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Though the view isn’t particularly spectacular compared to anywhere else in the city, Jason prefers the top of this specific apartment building to watch the festivities from. Gotham sports a healthy surplus of illegal fireworks every Fourth of July, though they won’t really take to the lower atmosphere until later tonight. The sun having just set, the evening air crisp despite abundant air pollution, Jason takes a deep breath. The subsequent exhale bears both the tension of the day and a whisper of American Spirit smoke.
He doesn’t really have a taste for them, being more of a Marlboro guy himself, but his mom used to like American Spirits. Catherine Todd would hold his hand as they’d walk through the door of the corner store, bell ringing when the hinges stopped, and approach the counter. No matter how much money they had or how financially burdened they were at the time, she’d buy a pack of American Spirit blues and a bag of cinnamon bears for Jason. Their little corner store stops usually happened when she was either walking him back from school or coming home from visiting his dad at work. Though Willis did work for Two-Face, there had been a time when his occupation hadn’t been criminal. He’d done a bit of time working for a mechanic shop a few blocks from home. Those days, Jason had sat on the concrete floor and handed him socket wrenches and lug nuts.
Those had been the good years, before Willis had lost his job and turned to working for Two-Face, before Catherine had been diagnosed with myeloma and relapsed on her drug habit to cope, before Jason had dropped out of school to care for her. Then Willis had been arrested and incarcerated, and Catherine had overdosed, and Jason had been left to fend for himself.
He takes a long drag off the lit cigarette in his right hand. The smoke is a little nuttier and lighter than he’s used to, but when he finds himself in a particularly nostalgic mood or seeking a closeness to Catherine, he’ll buy a pack. That corner store is still there. The same clerk mans the counter, now graying in his early sixties with a distinct wrinkle between his eyebrows. He recognizes Jason as familiar, but can never seem to place it. Jason’s simply a regular to the shop now, but there’s a little part of him that wishes the clerk would remember him as the little boy who used to come in with his mom. Maybe then, in some small way, Catherine’s memory would be kept alive by somebody other than her son. Because, really, he is her son. Maybe not biologically, but in the ways that count.
The last remnants of the sun cling to the shiny surfaces of the city. Windows, car roof tops along the street, the metallic curve of a streetlight’s cap. His helmet rests on the apartment roof beside him and there’s a faint crackle of muffled radio communications emanating from it. Somebody’s mucking up the comms. Why, he can’t say, seeing as it’s a quiet night thus far.
Far off on the east side of the city, a firework explodes in a small spark of green. Jason places the cigarette between his lips to free up his hands and leans back, propping himself on his elbows. The sky is relatively clear by Gotham standards. You can almost see the stars. Almost.
“Well, don’t you look lonely.”
He doesn’t have to turn his head to know it’s Dick. He moves his weight to one elbow, using the other hand to remove the cig from his mouth and breathe out a soft sigh.
“Content, actually,” he disputes. “Or was, ‘til you showed up.”
“Mm. How friendly of you,” Dick muses, plopping down on the edge of the roof beside him and plucking the cig from relaxed fingers. He takes a small drag himself, then hands it back. “American Spirits? Not really your style.”
“Yeah. Well. They were my mom’s style.”
Dick looks over with eyebrows quirked.
“Catherine? Or Sheila?”
“Sheila wasn’t my mom,” Jason replies quickly. Bitterly.
“Didn’t know Catherine smoked,” Dick shrugs, moving past the brief tension.
“Yeah. Well. She did a lot of shit, smoking was the least of her problems,” Jason snorts.
Dick doesn’t reply. It’s true, so what do you say to that? They sit in the city’s bustling ambiance for a moment, simply watching and waiting. Waiting for the other to speak, waiting for something to happen, or just waiting to think of something to say. Jason is the first to break it.
“What’re you doing here?”
“I was in the area, caught a trafficking case in Bludhaven that traced back to a guy in Crime Alley. Thought I’d check in with you, seeing as it’s your turf and all,” Dick explains. He steals the cigarette back for another inhale.
