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There is more than a little bit of magic in Gotham’s bones.
Jason would like to say that he always kind of knew that, but it would be a lie. He didn’t know. When he had a place to go home to, when he had a mom to watch out for him—even if he did more watching out than she did, some days—he didn’t know at all.
At first, he thinks maybe it is because Gotham doesn’t bother claiming those who don’t need it. He realizes later that it is the Gothamites themselves who make that decision.
Jason learns a lot, once he’s out on the street. He knows enough to get by from the beginning—he has eyes, and he has paid attention—but there are things you only learn by living them. The night he has been out there for two weeks, a girl pulls him aside and hands him a stick of chalk.
“What’s this for?” he asks without taking it, because he already knows that nothing comes for free.
“You’ll need it,” she says. She nods at his dinner, scrounged just as it was thrown away. “Give me half of that, and I’ll show you how to use it.”
He should say no, but he has already eaten once today, and he’s intrigued. His curiosity gets the better of him.
There’s a trick to it. There are a lot of tricks to it, actually, but they all boil down to essentially the same thing. Give the city something, and she will give you something back. The older kids teach the younger ones, hand-me-down knowledge that gives them an edge.
Jason grew up in this city. He may not know all the rules, but he’s got a sense for it. A lot of kids do. Not all of them, but a lot of them. Jason has a theory about that. He may not have always known, but he is a native Gothamite. It leaves a mark.
A lot of kids like drawing. It is a good approach, really. Doesn’t risk anything too valuable. Doesn’t take anything more than a marker. Doesn’t grab attention when there is already so much other graffiti on the walls. Give Gotham something pretty, and maybe she’ll help you out. Measure for measure, magic for chalk and paint and blood.
Jason isn’t much of an artist, so he doesn’t usually bother. When he does, he uses words, in the prettiest writing he can manage, trying to give the city something worth an exchange. He has a sense for it, though. He can figure out the tricks, the ones that take a little more than a tag but give more in return.
Besides, it is about intent as much as anything else. Jason figured that out immediately.
Forget the Justice League. Magic isn’t about big things, not for him. Not for any of the kids that run Gotham’s streets. He can’t conjure up food or heat or cash, as much as he might wish he could. What he can do is dash a shh onto the fire escape to keep it quieter under his feet. Pick up a penny from the sidewalk and leave it somewhere else for luck. Water a rosebush that looks a little parched and keep watch for roots that might trip up pursuit. Etch a bat into skin in ballpoint pen for protection.
He gets better at it. Starts to feel the city around him, an edge to his awareness that makes him wonder if he is losing it. He feeds the cats and gets an escape route or a meal. Takes a shard of mirror from an abandoned tenement to keep the cops from looking too closely. Inscribes constant vigilance above a doorway in a building that likes him and gets just enough warning to escape when someone unfriendly passes through.
It makes surviving just a little easier.
Becoming Robin changes almost everything.
He can’t buy Sharpies or paint on his own, because obviously it’s paint fumes that are fucking up the youth in this city. He gets chalk, his old standby, and crayons. Less permanent, less potent, but easier in a lot of ways, especially for the kids who need it most, who don’t know the other tricks. He always keeps some in his utility belt on patrol to give out. One box isn’t always enough, once word gets out and the homeless children of Gotham realize that once upon a time, Robin was one of them.
They give him things, sometimes. Smooth pebbles with charms drawn on them. Scraps of paper folded into birds. Never feathers, though he sees kids holding them. Robin feathers, he knows without asking, and that’s vaguely terrifying.
He used to draw a bat on his skin when he felt like he needed a better shot at safety. He tries not to think too hard about kids using symbols of him in the same way, because he knows that if he does, it will chill him to his bones. He is visible now, like he wasn’t before. He’s special, and there is a thrill and a danger to that.
He hands out his chalk and crayons. He snags loose change from the dish where Bruce throws it, and he gives pennies to the kids to pass on a little luck. It isn’t quite the same as picking up a coin off the street and dropping it elsewhere for the next person, but Jason has a sense for this, and besides, intent matters. The effect will be close enough.
Jason wonders sometimes if Bruce feels it too.
Jason never used to hear the city like he does now. He scratched his charms out in chalk and pen and sometimes in nothing at all, sometimes just with a piece of brick or metal. He picked up feathers and coins and dropped blood and flowers, and the magic that runs through the foundations of this place helped him out. But as Robin, he breathes in the night and flies through the neon and spills blood in the streets in the name of justice. As Robin, the marks he leaves are a lot bigger than a couple of words in his best handwriting, and now he isn’t asking for anything in return.
He’s caught Gotham’s attention, and if he thinks too hard about it, he shivers. They tell stories about Gotham’s favor on the streets. Batman is one of hers, but so is Joker, so is Two-Face, so are Killer Croc and Poison Ivy. Gotham’s heroes and villains are a different breed from anyone else’s, and Jason doesn’t know what that means for him.
He asks Dick about it, just once. Dick doesn’t know what he is talking about. Jason wonders if that is because Dick is grown now (the adults never seemed to know quite as much about the magic) or because he left Gotham behind or because he never felt her touch at all, even though the original Robin was so clearly one of hers.
He wonders if Nightwing still belongs to Gotham. Wonders if Gotham ever gives up her chosen. Wonders if maybe Bludhaven has any magic of its own.
He feels the heart of the city beating as he chases Batman through the night, and he watches the lights rush by far below as though the streets themselves are alive.
The Lazarus Pit doesn’t give gifts; it makes trades. Jason is familiar with the concept. Bargains and sacrifices, magic and measures. The Pit gives him back his mind, but it doesn’t do anything for free. Jason will carry its whispers forever, no matter how much Talia tries to convince him he can silence them. He’s no sorcerer, but he knows that much about magic.
Talia doesn’t know how Jason came back. Jason doesn’t know, either, and he tries not to dwell too much on his only guess. He won’t know for sure until he sets foot in Gotham again, and he isn’t ready.
The city didn’t chew him up and spit him out. He died by the hand of a son of Gotham, but he died very far from home.
His foot falls in Gotham, and the city street pulses, unmistakably alive. He knows immediately that his suspicion was right.
He’ll never know why the city decided she wasn’t ready to let him go.
He feels the buildings breathing around him. They whisper secrets in his ears, tell him where to find the crimes and the criminals.
Gotham warns him when Nightwing approaches. She doesn’t warn him about Batman.
All magic demands a price. Gotham gives nothing without an equal exchange, but now things come to Jason effortlessly. He goes to work, and blood spills in the city’s streets, but the magic with him stays constant.
He wonders how his resurrection falls on the ledger.
He doesn’t know. The city speaks to him, but he doesn’t get to choose which questions she answers.
He does know this: Gotham chooses champions who choose themselves. He chose himself a long time ago, and she chose him, too.
Batman is one of Gotham’s chosen. So are Joker, Two-Face, Killer Croc, Poison Ivy. The city doesn’t dictate what he does. She demands nothing…but whatever he offers, she always accepts.
He stalks the streets in the dark and feels the city breathe with him. He does her work, and for that, she curls close around him and does not let go.