You watch, mouth dry as Jason’s fingers strum over the strings of his crimson guitar, the sound of each note ringing out from the amp with clarity, the strings vibrating under his calloused fingers.

You’re in a bar, a seedy dive, with the air heavy with cigarette smoke, stale beer, and the faint tang of spilled whiskey, cheap red lights bathing Jason on stage where he’s playing. You’d come for a drink after patrol, and instead you’d found Jason Todd, Red Hood himself, on stage, clad in his usual leather jacket, dark hair messy, his sharp teeth sunk into his bottom lip as he plays guitar.

You hadn’t even known he could play; Jason was mysterious as it was, especially after resurrecting back to life. But you hadn’t expected to have found him here — on stage, looking like a rock god, his fingers shifting and sliding over the neck of his red electric guitar, summoning crisp riffs, deep chords and gritty melodies which weave through the bar, electrifying the air.

Each note echoes with a ferocity that’s almost tangible, cutting through the haze of the bar and demanding attention. Jason plays with a raw kind of authenticity and emotion, unforgiving and stubborn spark as he handles his guitar.

You watch, drink forgotten in hand as he plays, enraptured by the sight of the second son of Bruce Wayne himself, playing unrepentantly, sweat sliding down the side of his face and his dark brows furrowed in intense concentration.

The second he’s finished playing, you’re up, drink half finished as you abandon it, weaving through the crowds, trying to catch that dark messy hair and cool grey eyes before he can escape. And you manage to find Jason backstage, zipping his guitar into a beat up case, slinging the strap over his chest and you see him look up, meet your eyes, and there’s a flash of confusion in his grey eyes, and a spark of recognition as his jaw sets.

“You stalkin’ me or somethin’ now?” Jason mutters, fastening the strap over his chest, his dark brows drawn together and pinched.