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It was just once that a gaunt Jason took a candied cigarette to his cracked lips, grinning ear-to-ear as he puffed out an imaginary plume of smoke. The taste on his lips was strong—rich chocolate leaving a heavy sweetness on his tongue for half an hour afterwards.
He liked pretending that he was an adult—that he was as big and strong as the figures that walked through the street, that he was capable enough to keep himself off the sidewalk.
Sometimes, he had nightmares: he'd be back on the streets, walking past tattered shirts and dirt-stained pants that were buried under a thick blanket of snow. At his worst, he remembered thinking that it was like nature’s final embrace—the snow tucking you in as you fell into one last restful sleep.
He’s just grateful he never got that “affection.”
On one of his worst days, he found a barely-used pack of cigarettes on the ground, next to an unusually-lumpy mound of icy snow. He thinks he sees a knitted pattern peeking out from where the layer is thinnest.
Instantly, he averts his eyes to the ground. Yeah, he’d rather not think about that.
Cigarettes, on the other hand? They’d be great to keep warm, Jason rationalized.
He’d ration them out—one every hour or so, just to stave off the deathly chill that’d begun to creep into his bones. Jeans can only keep you so warm when they’re soaking wet, after all.
It would be just like the chocolate ones he’d had such a long time ago. They wouldn’t be candy, sure, there wouldn’t be any actual nutrition to it, but that wasn’t his biggest issue right now.
Finding a lighter wasn’t hard by any means, especially when you live so close to the road. You can’t miss a piece of cheap, hot-pink plastic against asphalt, after all. He examined it closely, holding it up to his eyes before turning it around to get a good look at the thing. It had deep scratches along the long side, but it likely still worked well enough to give him a small flame.
Perfect. That’s all he needed.
Quickly, he shuffled through his pockets, his protruding ulna scraping dully against denim as he pulled out the box. With hunger trembling in his hands, he fiddled with the gear, placing a cigarette between his lips before lighting the stick.
As he took a deep inhale of the smoke, it stung more than anything else. Immediately, he yanked the cigarette out of his mouth, coughing and choking on the searing burn in his chest. But the heat it provided was essential—too precious to let go of. And so, he gingerly placed the cigarette back between his lips, and took a deep inhale.
***
The day that Batman caught him, tire iron in hand and a face as pale as a sheet, was surprisingly one of the only happy memories he had. Bruce, as Jason learned, was fabulously wealthy. He had too much money to spend, and not enough of a desire to do so, he thought.
But don’t get him wrong; he never craved the cushiness that came with being the adopted son of Gotham’s richest, and he never once flaunted his privilege more than buying himself an extra pizza or two every now and then.
It’s funny to think that he used to see Dick and Bruce leaping across rooftops together, his eyes wide with a mix of envy and amazement as their shadows flickered across his vision.
So at first, being Robin—carrying on the mantle of the child hero from Dick—was a dream.
“It’s… incredible,” Jason used to say, wild laughter dancing in the wind as it whips past his rosy cheeks. His suit, full of bright reds, yellows, and greens was comfortable around his growing body. “Being Robin is magic.” He’s still too thin, Dick would chastise, but Jason liked to point out that he’s gotten more muscular with the actual food he’s been getting in every night.
Sure, it sucked knowing that Dick thought that he couldn’t handle being Robin. But there was nothing Jason couldn’t do, and he’d prove him wrong with time. With every successful mission—albeit with a few scrapes and bruises here and there—Gotham was morphing into a place he’d want to live.
Being honest, Gotham would probably never be wholly safe, but it would at least be free of the horrors Jason’d seen in the slums. The winters were relentless, and he’d seen more than his share of kids that disappear at its peak.
Sometimes, when no one was looking, he’d take some of his allowance down to the nearest pawn shop. With practiced movements, he’d snatch up one of the cigarette boxes into his pocket, leaving a few dollars on the counter as payment before walking out like nothing.
After all, what (non-morally dubious) shopkeeper would sell cigarettes to a 12 year old?
Despite how good it felt to finally be comfortable—to be safe—Jason couldn’t fully relax. It was… unsettling. Maybe he was ungrateful to even be thinking that, but it felt like he was simultaneously on edge while having nothing he needed to guard against.
What was that saying? Like a rock and a hard place or something. But now he’s the rock, and he’s been placed on a thousand-count threaded cushion. It’s weird, to say the least.
The bitter smoke he exhaled dulled some of that tension. It always did. It reminded him of where he came from—of the place he learned to steel his nerves in.
With every long sigh, gray wisps danced into the air, dissipating without a trace. Along with it went some of his unease.
He couldn’t forget his time on the streets. How could one even ask him to do that? When a rich man whisks you out of the only place you’ve ever known and tells you to take the place of his ward, you’d feel weirded out too.
Except… he’s not sure if this is something that can just be chalked up to as “just weird.” There’s an odd hollowness that comes whenever he reminisces about his childhood. It’s not sad, per se, but it isn’t a feeling he’d like to remember.
