jason_the_midnight.mp3
(baby wrote a songfic like it’s 2012)
writing tag/ ao3
People never look up in Gotham.
First of all, it's practically always raining. Heavy, slanting sheets of rain which more often than not sting the eyes in a way that pure water really shouldn't do. Secondly, you're likely to look up and see some supervillain cackle as they ready their death ray and then what? Better not to look at all.
All this means that a vigilante not long returned from the dead can observe the city go by beneath him in relative peace. Jason Todd, at twenty two, finally finds a sense of quiet he hasn't felt in a long time when he's perched up high on one of Gotham City's ubiquitous gargoyles, rain soaking his hair and the white streak the Pit gave him (that still surprises him in the mirror), watching cars drive past and Gothamites go about their business. The whole event makes him calm enough to finally give some thought to you (as if he hadn't thought of you every day since he'd come back, even when he was too raving with Pit madness to know who the girl in his mind was.)
~
After some digging, he'd discovered that you were studying at Gotham University, just like the two of you had planned at age fourteen, perched on the roof of the manor and staring at the stars, revelling in the moment before Alfred inevitably found you and made you get down where it was safe. Jason had always planned to major in English literature and minor in creative writing, and even today he feels the tug of need unfurl deep in his heart whenever he thinks of hurrying between lectures, scribbling lines into his notebooks, losing himself in the university library. Your plans had always been more hazy, swinging wildly between dreams of ancient philosophy, or sustainable development, or Asian cinema, or climate science. He wonders what you've settled on. He could easily find your transcript and know for certain but he still harbours a dream of making up with you, having you tell him your major and your plans and your dreams like a friend again.
Three nights a week, he discovers, you sing and occasionally play bass in a four piece band, performing in bars across South Gotham. You've been together since junior year of high school (after him, after he'd left you alone and gone and got himself blown up, a poisonous voice whispers in Jason's head as he hunches over his phone, reading your Spotify bio) - you the beautiful front woman with three other men on guitar, drums, and keyboards. Looks like she forgot you quickly enough, the voice suggests slyly and Jason can't find any way to argue. The few songs posted on your page reveal a dedication to the 80s retrowave, synth heavy music you'd loved back when he first knew you, a love shared by Dick. Jason remembers sitting in roiling jealousy as you and Dick excitedly swapped recommendations, as you sat up in the front seat of Dick's car while the two of you blasted your favourite tracks, Jason forgotten in the backseat. Just one more thing Dick had that he didn't.
The videos he finds under your tagged mentions show you in smoky, dingy bars, tall in platform sandals and wide, high waisted jeans, casually stunning in tiny strappy tank tops and dark eyeliner. His breath catches high in his chest as he watches these videos, heart hammering in his ears as he sees how you've grown up, hears your sultry, magnetic voice wind through his thoughts. The secret crush he'd always harboured rears itself with a vengeance at these moments, torturing him with images of what could've been, with the reminder that he really never had got over you.
Eventually Jason leans into the inevitable and turns up to some of your regular spots, nursing a surprisingly cheap drink and lurking towards the back of the room, where he can watch you but you can't spot him. Not that you would, even if you thought he looked familiar - your Jason was dead, wasn't he?
You look like a dream, hair loose, eyes sparkling in the dim lighting of the bar. The pink and blue neon lights flicker across the lines of your face, catching on the gold of your jewellery and dazzling him. Not just him, he quickly realises, as he hears the man to his left order a drink 'for the gorgeous singer' and he can't help but look. Blonde, well dressed in suit and tie even though his top buttons are undone and his hair is askew. He just screams 'financial district' and there's a smug surety in the way he stares at you, like he's confident you won't be able to resist him. Jason grits his teeth as he watches the barman catch your attention. You lean down to hear what he says into your ear as he hands you the glass, hair falling over your shoulder. As you straighten, your eyes scan the bar and Jason instinctively sinks lower into his collar. Your eyes slide right over him. The banker asshole raises his glass at you and you smile sweetly.
"Thanks for the drink Darren" you say, eyes crinkling at the edges, and "Darren" visibly puffs his chest, eyes trailing over your body shamelessly. Jason notices however that you only take one sip of the drink before setting it aside and not touching it again, and his shoulders release a little of their tension.
The bar closes at around 2am, and the band packs up just before this. You hop down off the stage, retrieving your bag from behind the bar, your platforms already swinging in your hand as you jam your feet into sneakers. You drag a huge grey hoodie over your tiny, spaghetti strap top, an old red jacket following quickly after. It's not until Jason's fifth or sixth time watching that he recognises the jacket as the one he used to wear everywhere as a fifteen year old, and his heart clenches a little at the realisation. A Styrofoam box of leftover bar food is pushed into your hands as you swing your bass over your shoulder, and you grin at the old barman as you wave to your bandmates, pausing at the door only to pull the hood up over your head as you run to catch the last night bus heading north towards 24th and Fairway. From the rooftops, Jason observes as you drop into a window seat, leaning your head against your bass and watching the raindrops slide down the glass for the forty five minutes it takes to get to your apartment building. He knows it’s weird to watch you like this, but panic claws its way up his throat every time he even imagines telling you he's still alive. Better that you never know, better you remember him as he was than be confronted with how he's changed, better that Jason never has to see Bruce's look of disappointment as it manifests on your face.