“More courtesy than I’m used to, I’m impressed,” Jason raises his eyebrows.
“Yeah, yeah. I wanted to be polite. It’s been good having you around as much as you’ve been, the last thing I want is to step on your toes,” Dick smiles a small, tight smile. Jason has been around a little more recently, on cases and in social capacities. Steph in particular has become a staple in his small list of people he sees regularly outside of the job. She was a huge help in studying for the NREMT, that’s for sure. He’d thought he failed pathetically when the exam cut him off at seventy questions. That’s generally the least amount of questions you can be given, so if it cuts you off right at seventy, you either did really good or really, really bad. As it turned out, he passed with flying colors. It’s really thanks to his study hours with Steph holed up either in his favorite coffee shop Bethany’s or in his apartment a few blocks from here. Then there’s the few cases he’s taken on, one with Tim and one with Duke. So, yes, he’s been around a little more than usual.
“I appreciate that,” he says, and he means it. There’s times when Dick can massively get on his nerves, but this is not one of them.
“Bet you get an okay view of the fireworks from here.”
Jason shrugs, sticking the cigarette in his mouth and talking over it, “Not too bad.”
“Just like the spot?”
Another shrug.
“Didn’t you used to live around here somewhere?”
Jason nods, “Here.”
“Here,” Dick says slowly, “as in this building?”
“Yup,” Jason confirms, and on the “p” a puff of smoke drifts up into the air above them. “Third floor.”
“I see,” Dick hums, pensive. “Just feeling a little extra nostalgic today, or what?”
Jason cuts a sideways look at him, then pushes up off his elbows and leans forward, placing them on his knees instead.
“What’s the trafficking case?” he asks. It’s a cheap cop-out, but it seems Dick won’t push the matter, because he replies without much hesitation.
“Nasty one. Mostly deals in kids, run by some asshole out of this area named Bret O’Connor. Big guy, red head, big ol’ scar on his right cheek,” Dick recounts. “‘dunno if you’ve ever dealt with the guy.”
“Ah, yeah, I know about Bret. His brother’s been doing business around here for years, or was. He didn’t exactly make it through Red Hood’s initial cleansing,” Jason hints dryly, looking out over the surrounding neighborhood. “Bret hasn’t been back since. You sure your intel is right?”
Dick doesn’t exactly look shocked at the information. It’s no secret that when Jason came back to Gotham originally, there were quite a few scum bags and parasites that were put down in less than PG ways.
“I was pretty sure,” Dick replies, but there’s a note of doubt.
“Trust me, if Bret was doing business in the Alley, I’d know about it. You would too, because he wouldn’t still be breathing,” Jason states flatly.
“Wow. Not even gonna try to hide it, huh?”
“Why would I? Look, I may have cooled down a lot of my methods, but I have no shame about killing pedos. That's nonnegotiable,” he closes his lips and inhales deeply, letting the smoke settle in his lungs for a beat before releasing it back into the cooling evening air. He taps the end, and the short column of ash clinging to the end dislodges into the air below their dangling feet. “I won’t apologize for that.”
“Nah, I mean, I don’t expect you to. You never have,” Dick says matter-of-factly. “It’s just kind of in your nature, Jay.”
“At least somebody realizes that.”
“You’ve always been like that.”
“Like what?”
Dick takes a deep breath, gearing up to say something he’s obviously hesitant to say.
“You’ve always been a little extra rough with that particular brand of offender.”
“Well, yeah. Who wouldn’t be?”
"I dunno. Just sort of always seemed… personal,” Dick trails off. Jason blinks, then stubs his cigarette out on the brick edge of the roof. The glowing end snuffs out. He pockets the stub to throw away later. Crime Alley has enough problems, he won’t contribute to the already-prominent littering issue.
“And your point is?”