Well, it’s not like a cigarette every now and then is a habit. It’s just nostalgic, Jason excused.
***
One night, when the temperature started dropping to the single digits again, Jason plopped a cigarette in his mouth. Without even cracking an eye open, he swiftly lit the stick. He took an instinctive puff, and the room suddenly didn’t feel so cold anymore.
Then again, with the Wayne Manor’s lavish heating system, he’d be surprised if he felt anything close to a chill. Jason would never admit to this, but he couldn’t help but get a little irritated on how his room was always temperate. He’d only ever needed to layer up in the middle of January, and that was with the heating system off.
Stupid fireplaces. Festive, sure, but what average person is going to use one to heat up a room?
While he was working off his personal offense to fireplaces, he didn’t notice Dick’s entry. Then again, living here came with the added benefit of learning to keep your footsteps silent.
“Alfred wanted me to tell you that dinner’s re-what’re you doing?”
Shit.
A spike of panic welled up in Jason’s chest, and as distant as it felt, it was enough to have him snatching the cigarette out from his mouth.
“Nothing,” Jason blurted, the smoking stick clearly between his index and middle fingers.
A few emotions flickered across Dick’s face. He’d already gone through the surprise of discovering Jason’s secret, mostly through the pungent smell that was still punching him in the lungs. By that moment, concern was most prevalent, followed closely by an incoming wave of disappointment.
Jason had begun hating a lot of things in the year he’d been taken in. Fireplaces, obviously being one, but he despised being a reason for someone’s pitying looks. He’d seen it a lot as a kid, when people would walk by, ogle the starving boy clutching ribs where a healthy layer of fat and skin would usually cover his abdomen, then pick their pace up to a quicker stride before disappearing into some grocery store.
Of course Jason knew cigarettes were bad for him, but did Dick really need to look at him like that? It pissed him off, at least a little bit. It’s not like he’s a junkie, or anything. He’s not addicted, therefore, Dick had no reason to butt in.
“It’s not that serious, D,” Jason sighed out a long exhale, traces of nicotine and chemicals heavy on his breath.
Dick’s eyebrows knitted together, his cornflower-blue irises slightly narrowed in a thoughtful manner. “You’re still young, Jay. Hell, I’d never touch those things, even with a ten-foot stick.”
Oh, and here comes the nagging.
Despite Dick’s careful wording, Jason rolled his eyes, which were more of a stormy-grayish than brilliantly blue like his brother’s. Yeah, Dick would never smoke, but they’re not the same person. They never were, and they never will be.
“I’m not hooked on these things or anything like that,” Jason began to argue, but eventually began to give in under the pressure of Dick’s conflicted gaze. “Here, you can just take these.”
With a huff, Jason stood up, shoulders weighed down with exhaustion. He passed the pack to Dick, being careful not to scratch him with the corners of the freshly-opened box.
Finally, the lines on Dick’s forehead began to soften, and he let out his own acquiescing sigh in return. “Okay, I won’t tell Bruce or Alfred. Just promise me that this won’t happen again.”
Jason non-committally shrugged his shoulders, now toned rather than bony. “Yeah, sure.”
As Jason’s silhouette pulled away from the doorway, Dick felt a pang in his chest. Jason—as much as he’d grown—is still so small.
***
Freshly-freed from a mission with the Titans, Dick felt an overwhelming urge to relax at the manor. It wasn’t overly often he’d visited—mostly for Alfred over anyone else—but he’d been craving the man’s cooking after surviving off of nutrient blocks for a week.
Much to Diclk’s chagrin, however, the manor appeared… almost gray? The lights were on, sure. Dick couldn’t put his finger on it, but the extravagant hallway looked dimmer.
Jason’s door was closed, Dick noted. It was already late; it was entirely possible that Jason had already gone to sleep.
With a shrug to no one in particular, Dick turned on his heels to enter the foyer. There, Bruce sat, hunched over and brooding. Weird, but nothing that odd, he supposed.
DIck offered him a quick greeting—nothing overly friendly nor polite. Just an easy “hey, Bruce” to satisfy Bruce’s expectation for manners.
The response he got was, in fact, weird.
“He’s gone, Dick.” Bruce’s voice was tight, his eyes rimmed with red and his gaze unfocused. The man’s body was slumped in on itself, shame emanating from the body Dick’s never seen as anything but strong.
He’d normally poke fun at Bruce, calling him old while slipping in the occasional, genuine jab at his willingness to give Dick’s beloved hero persona away.
But he was more confused than anything else.
“Gone? Who escaped?” Dick extended an arm out, placing a gentle hand on the nearest seat before gracefully taking a seat. It likely isn’t Penguin—Bruce just put him away yesterday. Bane? He’d been in Arkham for a good while. Was it possible that he’d hatched a plan to ditch his cell?
The question that so easily left Dick’s lips only deepened the curve of Bruce’s spine, his eyes shutting tight and his brow pinching with effort. What did Dick say that was so wrong? If it’s a criminal, sure, it’d be a few sleepless nights, but it’s nothing Bruce hasn’t already accomplished as Batman.