Far, far too early the next morning you emerge again, this time with sweats replacing your jeans and a backpack replacing your bass. Earphones jammed in your ears, you nod your head absently as you walk to class. There are dark circles under your eyes, and your hair is still wet from the shower and pulled into a hasty braid, and Jason can never bring himself to look away.
~
Some days he indulges himself, tucks one of the battered paperbacks he's swiped from the library at the manor into his back pocket, walks around the campus like he's a student. It's stupid, really, and the shame he can't shake makes him a little awkward, but none of the other students look twice at him, even on the hot days when he's still in long sleeves and jeans, keeping his hands tucked into his pockets to hide the thick bands of scar tissue across his knuckles. He's not even the biggest guy on campus, considering GU's mediocre football team, and generally Jason finds that an old ballcap to cover the white tuft in his hair and keeping his head bowed prevents anyone's gaze ever resting on him longer than a second.
It's useful, being so invisible, but lonely, and inevitably Jason gets too used to it.
He gets a fright, one day, when he's reading alone under a maple tree in the middle of the quad (Ray Bradbury, an old favourite) and suddenly hears your voice, loud and laughing, only a few feet away. He jumps, eyes flicking to you in panic, before he remembers himself and tucks his chin, lifting his book slightly to cover the bottom half of his face. His caution is ingrained but unwarranted; you never even glance at him. Safely unnoticed, he watches with an ache in his chest as you hurry across the grass, kicking your flipflops off as you go until you're barefoot, casual in a big white t shirt and cycle shorts. The man walking besides you carries your backpack, and hands it to you once you flop down besides a group of people just over from Jason (unlike him, they bask in the sun). He recognises your bandmates, young, handsome, confident, as well as some girls he's never seen before. They heckle through their laughter as you hug your companion goodbye, and the two of you grin good-naturedly as he says his goodbyes and continues across the quad. The chapter heading squiggles and winds across the page, and Jason can't keep his eyes off you now, however pathetic he feels. He notices everything, from the way you giggle wildly and whisper to your girlfriends to the way the boys grab at your bare legs and pinch your sides trying to find out what you're saying. You look comfortable and relaxed and so, so happy, as you pull your ponytail loose and flick the hair tie at the dark skinned boy besides you, that he almost can't stand it. He breathes through it, slowly, like Alfred showed him so long ago, and the lump in his throat lessens, and he's able to return to his book, even if the appeal has worn off slightly and he can still feel your presence burning in his peripheral vision.
That day, when he returns to his bare, empty apartment he resolves to at least try to stop torturing himself. It doesn't stop him dropping in to your shows at least once a week, but he's working on not wanting to cry every time he sees you. He cuts down on campus visits too, and squashes the disappointment when he doesn't see you in the quad again. Mostly. It's hard being dead.
~
"This is a new old song" you say one night, just before closing. "I wrote it a while back but I've never felt comfortable to sing it before now."
You pause for a moment, eyes casting down, and the blonde man in the denim jacket, the guitarist on your right, pats your arm gently. Jason recognises the longing look in his eyes as he looks at you as an expression he himself had worn most of his teen years. Hell, he's probably wearing it right now.
"It's about loving someone you can't have" you say, looking back out at the crowd again determinedly, "and it's called Jason"
Jason starts at this, his drink sloshing over the edge of his glass and onto the bar in front of him. Distracted by the heat curling up over his cheekbones, he almost misses the next words out of your mouth:
"Jason in this song is a bit of an asshole" you say, your lips quirking on one side, "which is a little unfair to the real Jason, who was wonderful."
Your eyes are soft as the band counts in and Jason stares unabashedly as you start to sing.
You were right, this Jason is an asshole, and it stings a bit to hear you sing 'he'll only let you down', but it's nothing compared to the ache he gets when you reach the chorus -
oh, Jason, tell me what you're chasing,
because the night will never give you what you want,
oh, Jason, and if you can't escape it,
I hope you find whatever you've been looking for'
- because even though there were never any other girls, not for him, it was true that he'd left you, ran out of your life calling something about finding his real mother and never came back...
Lost in his memories, his blood is rushing in his ears and he's rooted to the spot. Normally he's long gone by the time you're heading out but this time he's still sitting at the bar and you hurry past close enough to touch, close enough for him to briefly feel the warmth of your skin on his back. Luckily for him your attention is focussed on your phone screen, cursing as you see the time, and you pass by without noticing him. His breathing is unsteady as he grapples with the realisation that all that time he'd spent silently loving you, you'd been loving him right back.
Go after her! Something whispers to him, in a voice that sounds suspiciously like Dick.
Yeah. Yeah, maybe, Jason finally thinks, breathless.
Maybe.
~
(is the music based on my favourite music? yes. are the outfits based on my outfits? also yes. are the fuckin classes based on classes i’ve taken? i’ll give you three guesses)
tagging a couple of my favourite dc writers bc i am stupid and now can’t remember anyone else i like to read lmao anyways <3 @prettylittlebrownskingyal + @ereawrites + @angelz-dust <3
