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After everything, the Red Hood found Dickie Grayson in the staff hallway acting out of character. He should have been inside with the rest of the VIP guests gratefully receiving the GCPD's all clear. The rest of the fundraiser was probably off, but Grayson could smile for the society reporters who would do their part to let Gotham know he was still beautiful and resilient and light-hearted in the face of the city's grit.
Jason rolled his eyes. It was obvious where Dick had been. His lips were blue, his cheeks red. He barely hid a shiver, tucked up against the caterer's door to the grand ballroom.
"You peeked at the cold tanks," Jason said in the hood's most modulated voice. "Idiot."
Dick jumped. Either he was in character or he'd gotten much, much closer to those tanks than he should have. Maybe both, knowing Dick.
"Had to see what we were dealing with," Dick said. There was a hint of a chatter.
"No, you didn't. Waynes don't deal with Mr. Freeze. Waynes deal with PR." Jason rapped his knuckles against his insulated body armor. "This is the fashion that sneaks into hotel basements to spy on freeze ray labs."
"I was on site -- " Dick cut himself off when Jason crowded him against the wall. It would have been intimidating to a civilian, especially with the bulk of his gear, and it gave Jason an excuse for a closer look at Dick's skin. His warm complexion had gone super villain-induced gray, blue-tinged at his lips, and it annoyed Jason. He didn't like avoidable risks. Dick sighed. "Ok, fine, I get it!"
"You're a bystander; stop looking frostbitten."
"I'm trying." Dick wrapped his arms around himself, jumping a little on his toes. He'd already forgotten Jason's looming bulk.
"Jesus Christ," Jason muttered, "why did I ever take you seriously. No restraint, any of you."
"Us -- " Dick closed his lips around the indignant protest, shooting an irritated glance at the door to the ballroom. He must have been waiting to warm up before sneaking back into the crowd milling around inside.
Jason took his jacket off swinging the worn leather around Dick's shoulders in an easy move that surprised Jason with the smoothness of it. There was something compelling and forbidden about that beat-to-hell jacket oiled with Gotham's grime settling heavily onto Dickie Grayson's bespoke linen.
Dick started, shoulders jumping and then sinking with the weight of the reinforced leather. A second later, the warmth hit him, eyes closing and back rounding, melting into it like a cat in a puddle of sun. Satisfaction climbed Jason's throat, hot and choking. He ran hot since the pit, and he knew it. Dick finally opened his eyes, watching Jason over the collar. He couldn't see the smug tilt of Jason's mouth under the hood, but he looked like he knew it was there.
Jason crowded him again, reaching into the pocket for his cigarettes before turning away.
"Don't just walk away," Dick said. He sounded confused but not wary, like he was ready to laugh once he figured out the joke. Like Dick thought Jason was a little wild in a charming rebel kind of way. James Dean. Jason liked that. He hadn't expected to. He indulged in another few seconds looking at his jacket wrapped around Dick, driving the blue from his lips.
"I might not have an excuse for frostbite," Dick said, "but I don't have one for Red Hood's jacket either."
"Tell them I gave it to you," Jason said, pushing open a fire door, "because you're pretty, witty, and gay."
The door swung shut behind him. Indistinctly, he heard Dick muttering. "Restraint, he says. Ha!"
Jason gave in and glanced back, catching a glimpse through the swinging door of Dick pulling the jacket up higher and tighter around his neck, burying his face in it. Jason stopped, rooted to the spot by an unexpected boulder in his gut. With a sigh, Dick pushed backwards through the staff door and disappeared into the ballroom. He never looked to see Jason watching.
Ten hours later, Jason woke to the ding of a news alert: Red Hood sweet on Gotham prince? 'He called me pretty', says Wayne Heir.
Jason waited idly to see if he was angry, but the heat in chest was warmth not fire. Dick had kept the jacket, and he'd told a reporter about it. Or rather, Dickie had. Not someone on the crime beat, a society reporter, there to spin the human interest story. After a overture like that, it would be rude for the Red Hood not to go in person to retrieve what he'd left behind.