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Throughout his life, Dick’s had a complicated relationship with sweets. He’s swung from having the biggest sweet tooth this side of Metropolis through to refusing to touch sweetened juice, and all the way back again, time and time again. But through all that? There’s been one thing that hasn’t changed: ice cream.
It hadn’t started with Bruce--patrol had been a serious business, and frequently Dick had been close to dropping by the time Bruce signaled a return to the cave. Keeping up with Bruce had been challenge, especially in the early days, but while Dick’d known Bruce would pull himself back if he knew Dick needed him to, he’d been unable to stomach the shame at the concept of making Bruce temper himself. Which had meant that he’d fallen asleep in the car, frequently. That meant there’d rarely been time for any treat after patrol, beyond the warm milk and cookies Alfred greeted them with.
No, the ice cream started with the Titans. With Beast Boy, specifically. Robin noted BB’s discomfort with the lax way he ran the Titans, and he took it upon himself to pull the boy out of his shell; it seemed wrong that the youngest member of the Titans should also be the most serious. So when BB suggested one day, after a particularly grueling fight against Cinderblock, that they all stop and pick up a tub of ice cream, Robin gave the okay.
Of course, they didn't exactly stop at just the one tub, and by the time they were ready to check out, Star was in charge of pushing the cart because of its sheer weight. Back at the Tower they all sat around the kitchen island and divvied up the spoils, and Beast Boy looked happier than Robin had ever seen him before.
After that, it was impossible not to make it a tradition.
When he left the Tower and the Titans behind, he didn’t expected to miss that, of all things. He expected to miss plenty: waking up next to Star, reading with Raven, talking video game strategy with Cy and BB, fully computerized filing systems--but he didn’t expected to miss the ice cream .
At first he tries to keep it up on his own, buys those individually wrapped ice cream bars, eats them with his legs dangling over the edge of the roof of buildings so high up that he feels he could swing forever if he let himself slide off, eats in silence and tries to be grateful for the ‘haven, for the ability to make a name for himself, for--the bottom line is, on his own it’s just not the same. He lets the tradition languish, and just hopes that back at the Tower it’s still going strong. A cup of tea before bed does him well enough, and he can drink it from the edge of his mattress, can stare at the case wall while he does so, and that’s just what he does. It gets to the point where he closes his eyes to sleep and sees the newspaper clippings dancing there.
He tells himself it’s exactly what he did with Bruce. Tells himself that he doesn’t even like sweets anyway.
It still lodges a sadness deep in his chest.
That sadness remains through his time in Blüdhaven, through New York, through excursions out to Gotham and Jump and Metropolis, and everywhere else--and it does lessen! Jason’s laughter, echoing through the Cave or Dick’s Blüdhaven apartment, lightens it. The reckless pride in Tim’s smile when he works out the truth behind a particularly complicated case lightens it. Steph’s theatricalities and boy talk, the way Cass lights up whenever she manages to take him by surprise on a rooftop--all these things make it just that little bit easier to forget the way Raven looked with a smudge of cookies ‘n’ cream on her nose, the way BB would groan when he inevitably got caramel sauce in his hair , the deep-rooted pride that he felt as Robin, watching the team he put together with his own two hands become a family.
A few times, he considers trying to institute ice cream nights with the rest of the bats, but every time something comes up, between Jason’s death, Tim’s dad demanding he quit, Steph’s death, Cass’ death--they drop like flies, it feels like, and he doesn’t want to risk adding to the knot in his chest with a failed attempt.
It’s not until he’s alone with Gotham and a particularly challenging figure in the Robin costume left to his charge that he seriously considers ice cream runs.
He loves Damian. There’s no two ways about it, the kid grows on everyone he meets, or he does every time he’s given the chance, and despite the initial difficulties of their partnership, he values working with the boy. It’s sweet, and good, and something he can rely on, even as crime fighting in Gotham remains as hellish as ever, even as every day seems to bring new struggles, new people determined to see the end of Batman and Robin.
Still, he doesn’t want to overstep, doesn’t want to jeopardize the cautious balance and relationship he’s building with Damian, doesn’t want to push just that much too far, so he sticks to coffee runs, sticks to ruffling his hair, messing with his hood--the lower-risk activities. He’s grieving already, they both are, and Dick wants more than anything to make sure that Damian’s time as Robin holds as much positive as possible. If that means he holds himself back just the tiniest bit to make certain he doesn’t trespass on any cardinal boundaries? He’ll deal. He’ll do it for his brother. He’ll do it for his Robin.
In time, he realizes, he’ll do it for his son .
In the end, it’s the Absence that shows him that they’ve grown past the need for him to hold himself back. Buoyed up by relief that they’re both okay, riding a wave of nausea at the implications of her words and actions and the adrenal high of surviving , he doesn’t even wait to get back to the cave and change--he drags Damian to the car with the promise of something special, asks Barbara for help digging up the nearest ice cream joint, and buys three cartons of cookies n cream, deaf to the awe and dismay of the poor cashier who has to process the sale, deaf to Damian’s demands to be told what on earth he thinks they’re going to be able to do with three gallons of ice cream, and digs them up two spoons.
Staring at the car, he comes upon the problem of where to eat the ice cream. He doesn’t want to wait, doesn’t want to go to any of their usual places to decompress, doesn’t even particularly want to unmask: ice cream has always been a uniformed thing. Finally, he shakes his head, puts his hands on his hips, and nods. “Robin,” he says, “hop up.”
“ What? ” Damian asks, incredulous. “You’re not going to get me to sit on your shoulders, I don’t care what you say.”
Dick doesn’t even try to suppress his grin. “Not on
me
,” he says, “on the
car
.”
Damian’s suspicions don’t seem alleviated, so Dick does the logical thing: setting the ice cream down square in the middle of the hood, he turns and hops back up onto it, plants his hands behind himself as support, and sighs as his eyes close with (not entirely feigned) relief to be getting off his feet. After a moment, he says “I mean, if you want to keep standing…” and doesn’t bother opening his eyes to check Damian’s reaction. It’s only a predictable second or two before Damian also clambers up onto the hood, and Dick opens his eyes to slide a glance his way: the kid looks perplexed, but not at all angry, so Dick digs out one of the cartons of ice cream, and begins the difficult task of opening it through the gauntlets.
“When I was with the Titans,” he says, tearing the plastic that secures the lid off the carton, “we used to get ice cream after every fight we went on.” He ignores Damian’s scoffing with blithe ease, settling the lid on the hood a bit further back from the bag of ice cream, and goes about digging for one of the two spoons he’d found. “As a thank you to ourselves.”
Sticking the spoon directly into the center of the carton, he offers it to Damian and says, “You did good tonight.” Damian takes the ice cream, and Dick’s smile grows so big it feels like his face can’t contain it, the knot in his chest evaporates, and once he’s gotten his own carton out, he leans over to nudge Damian’s shoulder.
“You did good tonight,” he repeats. “And I’m proud of you.”