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It was a quiet night. Not that late, not yet, but certainly getting there. Crime was low, for once- the steadily falling snow seeming to do the trick of keeping all but the most lonely and desperate off the streets. There was the distant sound of a snow plow on one of the main roads, in a futile and ongoing attempt at keeping the roads clear. The plows didn't even bother, for the smaller roads. Either the snow got walked over, there, or the residents waited for it to melt.
Jason knew, of course, that it would takes weeks, at least, before it was warm enough to melt.
He let out a subtle sigh, in time with the smoke from his cigarette. A nasty habit, he knew- Bruce's lectures and diagrams about what, exactly, he was doing to his lungs never quite forgotten despite his other ever-unreliable childhood memories.
He took another hit at the thought.
It hadn't been a particularly eventful week. Fairly quiet, all things considered. Early December wasn't a popular time for most of the well-named criminals, most springing their plots either the previous month, or waiting until the holiday times for their more elaborate ones.
It having been a few years since the Red Hood took over Crime Alley, even these streets were quiet. If someone had asked him why he was out, he could cite the likelihood of something happening later in the month, and wanting to get the investigation over with earlier, or any one of the numerous cases he had piled up for himself at the moment for why he was out, but that wouldn’t be the truth. He could say he wanted a fight with his family ( family, he scoffs internally) but, as he moved the cigarette away from his mouth and exhaled, he felt he could admit to himself that he wasn't actually in the mood.
The snow was accumulating on his lap, his shoulders, his hair- but he didn't bother moving. It was entrancing, watching it fall, blanket and cover the ground. Watching as the gloomy darkness of the city was steadily hidden, a false brightness for a few weeks, before it melted once more.
A slight crunch of snow was all it took for him to know he was no longer alone, but the knowledge wasn't enough to get him to move. Instead, he brought the cigarette up to his lips once more, and slowly breathed in, savoring the sweet taste.
"Those things are gonna kill you, ya know."
Jason exhaled, watching the smoke dance and evaporate in the cold air. "Bit late for that, Dickface," he shot back calmly.
Even without turning around, he could imagine Dick's face. Scrunched up at the nose, the mask of his costume doing nothing to disguise him glaring at the deteriorating blunt distastefully. It was silent a few more moments before a distinctive crunching heralded Nightwing taking a seat next to him on the ledge, just far enough away to only get an occasional whiff of the scent.
Rather than remark on Nightwing's presence, he took another hit of the cigarette. His brother seemed reluctant to start a conversation, and Jason wasn't in the mood to talk. His thoughts swirled around in his head, each one seeming to last only long enough for him to think them. With Nightwing sitting just right there, some of the ones that brought him outside came to mind once more.
Nightwing, however, ended up speaking first. "Quiet night," he remarked.
Jason was unable to repress a snort at the comment, smoke escaping his lungs sooner than he had really intended. He opened his mouth to watch the rest of it swirl up and vanish, imagining that it was taking his thoughts with it.
"Yeah," he responded, holding the joint between his fingers as he watched the snow fall. Holding it away from his legs, he tapped off some of the ashes, watching them blend in with the snowflakes and vanish. The snow swallowed up the usual noises of the city. He wondered idly if someone would hear him if he fell.
He took another hit instead.
Nightwing's distaste was practically tangible, but he didn't say anything else about the smoke. Jason spent a moment to be glad for it, then spent the next dreading whatever other conversation he had decided to have. The dread dissipated with his next exhale, though, and he couldn't quite muster to energy to bring it back.
"Hood," Nightwing starts, "What are you doing here?"
"Smoking," Jason replies without a beat, punctuating his statement by exhaling the smoke right into Nightwing's face. The gags and coughs tempted an emotion from him- but as soon as it came, it, too, left. "What's it to you?" he asks, focusing back on the steadily falling snow.
"It's-" Nightwing coughs, "-below freezing." He waves a hand in front of his face as he catches his breath. Once he does, he adds, "Your face is turning purple."
Jason resists the immediate urge to poke his supposedly purple cheek, just to see what it would feel like. If he could feel it at all. He goes to take another hit, but the cigarette is barely present in his hands, anymore. He flicks it off the building instead, and watches as it falls. "And?"
Nightwing groans in a distinctly frustrated way. Jason can't help but consider and compare it to the sound Batman- Bruce made when he felt similarly. "And," he draws out, exhaustion poking through his previously magnanimous tone, "You're my brother, and I care about what happens to you?"
Jason is not quite skilled enough at controlling himself to hold back the scoff, nor was he sure he would want to. "Since when?" He asked. He curled his hands into his pant legs, feeling the material bunch up, and focusing on the texture. The snow is losing his attention, and he wants to focus on something other than the man sitting next to him. Briefly, he considers grabbing another cigarette, before deciding against it. He doesn't really want to deal with Dick's scrunched face right now.
Nightwing raises his eyebrow. "Since ever?" he says, exasperation lining his voice.
Jason is too tired to scoff again. "Of course," he mocks, "I could really feel the care. I mean, you were around so often- why, after you moved out, I think at least three of the five times you visited in those two years, you might've even looked in my direction."
Dick is the one to sigh this time. "You're exaggerating." From the corner of his eye, Jason can see him cover his face with his hands, as his shoulders go slack and he rests his elbows on his knees. "And I do care, Little Wing."
