"What do you want?"
"Come on, Jason. Just talk to me."
It was snowing in Gotham. Even in the heart of the city, the snowplows and salted roads barely managed to keep the space on the street directly behind them bare, small canyons of snow forming on the sidewalks that only the (honestly, maybe fool-) hardiest of travelers of the night would risk trekking through, the gargoyles on each decorative face of the city's buildings dangerously slick with snow, each quatrefoil collecting specks to later melt and run down the great stone cliffs of walls they were carved into. But despite it all, cars were still somehow making their way back to their homes, attempting to line themselves up next to the crowded, nearly snowed-in apartments after a long day of being pelted in front of an office, if they were not sheltered by the brief reprieve of a still-snowy parking garage.
But over here? In this part of the city? Half of the run-down streetlights flat-out refused to turn on. They probably hadn't felt the glow of a warm, lit bulb in more winters than he had been here for. And those that did had an equal chance of turning on as they did incessantly flickering, if not being shut down by the blanket of snow that turned looking around into less a natural part of life and more a game of chance. The apartments appeared nearly vacant, but a step inside would reveal that they were far from it, in fact. Entire families lived in squalor here, all the windows sealed shut with tape and insulated with rags and dirty towels, anything to keep what little residual heat remained, inside. Of course, all of this was only if a window was still functional, still in one piece. If a window was shattered, the accompanying room was abandoned in search of any meager improvement in shelter from the sweltering winds, and the bitter, ripping cold that came in tandem.
There were houses in the same, or worse, condition. Small businesses, corner stores, liquor shops, a few joints to get food, cell repair shops- all closed. They'd been closed for the better part of this week, the snowplows only coming through this area once a day, towards the evening. At that point, they had thought, why even bother opening up? Despite that, the metal gates were still lowered over the windows, over the entrances to the shops, smaller portcullises guarding treasures worth much less than the rest of gothic Gotham's sacred jewels, but much more personally valuable. The sanctity of a single one of these small places, he thought, was worth more than any skyscraper by the bay. Who cared about a view of Metropolis when it sucked every ounce of heart from your soul?
Probably, the people who had to give an eye and an arm to be over there, to live that life. These people.
"Quit talking to me, verga."
"Fine. I won't say a word."
This neighborhood was particularly bad. It bordered right on the city, and was known far and wide as a place to avoid. Right on the hood's edge was a small street, where the local name for the area was from: "The Park", named after Park Row. But recently, things had changed. Locals were referring to the area now as "Parque Sangriento." Bloody Park. Violence wasn't notably up in the area; honestly, it had gone down quite a bit. No, no, the name was for one reason: The Red Hood made his presence known here. People knew not to sell on these streets, not to pull up anywhere around the block; at best, a trip to the infirmary was all but guaranteed. And at worse? Well, the people who peddled brick in this area before he took over found out firsthand. And second hand. And then through every toe on their foot, every bone in their arm, every strand of hair, and some, the particularly vile, through every inch of skin.
But none of that could happen right now. Right now, he knew, things were quiet. Through the howling of the wind, you could almost hear the snow stacking on the cracked sidewalks and marred pavement below. And looking at the apartment, seeing a single, solitary streak of light from a flickering candle inside, only confirmed that, no. The Red Hood would not be prowling on the rooftops today. He would not be in the dark corner of the alley, waiting to bust a handoff. He would not be busting down doors, raiding armories. Nothing of the sort. But they didn't know that. If anything, around this time of year, he grew even more violent. Even your everyday purse-snatcher had to risk adding a trip to the hospital to their usual trip to the floor of the alley, then the back of a cruiser. They didn't know why. They just knew- in the New Year, keep your head down. Or it might get knocked off. They didn't know why. They just knew. But looking down at the window, still scuffed from being left unkempt, but newer than the others around it, he understood. He knew.
There was another unspoken law, here in this part of the city: the seventh floor of complex 5 off the boulevard was vacant. No residents. Not even squatters. Not even a manged rat, starving for a morsel and desperate to survive. Nothing that lived EVER entered the seventh floor. They didn't know it was because whoever died there didn't either. And there he was with her, a walking corpse. A husk of a man, a zombie who, no matter how much muscle he developed, shambled around like a drug mummy in a haze whenever he came to this place. But as Jason Todd stepped over to the window, staring down at the frozen streets below, before closing the curtain after a quick surveying of the surrounding rooftops, Dick backed away, laying down, and sighed. They might now know. But he was one of the few. He knew.
