.

So he’d followed you. He’d sunk back into the shadows and watched you as you made the short trek back to your dingy walk-up apartment. Watched you climb rickety stairs and shove your keys into the lock. Watched you slam your shoulder into the door to unstick the old wood.

And now he feels a little bit like a creep, still watching you from the rooftop across from your window, hidden and still, as you drop your belongings onto a nearby chair and flick on the light.

Your apartment is small, but it looks cozy. He sees a few plants. A few piles of books strewn about. A mismatched array of blankets and pillows like you’d tried once or twice for a color scheme before throwing the idea out the window and just collecting whatever you liked.

He watches you look into a little mirror, frowning at the knick on your neck and rubbing the back of your head - he knew it hurt, why did you so stubbornly try to hide it? - before you shrug out of your jacket and begin to shed your clothes.

He looks away, then. Because he may be acting like a total fucking creep right now, but he’s not an animal.

He forces his gaze to remain on the wall across from him. Counts his breaths.

When he looks back, you’re in your pajamas, flopping down onto your bed. You wiggle under the covers, and he freezes as you turn your head to gaze out of your window, melting a little bit farther into the darkness to ensure you won’t spot him.

You look annoyed. Perplexed, even. Well, that makes two of you.

Still, the idea that he might have affected you almost as much as you did him makes something warm and unfamiliar prickle in his chest.

-

Days later, he’s still thinking about you.

He feels like he’s losing it. He tries, does his absolute best to shove you and your ridiculous, misplaced bravery from his mind, and yet you keep managing to push back in.

If his mind wanders for more than a second, he remembers your eyes narrowing up at him. At the Red Hood. The vigilante who makes seasoned criminals tremble and cower. He remembers the way you called him an asshole without an ounce of fear in your voice.

On his patrols, he hasn’t been able to stop himself from dropping by your apartment. Just to check in. Never for long enough to really be considered fucked up. At least, that’s what he tells himself as he watches you shuffle about the room, watering plants or burying your nose in a book or frowning at an email on your computer.

You might have a concussion, after all. It’s his civic duty to check in.

Now, in a creaky little bookstore with shelves that reach the ceiling and books nearly spilling off of them and onto the floor, he does his best to keep from thinking about you. Again.

The bell jingles, and instinct has him looking up. Moving a little farther back into the aisle to assess any potential threat.

“Okay, I know I’m late. I know. Work was crazy and I lost track of time but I brought you one of those gross coffees that you like that taste like sewage water so-“

He recognizes that voice.

Like his thoughts have summoned you, you burst through the door and make your way straight to the counter, smiling brightly at the frowning old man behind it and handing over a paper cup of something steaming.

“I am not giving you the book.” The man says, accent heavy and, Jason thinks, vaguely Slavic.

Your face falls, you narrow your eyes, more suspicious than angry. There’s a lot of familiarity between you and the old man. Something almost familial. Interesting. “Boris, I pre-ordered it a month and a half ago. You promised. You pinky swore. That’s a verbal contract.”

“I cannot in good faith give you the book. You do not go out. You go to work in dusty museum. You come here. You read. You are young. You should be out living life!”

“I go out.” You sound defensive. He recognizes that tone from the night he met you. When you looked up at him and insisted that you had it under control with blood still glistening on your neck. Still, there’s a little more petulance in your words now, like a child defending themselves to a parent. “I go out plenty.”

“Do not lie to me.”

“I’m not-“

“You should be meeting other young people. Having dates. In my country-“

“No, don’t do that. Don’t do the thing where you say ‘in my country’ and then make something up to prove your point.”

The old man barrels on. “Young women go out every night, to every party to find husbands. You would be long married by now. You stay here, you work and go home, and you meet no one.”

“See, you just did the thing again. There’s no way that happens in your country. There’s such a thing as being a little antisocial.”

“You do not get the book. You will not live life.”

“You are a terrible business owner.”

“I do this for love.”

You groan, exasperated, and make a few more attempts to negotiate with the stubborn old man. Jason watches, unable to help the flicker of curiosity. He’s the only other person here. You still haven’t noticed him. He’s surprised by the realization that he wants you to notice him.

“Fine. I’ll just go to another store.” You say, a challenge in your voice.

“You would not. You are angry, but you love me. You also know when I am right.”

“I’m angry, and I know you’re not right-“

He doesn’t even realize what he’s doing, just finds his feet moving to the counter.

-

“Couldn’t help but overhear.” The deep voice beside you nearly makes you jump out of your skin, and you whirl to see a mountain of a man standing beside you. Blue eyes. Dark hair, with an odd tuft of white in the front. Black t-shirt so tight you can see the outline of muscle beneath it. “If you’re still negotiating, I know a place by here with coffee that doesn’t taste like…” his eyes find the cup in the old man’s hands, then turn back to you. You think you can see the corners of his lips quirk up in a smile. “Sewage water.”

“I-“

“Yes. She will go.”

“Oh my God, you need to stop.” You turn back to Boris, nearly wringing your hands in embarrassment and irritation.

“You have one hour left of lunch break. I know this. If you go, I will give you your book.”

