Work Text:
“See, now this is just getting creepy.”
Tim cranes his head up to squint through the metal grate of the fire escape above him. A figure is hanging from the railing, completely comfortable with the ten storey drop to pavement below.
“First you stalk me as a kid, then you take my duds, and now you're haunting my memorial. Where does your Robin obsession end, pretender?”
The nickname rolls off Tim's shoulders like rain. It's been years since their first altercation, and now most of their name-calling is said in jest. “Nice to see you too, Jason.”
He likes this spot. This apartment block borders one of Gotham's premier parks, and on a cold, clear night like this, Tim has an unimpeded view to the memorial below. His eyes trace the shoulders of the stone statue in the carefully maintained garden, over the proudly presented hands perched on hips and the slip of a grey cape. As he watches, a little girl stops to place a bouquet of flowers at the feet of the stone Robin, before dashing back to her mother's side.
“You're welcome to join me,” Tim offers, waving a hand out at the scene below them.
“Inviting a man to fawn over his own dead childhood statue,” Jason replies. “Cold.”
Tim gives him an odd look. “You're not a fan of your own memorial?”
"Not particularly," Jason answers. "I figure the taxpayer funds could have gone towards something a bit more noble."
"What's more noble than a hero giving his life?" Tim asks quietly.
Jason's expression is unreadable in the shadow, but Tim sees him shift his weight uncomfortably. "Just not a fan."
It's been a long night, and Tim isn't looking to provoke a fight. "Fair enough."
“I've considered blowing it up, but, you know—” Jason affects an exaggerated grimace, “Bad optics.”
Tim snorts, unable to help himself. He thinks Gotham might riot if someone blows up the beloved statue of their child hero who died in an explosion. Notwithstanding the irony, or the culprit. “Was your humour always this dark, or is the explosion to blame?”
“Oh, the explosion, for sure,” Jason says, swinging his legs over the railing to drop down next to Tim. “My sense of humour is lightly charred now. Like a good brisket.”
Rolling his eyes, Tim leans his crossed arms against the ironwork as Jason settles in beside him.
“Reminds me too much of that damn memorial Bruce has,” Jason says, like he's trying to justify his dislike to Tim. “I wonder if anyone likes the tombstone other people pick out for them.”
Tim thinks of his parents’ graves, and the inscriptions he picked out for them. “I don't think anyone gets to ask.”
“That's the weirdest part about getting to see the aftermath, right?” Jason says, contemplative. “It's like watching your own funeral. You don't get to ask. You don't get to have a say. Because it's not really about you, in the end. It's about how people feel about you.
“All this,” Jason gestures towards the memorial below them, “it's not really for me. It's about me, and people did it because of me, I get it. But I didn't ask for this. This wasn't of any help to me, when they put me in the ground. It's sure as shit not of any help to me now.”
Tim considers that. “I agree, I don't think it's for you. It's for them. Everyone whose lives you touched. Everyone whose day you made better as Robin. All those people you helped, all the kids who looked up to you. Still look up to you.”
He gestures to the bouquet of flowers left at the foot of the stone statue, and a little girl's hopes.
Jason is silent for a long while, and Tim leaves him to his thoughts. “What kind of sad kid looks up to the Robin who got himself killed?” Jason says eventually, a thin sort of derision to it. The words are fragile though, as if Jason can't bear to criticise his childhood self.
“Me, for one,” Tim answers, and doesn't meet Jason's gaze when it swings over to him. “I came here all the time after it happened. Every time I got frustrated with Bruce. Every time I doubted that I had what it takes to be Robin. I came here, and you reminded me of what it means to be Robin. What it takes, and what it costs.”
“It shouldn't cost that,” Jason mutters.
Tim shrugs. “But it did. And they built a memorial to it. And whether you like it or not, that memorial — that ideal of what it means to be Robin — has inspired a whole generation of kids.”
When the silence rubs, Tim chances a glance at Jason's contemplative expression, and away again. The furrow in his brow doesn't look angry, though, so Tim sucks in a chilled breath.
“You don't have to feel any particular way about it,” he hedges. “I don't think anyone has the right to tell you how to feel about your own memorial. I'm just asking you to consider the positive impact you've had on this city, now and then.”
Jason's lips thin. “And if I don't want there to be a memorial to my death?”
Tim shrugs, letting the silence fill the space between them again.
“We could bulldoze it,” Tim suggests. The levity seems to break through the lingering tension.
Jason's lips quirk. “Where are we going to get a bulldozer at this hour?”
“We could TP it.”
“You sure you want to add vandalism to your rap sheet?” Jason asks, arching a brow at Tim.
Tim pushes to his feet, stretching his arms above his head to pop his back. “My rap sheet could beat up your rap sheet in a fight.”
The laugh that Jason barks is genuine and sharp. “I seriously doubt that.”
“Willing to bet on it?”
“You're on, Robin.”