Dick watches him carefully. There’s something seeking in his eyes, a conclusion he’s come to in his mind that he doesn’t dare voice for fear of being wrong. Maybe he’s right. Jason has a sneaking suspicion he’s guessed correctly. The real question is if he wants to confirm it for him or not. Kind of an unpleasant topic to be talking about over an evening cig and fireworks, no?
“Nu- um. Nothing,” Dick shakes his head, and his black hair ruffles in a slight breeze. “I guess I just wondered if you’d ever had any personal experience with that sort of stuff. Like maybe you knew somebody who was in that life or… something.”
Jason takes a long time to answer. In the extended pause, he tugs the little blue pack of American Spirits back out of his jacket pocket, shakes one loose, and puts it between his lips. After tucking the box back in, he pulls a lighter from the same pocket. It’s a cheap liquor store-type red BiC lighter. He lights the end of the cig with it, then tucks it back in the pocket next to the box.
“There was a lot that happened in the couple years between when Catherine died and Bruce picked me up,” Jason begins slowly. Dick doesn’t say anything, quietly offering him the space to go on. “I, ah- I knew a lotta kids who didn’t have another way to make money. Stealing tires and hub caps and stuff doesn’t always pay well. Lotta kids couldn’t survive without turnin’ to stuff like that.”
“You knew people who were trafficked?”
“Some. Not always trafficked, some just made a few bucks on street corners from time to time. You only got so many options when you’re too young to work a real job,” Jason continues. There’s a delicacy to his phrasing that has the hairs on Dick’s neck prickling.
“How many of them made it out?” Dick asks, tone soft. Jason sighs, smoky breath clouding the space between them, and cracks his neck to one side.
“A few. There was a kid I used to know named Jackson, he used to pick up that kinda work now and then. He’s a plumber in Burnley now. Some turned out like him. Some are still in it. Some never got the chance to make it out, died for one reason or another,” Jason clears his throat, brow furrowed in recollection.
“I’m sorry to hear that.” Dick sounds sincere. He probably is, as empathetic as his heart bleeds. For a guy who spent the majority of his life performing in one role or another, be it Robin or Nightwing or his stint as Batman, that empathy and ability to care is one thing he’s never had to fake.
“Yeah. Well. Whatcha gonna do, besides try to make the streets better for ‘em?”
“I guess so. You’ve done quite a bit, though. I’ve seen some of your community work, Jay. You’ve been good for Crime Alley.”
“I try,” Jason says quietly.
“How did you survive without doing it?” Dick asks tentatively. And there it is. Just like that, Dick has presented a crossroads: lie, or truth. Apparently, he’d been convinced Jason would pick lie, because Jason’s next words seem to shake him.
“Who says I did?”
He doesn’t have to look in Dick’s direction to feel the stare boring into the side of his head. The smoke he draws into his mouth tastes sour. Far off in what must be the upper west side, an orange explosion of color takes to the horizon. The sparks flare out in a pattern vaguely reminiscent of a flower.
Jason can’t fault Dick for being at a loss for words. Afterall, what can you say to that information? ‘I’m sorry’? It won’t make it better. It’s so long ago now, the wound so old it’s a scar. Perhaps not well healed, and probably not well cared for, but a scar nonetheless. His time alone on the streets is a distant memory now, nothing more, because what else can he do with the pain remembering it brings up? How can he face truly unpacking the mortifying nature of that dark corner of his past?
He can’t. And there’s no point in trying.
“I honestly don’t know what to say,” Dick finally gets out, his lips pursing. “That can’t be easy for you to talk about.”
“It is what it is.”
“I get why it’s personal, now.”
“Yeah. Well. Doesn’t make much of a difference,” Jason points out.
“Still. I know it doesn’t mean much, or- anything. But I’m sorry you went through that.”
Jason draws in a lung’s fill of smoke and breathes it out through lips forming an “o”, watching the way it drifts away before replying as casually as he can manage, “It’s whatever.”
“I’m glad the kids around here have you to look after them,” Dick offers, expression unsurprisingly open. “I know you don’t get told stuff like this very often, but you’re the kind of person that should have been around to look after… you. When you were younger. Nobody should ever have to go through that.”
