Chapter Text
Sometimes, Jason hates his predecessor.
Dick Grayson, the shining beacon of hope, the light to Batman’s shadow, the insufferable jackass who had refused to factor in pants when he was designing the costume Jason was no doubt going to freeze to death in.
It was snowing in Gotham, which should have been cause for celebration. Snow meant a day off from school to spend curled over a cup of hot cocoa and a good book before building snowmen in the garden and trying to pelt Bruce with as many snowballs as he could before the man inevitably shoved him into a snowbank. Snow meant Dick ignoring all travel advisories and coming over to see how fast they could get the sled to go down the hill without breaking their necks.
Snow also meant shivering on a rooftop on patrol and cursing idiot older brothers who really shouldn’t have been allowed to have so much control over their outfits.
Maybe he could find a parka in Robin’s signature colors, Jason wonders as he pulls his cape tight around his narrow shoulders. Or snow pants. There’s got to be somewhere in Gotham that sells matching snow pants. If he wasn’t so terrified of Dick losing his mind about it, Jason would turn the whole damn thing into a snowsuit.
A hand comes down to ruffle snowflakes from his hair, but Jason doesn’t flinch. He would know the sound of Batman’s approach anywhere, and he leans into the warmth of the contact.
“I’m going to kill Dick,” he mutters darkly as he tries and fails to regain feeling in his toes. “Why did you let him run around without pants?”
Batman offers a rare chuckle as he settles down onto the edge of the rooftop. “I tried to get him to at least wear a pair of tights. I was unsuccessful. Obviously.”
Jason knows he isn’t Dick. He, unlike some people, is capable of standing still. He doesn’t fidget, constantly shifting his weight from foot to foot like Nightwing does when he sometimes joins them on patrol. Dick is constantly moving, staying loose and stretched, flexible in a way that makes Jason’s joints hurt to just watch. It’s no surprise that the Boy Wonder was never cold in his suit; he never stayed still long enough for a chill to settle in his bones.
“Are you cold?” Batman asks carefully, as though he’s scared of the answer. Jason knows why; if he’d asked Dick the same question, he probably would have hurled a crackling escrima stick straight at Batman’s head. Jason, however, is not Dick.
“I’m fucking freezing,” he hisses in reply.
Batman laughs again and lifts the edge of his cape. “Come on, lad. We’ve got a long night, and I’d prefer working with a Robin who isn’t an icicle.”
The space between the cape and Batman’s body is deliciously warm, and Jason crawls into Batman’s lap with a contented sigh. Dark fabric wraps around him entirely, protecting him from the vicious wind. He wriggles down further, tucking his nose below the cape’s hem, leaving nothing exposed except for a domino mask and a mop of wind-tousled hair.
Batman rests his chin on Jason’s head, and that is how they stay as they keep an eye on the alley below. They’re trying to catch some new drug pushers in the act of a sale, and they’ve spent most of the week sitting on rooftops and waiting for the action to happen. To Batman’s dismay, they’ve been pulled away every time, far off screams or sirens alerting them to a crime both of them are incapable of turning a blind eye to. And so here they sit in the cold, waiting once again.
They don’t talk. Jason likes it this way. He likes listening to the sounds of the city at night, finds comfort in the chaos that he can never find at the Manor. The Manor is deafeningly quiet, so quiet that Jason had begged for a noise machine just so he could sleep without being suffocated by the silence that hangs heavy in every room.
Jason closes his eyes, trusts Batman to watch the street, and lets himself listen. There, a few streets over, a food vendor is playing music in a language Jason doesn’t know. He and Batman frequent that truck often, trying not to drip tahini on their capes as they stuff their faces with warm pita and spiced lamb.
Below, Jason can just make out the sound of someone playing guitar, their apartment window slightly cracked despite the cold, gentle chords leaking out into the night air.
Voices drift up from the streets, taxis blare their horns, and Jason listens, drinking in the sounds of the city he adores with every fibre of his being. He is Robin, and he protects Gotham in a way that Batman never could, because Batman could never know Gotham like Jason does. Bruce protects the city fiercely, but he never listens to her like Jason listens.
There is an unfamiliar noise mixed in with the sounds of the city, and Jason strains his ears to try and identify it. It’s a quiet, steady rhythm that Jason doesn’t realize is a heartbeat until he has pressed his ear right to the kevlar on Bruce’s chest.
“Robin?”
“Shh.” Jason brings up a hand to slap over Batman’s mouth. “I’m listening.”
“To what?” Batman’s lips move against his palm, and Jason quickly pulls it away. He likes to think that Batman wouldn’t lick him the way that Dick does, but he can’t be too careful.
Jason closes his eyes. “To your heartbeat. It’s…nice.”
He feels the laugh Batman lets out more than he hears it, a soft rumble in Batman’s chest that makes Jason’s stomach feel all funny and warm.
Jason taps the rhythm with one finger on Batman’s breastplate, right over where his heart should be. Biology class has never been Jason’s favorite. The idea of staring at a picture of a human body and imagining organs sloshing around beneath his own skin and muscle sort of makes Jason want to hurl, but listening to Batman’s heart doesn’t make bile rise in the back of his throat.
Instead, Jason imagines himself crawling into the space behind Bruce’s ribs, between his lungs, and curling right around his heart. He imagines how warm it would be, nestled next to his pulse, and wonders if the reason Dick never wore pants is because he, too, wanted to wrap himself in the warmth of their father’s heartbeat and fall asleep there.
Large hands bring Jason’s head away from Batman’s chest, and he huffs before falling silent as Bruce lifts away part of his cowl so that he can rest his ear right above Jason’s own heart.
“What’s it sound like?” Jason asks, keeping his voice to a whisper.
“Strong. Steady,” Batman replies. “What does mine sound like?”
Jason thinks for a moment, then smirks. “It sounds like the heartbeat of a neglectful father who really shouldn’t be letting his son run around in shorts during a blizzard.”
Batman laughs, and Jason lets the sound of it chase away the rest of the cold.