Fresh grief spilled from Bruce’s pale lips, the single word he’s barely able to utter packed with an overwhelming concentration of despair. “Jason.”
What?
“Jason’s… gone?” Dick echoed, his eyebrows twitching together and his lips turning down. Bruce needs to stop beating around the bush, Dick internally criticizes. And then finally, it all comes tumbling together in one horrible click.
His eyes widened, his body stiffening as if he’d been dunked into a tub of icy water. Jason can’t be gone, right? Bruce would’ve protected him—Bruce promised that he’d protect him.
Suddenly, the years of veiled jealousy Dick held towards the boy floated away. And instead, Dick felt like he was sinking into the ground.
He’d always disapproved of the way Bruce took a new child as a sidekick, sure. It hurt having Jason replace him, but he’d always found the matter of safety more of a concern. It wasn’t safe to have a kid fight against some of the worst of humanity, and he’d never shied away from berating Bruce about his handling of the issue.
Silence grew between the two, and Bruce’s mourning slowly inched closer, creeping in until it too took Dick by the jugular.
But in the space where Bruce felt regret, a spark of anger quickly flared up in DIck’s chest. It curled around his tongue, and his eyes were frighteningly wide when he began screaming at Bruce.
“You never should’ve let him be Robin—I’ve warned you time and time again, and look at what happened!” Hot venom curdled in Dick’s throat, his eyes growing misty with tears that stung like acid.
“This is your fault, Bruce. I hope you know that,” Dick spat out, his lips curled into a gruesome snarl. “Jason’s blood is on your hands. No kid should’ve ever had to go through what I did—what we did, Bruce.”
Bruce’s eyes remained on the ground, a despondent look in his usually-sharp gaze. His Adam’s apple bobbed with the effort to hold back tears.
Gods, looking at Bruce made his stomach churn.
***
Sometimes, if Dick closes his eyes for long enough, he can almost hear Jason’s cries for help. He wasn’t there—there was no way he could’ve been there in time, but his brain’s a terrifying thing. His worst fears slowly began leeching into his dreams.
It all really started to happen after he read Jason’s obituary. The “J” carved into his cheek, the blade cutting so deep that it slashed through Jason’s muscle. Apparently, that piece of information was the only way the morticians were able to identify the shape of the wound, given that Jason’s body was blasted to bits by a bomb.
He was so young—too young to die, and too pure-hearted to go out so horrifically.
Dick leans his head back until a quiet thump vibrates against the back of his skull, a weeping angel curled around the headstone he was resting against like she herself was mourning the loss of Jason. He cards his fingers through his hair, bringing his hand down to the nape of his neck right where his bodysuit ends.
It’s funny in a painful way, how Jason died as Robin and how Dick now visits him as Nightwing.
His body felt like it’d been filled with lead. His eyes were dull, the space under his eyes sunken and dark as he stared off across the graveyard.
In his palm lies the box of cigarettes Jason gave him so long ago. It’d been years since he’d passed, and yet the grief still lingers like an aching scar.
The cardboard, once new and with corners almost sharp to the touch, has worn down thanks to his constant fidgeting with the box. It was an unintentional habit that he’d developed whenever Dick felt especially lost.
As much as he was concerned for Jason when he first caught him smoking, Dick needed to feel his presence. They weren’t ever that close, sure. But that was still his little brother—not by blood, but where it mattered. He was, undeniably, a part of the family.
With a languid movement, Dick flips open the box, fishing the last cigarette out of the box. He unconsciously rolls it between his thumb and his pointer finger, using his other hand to neatly close up the box before placing it in his pocket.
Once his hand is free, he grabs at the lighter he’d stolen from Jason’s room. It had a nice heft to it, and the steel was cool to the touch as Dick flicked the top. The device makes a satisfying click as the lid swings to its widest margin.
It takes two turns of the wheel to finally draw a flame from the opening, which he immediately uses to light up the stick while placing it between his teeth.
Dick sucks in a long inhale, savoring the bitterness of the stick before finally exhaling it out in a slow breath. Smoke spews out, the same charcoal gray as the chiseled statue Dick’s currently leaning against. Over the years, he’d begun to grow accustomed to the taste. He doesn’t remember when it happened, but the once stinging sensation of smoking the cigarettes eventually blunted into a familiar ache.
When Dick finally brings his eyes off the ground once more, he swears he sees someone standing off in the distance, with a blazing streak of white hair that’s enshrouded in jet-black.
Once they make eye contact, the man simply tilts his head. DIck thinks he sees a tired sort of curiosity in his gaze, but he’s too far to really be able to tell. He simply squints his eyes as the mysterious figure turns tail, a duffle bag slung across his chest as he turns away.
Weird, but whatever.
‘Man,’ Dick thinks, ‘maybe it’s a good thing that I’ve finally run out of these things.’
Still, his thumb brushes over the faded logo printed on the cigarette box, and he takes another long drag of the stick nestled between his lips.