Chapter Text
Jason loved Gotham. He loved the sky. He loved the way the wind rushed against his face as he swung, how it seared his lungs with something sharp and refreshing. And what he loved the most was the Civil Twilight.
Standing so high up, his feet perched on the corner ledge, teasing gravity, a boy like him no less, who had crawled and clawed his way from the depths.
It was worth it. For this view alone.
The first smattering of light burgeoning against the night.
Not fighting- appearing, seeping- taking slowly what was its right. Rays most wouldn’t get to see, just there for him and the earliest of risers. Just there for those who had dared to make the climb.
He rests his elbow on Fred the gargoyle beside him, fingers tracing the statue’s head, letting the cold stone steal the warmth from his blood and the sun settle on his suit, printing the colors half-golden.
“We should head in Robin,” murmurs a voice behind him.
Even the Dark Knight’s signature gravel is softer in the birth of morning, not willing to disturb the quiet.
“Okay,” he accepts, looking out at the spread of glinting buildings. Peaceful in a way Gotham rarely was. Their work for today was done. “Just a minute, I’ll follow.”
Bruce turns to him, from where he’s watching the rising dawn too. He raises a brow. Promise?
Jason mirrors him. You doubt me?
The man’s lip quirks upward imperceptibly. He nods and turns to jump off the building. The move is as graceful as the light, a soft ruffle of cape and one more shadow leaves the night sky.
Jason turns back to the view. He waits until he hears a shifting against brick to the northwest. A slow smile grows on his face.
He runs and jumps.
The whoop of laughter he lets out as he flips rings through the air, curling into the light, carrying into the wind, a message broadcasted across the city.
….
The door almost swings shut with a bang, but it gets caught by a strong hand before it does.
Jason winces.
“Where are you going in a rush?” asks Bruce, night-shirt stretched around his shoulders and sweats pooling at his feet.
“Out.”
The eyebrow quirks up. “You should be in bed.”
Jason shrugs, hoisting his backpack higher. “I’ll sleep when I’m back.”
Bruce doesn’t answer. Jason breaks in seconds. “You said I could go see the shelters. I go every few days, Bruce, you know that.”
The scrutiny persists for a minute, before a loud sigh. “Teenagers need sleep.”
Jason makes a skeptical sound. “Do as I say? Really?”
Bruce’s eyes do something off an aborted roll. “Touché. You get two hours.”
Jason doesn’t bother hiding his own massive eye-roll. “Yes, Dad,” he drawls.
Bruce presses his lips together in that little fond smile of his he thinks Jason can’t parse. Jason takes it as permission and turns away to start skipping down the drive.
“Jaylad.”
“What?” he hollers.
“Stay safe.”
He turns, walking backwards, and gives a jaunty salute.
“Always, Old man,” he smirks.
…
Crime Alley is sprawling: dusty, dank alleys and rusted fire escapes. The collection of apartments is a well-worn thing, a preloved jacket, sown on with patches, mended and stitched and passed down, ragged, fraying and somehow still there.
The ugliest part of Gotham, but it still shines, bathed in gold. The sun does not discriminate. Jason feels something settle in his chest as he passes the threshold, a feeling older than he is.
He walks with intention, cutting across paths and slinking through cut chain fences until he finds the building he’s looking for. It’s not the shelter. The shelter opens for volunteers at 5. Bruce knows this, but he pretends he doesn’t for Jason’s sake.
It’s one of their unspoken rules, the lines in the sand, boundaries.
He gets to keep his secret if he stays safe and comes home smiling. He also gets to keep his secret for as long as Bruce tries and fails to figure it out. It’s their little game. And Jason thinks, with a grin, that Bruce is never going to win it.
He jumps to grab the fire escape and hauls himself up, knee by knee, arm by arm, palms wrapped around iron, forgoing the paltry structure of the stairs. This way is quicker anyway. Blood starts pumping energy through his veins as he climbs.
He reaches the roof and throws a leg up, with his hands grabbing at gravel. The stones sink into skin, rough and familiar. Jason rolls onto it with a grunt before twisting to stand.
He shakes off the rocks on his leather jacket, the massive black coat dusty with the evidence of his travel.