“He could be a psycho killer or something.” You protest, still frustrated, and immediately turn to the man beside you with an apologetic look. “No offense.”

“None taken. Im off duty, anyway. I usually don’t start psycho-killing until nighttime.”

“I like him.”

“Please stop.” You’re about two seconds away from trying to burrow into the earth.

“He looks strong. Polite, too. He has been here before.”

“And yet you’ll sell to him.”

“He is not my granddaughter.”

“Neither am I!” You say, and he frowns at you. Looks a little hurt by your comment. You’re not blood related, but he’s the closest thing to family you have in this city. Maybe in the world.

“Okay, okay.” You give in. You turn to the man beside you, offer your hand, and smile through your embarrassment as you tell him your name.

He takes it. Shakes it with amusement still sparkling in his eyes. “Jason.”

And, with that, you leave the store.

-

He likes you.

The realization surprises him a little more than it should, especially considering the fact that he’s been fighting the urge to fucking stalk you these last few days.

But when you step outside with him, apologizing profusely with crimson cheeks for the old owner of the bookstore’s behavior, he feels something twinge in his chest. Something warm. Soft. Weird.

“I’m so sorry. I used to work there forever ago, and he gets a little…pushy sometimes.” You cringe, and he would say ‘pushy’ is a bit of an understatement, but he certainly isn’t complaining.

“Why did you quit?” He asks, and you raise your eyebrows and gesture back towards the store in a way that says ‘Did you not see that?’

He has to fight back another smile.

“Okay, I get it. So where do you work now?”

You tell him. You work in the museum. Pick up a couple of shifts downtown every now and then to make ends meet. You ask him what he does, and he tries to answer in the most vague way possible. He’s pretty sure ‘I shoot bad guys in the face’ isn’t great conversation for a first…whatever this is.

He buys your coffee. You smile as you thank him, and he feels his heartbeat quicken a little. That warm feeling comes back.

You sit with him, and he watches you slowly begin to relax. Watches you get a little more comfortable with him. The tension leaves your shoulders, and you’re smiling more easily, and shit, he really fucking likes you. 

You’re smart. Smart in a way that isn’t just books. You’re clever and quick and you match his wit in a way that makes him smile more easily than he has in years.

You drum your fingers on the table when you think. You meet his gaze with familiarity and not an ounce of the intimidation he’s used to. Even when he’s not the Red Hood, when he’s just Jason, he’s still a large man with scars and a near-perpetual frown. His presence doesn’t exactly scream ‘friendly’.

If you knew who he really is, the things he’s done, would you still smile at him like that?

An hour later, he walks you back to the bookstore, and by that point you’re talking to him. Really talking. And he’s talking back and the conversation is flowing and you’re laughing and he is really, truly fucked.

“Can I see you again?” The words feel so awkward coming from his mouth. The hope swelling in his chest is mixing with the warmth and it feels so foreign that he nearly starts to fidget.

You smile again, and the world lights up like the sun just broke through the clouds.

“I…yeah. I’d like that.” Your eyes narrow a little, and he knows you’re joking when you speak again but he still can’t help his inward little cringe. “You’re still not a psycho-killer, right?”

“Not a psycho one.” He says, like it’s a joke, and you smile like you believe him because why wouldn’t you?

You give him your number. You’re still smiling when you wave goodbye and make your way down the street. His eyes follow you until you disappear from sight, and he’s grinning too.

-

That night, you meet the Red Hood again.

This time, there’s no crime nearby. At least, not that you can see. You’re just walking home, dreaming about the comfort of your little apartment and trying to decipher a few documents from work as you walk. You’re pretty sure that if you get there early enough tomorrow, you can knock out archiving a few things on the list in front of you before noon. You just have to-

You collide into a brick wall.

And that brick wall catches you. Fast. Wraps a hand around your back to keep you from stumbling backwards with surprise.

You look up, and your eyes meet a familiar red mask.

“Fuck.” You yelp, trying to catch the papers before they flutter out of your hands. “Are you made of metal?”

“Are you reading while walking in the middle of the night? In Gotham?”

You look down at the now crumpled papers. Glare back up at him.

“Is that illegal now?” You retaliate, pulling back from his grasp. He releases you immediately, much to your relief.

“No, but it sure as shit ain’t smart.”

“I-“ you look around, like you’re trying to find whatever invisible crime he must be here to stop. Anything to provide the reason that he’s on your street and bothering you again. You see nothing. “Why are you here?”

“Just making sure you’re not doing anything stupid again.”

“I have mace. I will mace you.”

“And that would be stupid.”

“Don’t tell me what to do with my mace.”

You hear that noise again. The puff of a breath through a modulator. Like he’s trying to bite back a laugh.

“Wouldn’t dare.” He says, raising his gloved hands in mock surrender. “Save it for one of the criminals skulking around.”

“Fine. I…” you have nothing to say, and it pisses you off. “I will.”

For a moment, you stare at each other. He looks down at the papers in your hands, and then back at you. He even tilts his head to make his intention obvious through the mask.

“Fine.” You grumble, shoving the papers back in your bag. He keeps staring. You make an exaggerated gesture towards the sidewalk behind him. “May I go, now? Or are you planning to arrest me for being distracted?”