Does he? Jason can't help but wonder. "If you cared," he continues, staring resolutely at the space just below a street lamp, where the snow is most visible, "Then you would've gotten me out of that damn place before it killed me."
The sharp inhale to his right is unmistakable, and a sudden exhaustion brings him to mirror Dick's pose, only with his face buried in his arms. The sudden pressure brings a dull pain in his face indicative of frostbite— it turns out he can’t feel his cheeks after all. His thoughts swirl once more. Dick had a car, or at least a motorcycle, when Jason was a kid. Either way, it sat at least two. Dick could've said he wanted to take Jason for brotherly bonding, or Robin training, or just because- he could've argued with Bruce until he was taken away. Or maybe, instead of an argument, Dick could've gone up to his room's window, and asked if he wanted to go on a trip together, without telling Bruce. Or maybe Dick could've moved back in, and then the endless tension and silence wouldn't have felt so oppressive.
Daydreams, he knew, were useless. The only things these thoughts brought him were a dull ache in his chest and throat. Yet he can't help but think, 'if only'. If only Dick had cared enough to ask him how his day went. If only Bruce showed his emotions more than once a month. If only Alfred reached out and talked to him.
If only Dick took him away when he realized Jason was hurting.
It wasn't really abuse. Bruce was teaching him how to fight, of course they're going to get hurt. Except- except every punch hurt the same as someone on the street. Every kick took his breath away. Crying earned him more time on the mat, even if he was already exhausted, no matter the occasion. They spent so much time sparring, when Jason just wanted to spend some of it in the library, reading.
And it's not like he didn't get the time to read. And knowing how to roll with the punches with the intimate knowledge of how much it would hurt otherwise had saved his life countless times. It wasn't like his first shitstain of a father, who hit him for any or no reason at all.
But sometimes, he stops justifying it to himself, and wonders if it really would've killed him if Bruce had been softer. Had pulled his punches. Given him protective gear. Sparring didn't always have to hurt, he knew. Yet it always had.
Was it just him?
When he had finally run away, he just wanted someone who would hold him. Tell him they loved him. Said they believed him. Promise to never hurt him, and keep it.
"Ja- Little Wing," Dick corrects himself. "I did care. I do care. I cared then, and I care now, and I always will. You are my little brother-" and here, Dick shifts, scooting closer to Jason and bumping shoulders with him. Dick reaches out, slowly, gently, cupping Jason's face with his hand, as he remained leaning on his other arm, bringing them to look at each other.
Jason can see the way his eyes sink into his face even through the mask.
"My little brother," Dick says again. He breathes in, "I was oblivious then- or perhaps," he pauses, "perhaps unwilling is the better word, to you. Jealous, maybe. Bruce loved you, Little Wing. He loved you. You could do no wrong. Your training," Dick exhales, a self-depreciating smile gracing his lips. "It was so much lighter than mine. I don't think he knew how to be gentle, but whenever I saw you, all I could think was 'B cares about him'. Even after everything he would say and do, I never doubted that he loved you, and I was deep enough in my own head and problems with him to think it was enough."
A pause, and while Jason couldn't see his brother's eyes, he thought (hoped) he understood what they would look like regardless.
Jason knew that if the training had been bad for him, then it was likely worse for Dick, who had been Bruce's first. First student, first Robin, first son.
He cracks.
"You were never there," Jason confesses, like it's a secret. "The moment you left, you left , and it was like I never saw you again after that. I kept wondering if you would ever come back for me, if you would ever take me to go with you. I would've, you know. I would've gone with you. I didn't- didn't hate B, not then. But all I wanted was to live with you, instead. But you weren't-" Jason's voice cracked, the hidden pain of being left alone and ignored by someone who was supposed to stay , despite everything, coming through. "You weren't there . All I wanted was be somewhere that wasn't there, but where else would I go? Where else could I go? But you still came around sometimes, and I couldn't ask."
"I wanted to go with you. But I couldn't say that, because I still got fed, still had a bed and a roof and a warm room and school and as many books as I could read, and I knew that I was never gonna get lucky enough to have all that anywhere else. But I wanted a brother, and you were never there. What's a brother, then, if you never see him, if you don't know anything about him? Is that still a brother?"
Are you still my brother? Jason doesn’t ask. Am I still your brother? Even if you don’t know anything about me? Even if I don’t know anything about you? Even if you don’t know what I’m thinking, and I don’t know why you’re so tired—back then, or even now?
Did either of them know the other? When was the last time they spoke like this?
Had they ever?
Jason's question was not met with words. Instead, Dick removes his gloves, and carefully, slowly, gently covers his cheeks with his hands. He rubs and presses and forces in warmth, forces his blood to flow and life to return. Dick is looking him in the eyes— staring into his soul, it feels like. He’s focused, and not smiling—just covering his exposed skin and warming it with his hands.
Jason is struck with the sudden feeling of being seen . He leans into the warmth, closing his eyes. Maybe they had, maybe they hadn’t. Maybe this feeling would dissipate, would burn until there’s nothing left to burn and then turn to ash (would anyone notice if he fell?)
Finally, Dick stops, content with having returned warmth to his brother’s skin; but he doesn’t pull away quite yet.
He says, “Yes.”