That draws Jason up short. It’s so honest and so, for lack of a better word, nice. He frowns, letting the comment sink in.
“Thank you,” Jason mutters, and means it.
“So,” Dick takes a deep breath, the weight of the conversation blowing away on Jason’s next exhale. “ You don’t think Bret O’Connor’s around?”
Jason shrugs, straightening his posture and taking one last puff off the Spirit between his fingers before stamping that one out on the brick as well. He plucks his helmet up off the roof beside him and slips it on his head, nestling it in place with a jostle until the clasps click.
“I doubt it. I’ve got ears in those circles, busted most of the existing operations a couple years back. Any new ones pop up, I hear about it,” Jason explains. “We can take a look, rattle some cages, see what we can stir up if you want.”
“Wouldn’t mind it. Kind of the best lead I got, right now,” Dick smiles, standing and offering Jason a hand. Jason pauses, studying the hand, then takes it begrudgingly.
A nagging voice in the back of Jason’s mind can’t seem to let go of the conversation. He knows why. If anybody were to pick up on the undertones of Jason’s bloodthirst towards sexual offenders, it would be Dick. Jason knows. Dick may not know that Jason knows, but he does. There was a night a few months ago, one where Dick had been in the bowels of some dark mental place. He’d gotten shitfaced and needed a ride to his apartment, but been too ashamed to call anybody besides Jason. Dick getting shitfaced was the only sign needed to tell that something was going on with him personally, but if it hadn’t been enough, their conversation in the car revealed what. He’d been driving Dick’s car with Dick in the passenger seat, buckled in but slumped back with the seat reclined.
He’d let some… things… slip. Some information that Jason knew Dick would probably rather die than recount sober. A story involving a different rooftop, a different night, one with rain and a woman called Tarantula. Some later research on Jason’s part divulged her death, which was unfortunate, because he would have preferred killing her himself.
They’d never spoken about it again. To Jason’s knowledge, Dick has no recollection of the drive, and Jason isn’t one to bring it up unnecessarily. Still, given the content of their conversation, he has to briefly wonder why Dick didn’t bring up his own related trauma. It makes sense, of course. It’s intensely personal information, not the kind that one just offers up on a silver platter. Perhaps some traumas don’t heal the same as others. Perhaps one day he’ll feel comfortable sharing.
It doesn’t matter, really. Not Jason’s business. Not his circus, not his monkeys. There’s no fundamental part of him that wants Dick to share his emotional baggage, and there never will be. However, a small part of him silently hopes that Dick shares it with somebody. Like, a therapist. God knows the guy could use therapy. ‘Hypocrite’, that same part of him whispers. ‘Fuck you’, his brain whispers back.
“Coming?” Dick calls, poised to swing down onto the fire escape.
“Yeah,” Jason replies, stepping away from the edge of the rooftop and following. “Three blocks down, there’s an old club building that Bret’s brother used to base out of. Been empty for about a year, but it’s a place to start.”
Dick nods. Together, they head off into the dawning night. The rooftop remains empty through the ensuing bursts of firework light. The only evidence of their presence is two little black ask circles where Jason put out the cigarettes. They cling to the brick, showing another record of the passage of time. Showing also how some things never change.
He hadn’t told Dick that about ten years ago, back when he had no place to go, no bed, no mother or father left to care, he’d come up to this rooftop and sit in that same place. Sometimes, on a good night, he’d have enough cash to buy a pack of American Spirits and a bag of cinnamon bears. The clerk never really had a taste for carding anybody. That’s probably why Catherine had liked giving her business there. It meant that when she was too sick to leave their apartment, she could send Jason to buy smokes for her. He kept up the habit in her memory in those two years of unstable solitude. Though he didn’t have a roof over his head, or the safety of a good income, he had a view. Not a particularly spectacular view, but a view nonetheless. And cinnamon bears. And blue American Spirits.