The air-conditioning unit on the far side of the roof groans. Jason grins. He drags his backpack along until he gets there, dropping into crossed legs with a grunt.
“No hello?” he asks, teasing.
“Took you long enough.”
Jason laughs.
“Okay, who spat in your breakfast this morning?”
The boy beside him rolls his eyes. “Robin,” he grumbles.
Jason’s brow raises. “Robin?”
“He did a cool flip.”
Jason squints. He ruffles the kid’s hair, “I’m not exactly seeing the problem, Timmy.”
Annoyed electric eyes narrow at him. “He did a cool flip and I didn’t take a picture,” Tim elaborates.
“Ah,” Jason says, halfway understanding, but also, “... why not?”
Tim crosses his arms, lips thinning. He kicks out, glaring at the lump of black at his foot. “Stupid thing ran out of battery.”
“Woah,” interjects Jason, reaching over to save the camera bag from Tim’s abuse, “Don’t kick it!”
“It betrayed me,” the boy says, quiet and serious.
Jason snorts and the ire is turned on him.
“Hey.” He drapes an arm around Tim’s shoulders, jostling him. “Robin will do another one, right?”
“It was an amazing shot, Jason,” Tim gripes, “I won’t get the chance again- it was like he was doing it just for the camera.”
Jason fights not to smile. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” agrees the younger, despondent.
“He’ll do one better,” Jason promises, watching the sky sink into orange. He turns to meet Tim’s eyes. “You trust Robin, don’t you?”
“Always.”
“Good.”
They sit there, letting the air pull lightly at their clothes and skim gently across their faces. Jason pulls out his MP3. “What song?”
“A good one.”
“How specific of you.”
“Britney Spears.”
“That’s not a song.”
“Don’t be daft.”
“We Will Rock You, it is.”
“Again?”
“It’s good!” Jason defends, swatting at Tim’s head.
The kid ducks, shoving at him. Jason tips backward, laughing. “I just brushed my hair, Jay!”
“It looks like a bird’s nest.”
Jason grunts, still snickering as Tim’s weight crashes into his chest. They grapple on the dusty roof, Tim trying to pin him down and Jason slipping out with a tease.
“You’re gonna pull a muscle, squirt.”
“Worry about yourself,” Tim declares, frown twitching up into a smile, subtle but soaked in mischief.
Jason pauses, trepidation flickering in his chest.
“Tim…” he warns.
The boy launches at him again, fingers primed to tickle.
“TIM!” Jason shrieks, “That’s cheating, you moron!”
“All is fair in war,” the boy sing-songs.
Queen’s percussion beats thump in the background, underneath Freddie Mercury’s gritty hollering .
Tim lets up when Jason’s out of breath, tilting back on his knees as the older boy gasps for air. Jason’s face is flush with mirth and Tim is smiling that restrained smile he lets people see sometimes, when he’s too happy to hide it. Kind of like Bruce.
“How are your parents?”
Tim sends him a look. “Jay.”
Jason raises his arms in surrender. “My bad.”
“How’s Bruce?”
Jason huffs. “Just as awkward as the day I met him.”
Tim shrugs, settling backwards and crossing his legs. “He’s nice.”
“He is. A little out of touch but he’s kind.”
Tim snorts. “Paying a hundred for a water bottle isn’t just a little out of touch.”
Jason kicks at him half-heartedly. “Says you, Bristol boy.”
“I would never pay a hundred for a water bottle, even if my life depended on it.”
“Not reassuring, squirt,” Jason informs him, “Besides, it was probably gourmet water.”
Tim staggers to his feet, lending a hand down to pull Jason up.
“It’s not,” he refutes, walking back over to sit by the AC unit- the wind hits the best there, whipping through their hair. “Penn’s just adds steriliser to tap water.”
“Ew,” remarks Jason, “That’s not healthy. The elite would never let them.”
Tim raises a brow. “The elite would eat bird droppings if someone plated it on gold.”
Jason scrunches his face at the description. “Speaking from experience?”
“You wanna keep that breath you just caught?”
“Aye, sir. Apologies.”
He pulls off his jacket and bundles it up, pillowing it behind him before laying down. “How did ya figure it out?”
“I’ve got pictures.”