"I'll never talk to him again unless it's at gunpoint. Maybe won't even make the mistake twice."
"I wouldn't call it a mistake, Jason. It's no mistake that you're alive."
There he stood. There wasn't much left in there anymore. Just a mildew-ridden, rotting pink recliner in a corner by the windows. Next to it was a small wooden table and a tall, skinny lamp, its once complete golden paint job faded and tattered, revealing the decaying metal underneath. A small rug, damp and moldy, lay at the foot of the chair, its colors tattered and fading. The table was barren, all except for the helmet, and the picture. In the far end of the room was a rickety nightstand, a single drawer left inside, legs uneven and otherwise vacant. Jason took a deep breath, then sat, leaning forward on the edge of the chair, staring at the photo. He'd been here for about an hour now, just staring. Standing, sitting, staring all the while. He lost focus for a moment, his eyes flickering to the window, before staring back at the photo. But whatever had distracted him made him lose the moment. He closed his eyes, focusing on his breathing. Then, with a strained huff, he pushed himself up and off the sofa, stepping towards the nightstand.
As he opened the drawer, he heard the wind behind him pick up, felt the cold breeze grazing against his skin, saw the petals drifting into his vision. It all stopped just as quickly. He didn't, grabbing a small picture frame. It was his parents, happy. Without a wrinkle on their faces, without an ounce of scorn, or hatred, or bitterness, or regret. Faces he didn't recognize. Faces that only existed in a time he never knew. Faces that belonged to people he didn't even get to know. Two-Face was a lot of things. Poetic was always one of them.
"What do you want?"
"Just… to be there."
Jason stopped for a moment. Then, dropping the photo back into the drawer, he slammed it shut, spinning and jabbing a finger directly at Dick's face. "Fine! Then go ahead. Maybe you can enjoy the company, since I can't on my own." Jason rolled his eyes, grabbing his helmet, but stopping when he saw Dick's hand up there, felt it attempting to keep him from pulling away.
"Jason, plea-"
"No!"
Jason snatched his helmet off the table.
"No."
He put the helmet back on, turning away from Dick.
"I don't know what you want from me, Dick. But don't bother. If you wanted me to listen to a word you've got to say, you're either ten years too early, or ten months too late. Just hearing your 'honey-sweet' voice makes me want to turn the inside of my helmet into a trash can. So please, go ahead. I'll be on my way. Enjoy your little not-so-familial-reunion. Be a lot better without me, I bet."
Jason stomped off, slamming the door shut behind him.
After a few moments, the nightstand fell over, its front legs finally giving out.
Nightwing stood there, a few beats, his heart swaying in his chest like a boat lost at sea, his breathing as steady as a lighthouse's pulsing beams. He picked up the nightstand, keeping the drawer closed as he lifted it, placing it back into the exact position it had buried for itself in the dust-covered floor. When he had arrived, each disruption in the sea of dust was itself an oasis, a sign of life in a desert of decay and abandonment. But now, staring at the disheveled marching leading to the forcefully-used door, Dick saw no poetry. There was no artful way to describe what was left behind. Just feeling. Just a sense of seething detestation, of fiery self-hatred, of abandonment. Of loss.
Dick looked, for a moment, at the drawer. Then, the door. He could catch up to Jason. There was so much to say. He still had bruises from fighting Bruce after he found out what happened. He missed Jason, and he knew Jason needed someone. Something. Anything that would keep him from what he had turned into, and turn him away from what he could become.
As silently as he came, he left.
There Jason sat.
He opened the drawer again.
There were the two photos.
One, of his mother and father. They both stayed. And god, no matter how much he loved them, not a day went by where he didn't wish they could have left him as well.
Jason got up from the chair she died in. Every time he sat back, sank into it, he could feel himself suffocating, his lungs slowing down, his heart stopping, his vision blinking out the same way hers did. Even on the edge, he could feel himself teetering on the brink. But every year, on this, this cold day in February, he returned. He embraced the feeling, as a reminder. On this day, in the cold, one year ago, his mother overdosed. And where was he? Off gallivanting somewhere. Sticking some stupid fuck up for a couple dollars, jacking some poor sap out of enough food to get a meal and a hit for her.
May she rest in peace, he thought. May she be dead not as she lived: alone.
The other photo, even colder, draining even more of the heat from his hands, sapping even more of his warmth, of his strength-
No.
He loved them both. But he couldn't stand to look at them right now.
The brother he always wanted, the father he never had.
Both, if he had a say in it, as dead to him as his mother.
Jason opened the window.
It was cold.