“I don’t arrest people, sweetheart.”

The implication should strike terror in your heart. Should at the very least make you realize who the fuck you’re talking to.

But instead, the nickname makes you grit your teeth. “Well, if you’re gonna shoot me for reading, I figure you would have done it by now.”

“See? I knew some of the gears in that head of yours were still turning.”

Holy shit, he’s having fun with this. This asshole is pushing your buttons and enjoying every second.

A frustrated noise leaves you, and you push past him. He lets you, and though he leaves you to make your way back to your apartment, you can feel his eyes on you as you stubbornly refuse to turn around. Feel something like amusement emanating from his large form.

Fucking vigilantes.

-

Later that night, Jason can’t help himself from checking in on you again. You’re reading that book you were so excited about, illuminated by the glowing lights in your apartment and curled up on your bed. You’re biting your nails in concentration, whipping pages like you’re desperate to catch the next part of the story.

“So this is the girl you’re stalking.”

Oh, fuck his life.

“Not stalking.” He doesn’t move. Doesn’t even look away from you as he feels Dick drop down smoothly beside him from the edge of the nearby roof. “Just…checking in. Go away.”

“Nah.”

He grunts, and decides that he’ll just sit in silence until his brother decides to fuck off.

“She’s pretty.” He says instead, and Jason tenses. You are, but something about Dick noticing that makes him tempted to push him off of the roof.

“Go back to Blüdhaven.”

“And miss this? No way.” He follows Jason’s gaze, to where your feet are propped up against the wall and you’re holding your book above your face, so enraptured that it looks like you might fall off of the bed, and he keeps talking. “Tim says you did a background check on her.”

“So?”

“What do you mean, so? You’ve got a crush.” He looks from Jason and back to you, clearly judging his brother’s perfect view of the window, how he’s standing hidden here like he’s done it before. Which, in Dick’s defense, he has. Not for very long, always just for a few minutes, but he’s been coming by regularly enough that it’s no longer possible to pretend that the visits are to make sure you don’t have a concussion. “A creepy crush, but a crush. Didn’t know you were capable of that kind of thing.”

“She’s…interesting.”

“Woah, try not to wax too poetic.”

“She yelled at me.” He shouldn’t be talking. He shouldn’t be standing here in the first place. “I saved her life when she jumped in the middle of a mugging, and she called me an asshole.”

“She jumped in the middle of a mugging?”

Jason just makes a noise of confirmation, and there’s a flash of something in Dick’s eyes when he glances over at you again. He almost looks impressed.

And maybe that’s the word for what Jason feels, too. It had been stupid, but it had also been ridiculously brave. He can’t figure out which trait wins out with you. Walking home with your attention laser focused on papers in your hands like you don’t live in a shitty part of Gotham. Arguing with the only vigilante in the city who regularly kills people like he’s nothing more than some rude civilian. And then, with all of that fire and bravery in you, you can still smile at him so brightly that it makes his damn heart hurt.

Whatever it is, he doesn’t think he’s ever been more intrigued in his life. First or second.

“Well, if she’s smart enough to know you’re an asshole, she’s got my approval.” Dick says with a smile, and Jason wishes he could see him glare through the helmet. “But, brotherly advice here, I would try to cool it on the stalking. Girls don’t usually love that kind of thing.”

Jason reaches for his gun, though he knows the threat isn’t going to land like he wants it to. Dick just smiles at him again, and jumps off the roof.

Showoff.

-

You meet up with Jason on your lunch breaks.

It’s surprising, how quickly it becomes a regular thing. One day he’s back at the store, and you get coffee again. A few days later, you opt for walking around the city rather than stopping anywhere, talking about everything and nothing until you lose track of time and end up scrambling back to work in a panic. A few days after that, you start eating lunch together. A few days after that, you start meeting him after work, too.

He gives you a book. A copy of a classic he likes, clearly owned and read more than once with its cracked spine and curled pages. You read it in a night, and find yourself texting him about it between chapters.

You give him one of your favorites the next day, and he does the same thing.

It’s nice. Really nice.

He doesn’t laugh easily. He’s still a little caged. He doesn’t talk much about his work, or his family. When he does, he’s vague. You don’t think too much of it, especially when every other conversation flows so naturally that it’s difficult to even notice the lack of information.

He doesn’t kiss you. He doesn’t try to pressure for anything more than just being around you. You look forward to every meeting. Every smile you can pull from him. You even like how much he bickers with you.

Once, when you’re walking back from the coffee shop and he’s listening to you rant about something so inconsequential you’ll likely forget what it even was by the time you get back to your office, you feel his fingers brush against your own. Physical contact isn’t unusual for the two of you - the guy gave you a piggy back ride all the way back to your apartment when you twisted your ankle once - but something about the light touch makes electricity shoot up your arm.

And then, like he’s risking something indispensable, his fingers catch your own, and he slides his hand into yours.

You look up. He’s looking at you. The corner of his mouth is pulled up in a smile that is so uncharacteristically shy that it makes your heart stutter.

And in that moment, you know you are well and truly fucked.