“No kidding. That’s awesome, Tim. You gonna report on it?”
There’s some shuffling before Tim’s fluffy hair joins him a few inches down. “Nah,” he tells the clouds. “I got kicked out of GA’s editorial.”
Jason snaps to sit up, looking down at the boy laid beside him. “You what?”
Tim shrugs against the gravel. “Martin’s Diner sued Gotham Academy for my last article. Said it was libel.”
Jason scowls. “It’s not libel if it’s true though!”
“Truth is subjective in the media,” Tim informs him neutrally. “They were right. I should have taken it to the GCPD instead of publishing it- pictures aren’t rock solid evidence in a place like Gotham.”
“Please,” scoffs Jason, “Everyone knows the GCPD owns all of Gotham’s criminal coffers.”
Tim smirks. “Who says ‘coffers’ nowadays?”
“Don’t change the subject.”
“I could have told Jim,” Tim sighs.
Jason stares at him. Tim stares at the clouds. Neither of their eyes meet. He finally lays back down.
“I’ll deal with it.”
“No you won’t.”
“Tim-”
“Martin’s has legal backing, which makes them right, Jason. Leave it at that.”
He hasn’t heard something more inaccurate in the past week.
“Because you care so much about legality.”
There’s no answer.
Jason wants to argue.
But it’s Tim, so he lets it slide.
___
They hit the streets at 4:30am like clockwork, Tim’s infinitesimal grin growing imperceptibly as the wind buffets his face and rips through his clothes, rocks skittering away from the wheels of his skateboard.
Jason laughs as he overtakes him, crossing the younger boy’s path by a hairsbreadth to avoid a pothole and sticking his tongue out when Tim scowls.
The boards rattle under their weight, each outpacing the other, eager to get to the finish line. “Car!” shouts Tim, before Jason turns back. He blinks at the Corolla turning into their lane.
“Jason, turn!”
Jason looks back at Tim. The car keeps driving towards him. He wiggles his eyebrows. “Watch.”
The board speeds up. Tim makes a strangled sound. The car’s horn blares emphatically. Jason flips onto the curb a metre before meeting the fender, electricity coursing through his veins as he cackles away the loud cursing of the grump behind the wheel.
“This is a one-way dipstick!” he calls, twisting to look back. “Get a license!”
A gust of air passes his left with a whoosh and Jason curses as Tim gains half a road ahead of him. “Hey! Not fair!”
Tim spares a glance backward, unimpressed. “Would have been if you weren’t too busy picking fights.”
“He’s not following the law!” whines Jason, kicking off again. “Aren’t you all about that?”
Tim huffs but doesn’t deign him with a response, turning back to look where he’s going, a lot more cautious than Jason.
“Do I at least get points for the near-miss? That was a cool trick.”
“No points for idiocy.”
He gasps, placing a hand to his chest. “You take that back.”
Tim slows a little as they skate past Ms Olivier’s house, to wave at the tabby in the window, and Jason abuses it to catch up.
“Points for the flip at least, come on. Or are you scared, Jackson?”
He can see the indignation settle in the tiniest crease of the boy’s eyes, and he keeps the fist pump of victory internal.
Tim stomps his foot down and twists. The board launches into the air, before both kid and board come down onto the nearby bike stand, skidding along one of the racks. Jason’s eyebrows fly up. “Careful,” he murmurs, reaching out reflexively.
Tim only smirks. The rack runs out and he jumps back to the ground smoothly, still a good two feet in front of Jason.
“How’s that for a flip?”
Jason tries to roll his eyes but he ends up smiling. “It was very impressive.”
Tim preens like a bird. “Points for me and I’m still ahead.”
He can’t help his faux-affronted scoff. “Oh you’re on, shortstack.”
There’s another horn behind them. It sounds hella close, kickstarting his heart into high gear. The Corolla’s back for round two. It’s coming right at him.
Jason only has the time to think, ‘that moron- he’s going to kill me’.
There’s a squeal of rubber grazing tarmac and the scent of engine smoke in the air. The gust of wind crashes across the entirety of his body. The fender practically makes contact, or maybe that’s just Jason, preparing for it, mentally, so the pain hits less suddenly. An arm wraps around his torso, a misleadingly skinny band of muscle and he’s yanked away as the car whips past his vision, the pressure of the encounter stealing the breath from his lungs.
Jason just hangs there, blinking dumbly as he cruises around in a circle, still floating, and is deposited on his board, which continues to roll forward, indifferent to his possible death.
The corolla is but a speck in the distance. There’s a beat of them just trundling forward, Tim slowed down to match him.
“I kinda wanna chase him down.”
Tim clicks his tongue, expecting the statement. “Don’t.”
Jason crosses his arms, trying to squeeze his heart back into his chest. “I’m gonna kill the idiot.”
“No you aren’t.”
Jason turns to him, fired up, ready to argue. But Tim's sharp eyes are still focused on the horizon where the car disappeared. “I have the plates.”
He tilts his head at Jason. “Besides. You gonna cop out?”
Jason opens his mouth. Then presses it shut. The car is more important than the stupid race. But Tim can already see Jason trying to weigh up the hurts to his ego so he only raises a brow and pushes forward.
“See you later, slowpoke.”
____
He’s whooping by the time they make it to the chillidog stand, sliding to a stop right by the bench and dropping to take a seat, face red but posture relaxed, like he’s been there a while.
A minute later Tim’s board comes skidding around the corner; the look in the little boy’s eyes is absolute murder.
He’s coming towards the bench at top speed. Jason waits for a minute. The waiting turns to anticipation as ten feet becomes seven. Then to anxiety as seven becomes four. Pride doesn’t let him stand, even though he’s itching to. Tim has to turn, right? He wouldn’t do that after the car.
Four becomes two. Two becomes zero and Jason remembers Tim is a crazy mothertrucker. He yelps as the boy hurtles onto the bench and they both go over the other side in a groaning bundle of limbs.
“You cheater!” shouts Tim. “You edged me into the ditch!”
“It was strategic!” he defends, even as all the mud from Tim’s ditchy adventure gets rubbed onto his shirt and his face is too muffled in the other boy’s torso to hear anything. “Ger off me!”
“Not until you admit you lost,” Tim declares, pulling back and seating himself right on Jason’s chest. Jason could totally throw him off.
He snarks instead. “Ditching wasn’t against the rules, little Al.”
He gets a punch to his shoulder and groans dramatically. “Ouch.”
“It would be if you had a code of honor.”
That makes him giggle. “Code of honor? In the alley, Al? Really?”
“He’s got you there,” comes a grumble.
Mr Kim is watching them behind the chillidog stand, towel flipped over his shoulder and beefy arms crossed over his chest. “Draper boys,” he greets. “Stop causin’ a commotion at my stand and get your orders. Is bad for business.”
Tim grumbles something in lieu of cussing Jason out and stands, reprimanded. Jason grins and dusts himself off. “So I still win, right?”
A piece of sweetcorn bounces dead-centre off his forehead. He looks at Mr Kim in betrayal. The graying man just raises a disappointed brow. “Don’t antagonise your brother,” he chides, in Universal Dad voice.
Jason concedes with a huff. He skips up to the stand. “Order for Simon?”
A chillidog flush with jalapenos and cheese under the chilli gets thrust in his hand. Tim eyes his order. Jason’s lip rises goadingly. The smaller kid walks up to the stand and puffs out his chest. “I want jalapenos this time, Mr Kim,” he announces.
Mr Kim stares at him. “You sure, Al?” he checks, blatantly unconvinced.
“I am,” insists Tim.
___
Jason snorts at Tim’s face. It’s funnier because his actual expression is completely solemn, but the line of snot running down his nose gives away how much his sinuses must be torturing him.
“Give it to me, Alvin. You don’t have to prove anything.”
Tim shakes his head. “I like jalapenos,” he lies.
“Mhm. And I’m the Queen of England. Give me the chillidog shortstack.”
Tim bristles, holding eye contact and taking another huge bite. There’s a minute of intentional chewing before he swallows.
“I’m not that much shorter than you. I’m actually within the acceptable range for my age. You’re not, so proportionally you’re the short one,” he posits.
Jason leans over and pulls back his index finger before landing a singular flick on one of Tim’s jalapenos. It gets about a solid 5 seconds of air time before going splat on Tim’s forehead.