He should’ve trimmed his nails before leaving.
Snow mixes with the dirt beneath them, sharp prickles of ice against his fingertips. He's tried to clean them out to no avail, with the rest of them blunted by the debris packed under each one. Too fucking damaged to help each other.
Jason knows he should be working on selling the rest of his product, his matches. Not standing around, staring at his nails like he's one of the working girls, with their long sparkly acrylics.
But the pain is just. So. Distracting.
He leans against the brick wall behind him, a few steps away from the shattered glass windows in front of Mackenzie's boutique, her mannequins fallen and her dresses torn all across the sidewalk. Jason had tried to tell her it wasn't a good idea. That the small inheritance money she'd gotten wasn't worth wasting on her dream store so close to Crime Alley. But you're just a kid, she'd said, not some upstate financial advisor. He didn't know a thing about smart business, apparently.
In the end, it seems like that's true for the both of them. He feels a spike of paranoia in his chest, and reaches down to pat his pockets. One with his book, phew; and the other still full of matches. Good, no pickpocketing—but also bad, 'cause no selling.
He hears a shuffle, a crunch in the snow, and looks over, squinting through the mist. Over near the corner of the block, Mackenzie is sitting there, head down, fumbling with something hidden past her brunette bird’s nest of a head. Jason slowly walks over, careful to avoid the shards of glass blending so well into the whitened ground. His shoes are worn, to the most bare of mesh soles, flimsily clinging to the friction of the socks on his small feet.
“Fuck!” Mackenzie yells ahead of him, “those fucking bastards took my lighter too?”
This is it—he darts closer—the fourth sale of the whole day, and the first one of the night.
“Here, Ms. Stewart,” Jason calls out, holding out a hand, “you can use this match.”
Mackenzie looks up, revealing the joint in her hands, haphazardly rolled and balancing on her right knee. She lurches forward, wrinkled fingers flying towards his own—but Jason yanks his hand back, like he's just escaped the teeth of his neighbour’s dog. “Jay,” she snarls.
“Ah-ah. These cost a penny.”
Mackenzie glares again, face haggard, but draws back to search through her pockets. “Only a penny? You went that far down from a dime?”
“Guess we're both down in the dumps on this fuckin' business thing, huh.”
“Yeah yeah. Shut your mouth, kid.”
They swap items. Coin for stick. And Jason lets her strike the match against his box—a friendship discount—instead of trying to scrape the red tip all over the damp bricks. He waits until she starts to smoke, then ducks out to get away from the smell.
If he comes home smelling like weed, Dad will assume he's wasted his meagre earnings on worthless fun for himself. He doesn't know why he's even bothering to worry about it, he thinks—trudging through sludge, walking aimlessly towards the next corner stop—it's getting late now, and if he wants to survive the beating he'll get when he returns home, his only choice is to hope for a miracle to happen.
Jason doesn't believe in miracles.
Not this year.
Not since his Mom.
He probably shouldn't go back. It's too risky with all the gambling debt his Dad is in right now. And after Mackenzie, he'd like to say his risk management isn't as childish as she thinks. So he… just needs to get through the night. Maybe two nights. There's bound to be people looking for new ways to light their fireworks. Jason pauses to look at the open deli next to him, advertising all kinds of sparklers and candles and rockets, softly glowing under their festive decor.
Even if they have their lighters on them, he can just convince them that a match would be cooler. He knows he can do it. He's a good salesman, the opportunities just need to come back.
When the caped crusader had first appeared in Gotham, Jason hadn't worried. Mostly because he was a toddler, but once he was old enough to understand the hushed gossip among his fellow Gothamites, he'd become enamoured with the stories of the little sidekick following that mysterious shadow around.
The Robin.
But… something had changed. And now the maze of alleys—that outline the blocks that Jason calls home—are gushing with blood on the daily, bruising and beaten by the lone shadow's crusade. He should be happy for it all—that the nicer people aren't so afraid to walk outside anymore, safe from being torn apart by the wolves now that the cape has hyper-focused on a new domain—but none of that matters to him when almost nothing has fucking changed.
His Dad still gambles, still works for Two-Face. Still hits him behind closed doors, or in the day when the capes aren't out to overhear; drinks himself silly and never brings home enough takeout for their empty fridge.
Apparently 'The Bat' can't get its claws anywhere near the casinos—and okay, fine, he gets it; politicians are harder to take down than random crooks on the street and all. But right now? With his toes all cold, and his fingers searing from ice, Jason wishes the shadow hadn't come after any of the pickpockets, the muggers or thieves of the neighbourhood. He wishes it’d stuck to big guns. The Arkham escapees. The supervillains.
He just wants to go home, to his ratty blankets and stuffed bears, to Sparky; enough to keep warm despite the broken heater. But with only a few pennies to show for all his work—barely enough to jingle as he walks, sitting stowed away in the secret compartment behind his waistband—he knows he won't survive it. Not if his Dad has his way. And especially not when everyone next door is pregaming up for their parties.
No one would hear him scream.
Crossing the slippery road, Jason turns to head deeper, away from lights of The Bowery and the sullen stores filling the district. Mocking him with their carolling tunes still playing over their loudspeakers, so long after Christmas. Fucking ugh. Yuck. At the very least, the celebrations have yet to spill out onto the streets, so they’re empty for now until the people are drunk enough to face the rapidly rising snow. He’d been upset about it earlier, with barely any customers to find, let alone needy ones; but now, he’s glad for it.
It’s easier to navigate the streets like this, even as it grows darker, with all his attention focused on the weather, instead of dodging light fingers and wandering hands.
Speaking of the weather…
He can feel the wind picking up; here, out in the open, blowing fog between the buildings and stinging against his eyes, sending his scarf billowing behind him. Jason blinks and scrubs at his face, frowning when nothing happens. He touches his hand to his face again, and realises he can’t feel either of them.
Shit.
A deep inhale, and shaky cupping of his hands later, he’s blowing out a hot breath against them, warming them just enough that when he brushes his own eyelashes again, he can feel his skin catching against frost forming there. Little glass beads along his tear ducts.
Jason needs to find shelter. He read a manual on this once, in the public library. The rules of survival; air, shelter, water, food. Number two is the only thing he needs to prioritise—unless Scarecrow shows up to gas the area—he can always eat some of the snow for water, or scavenge the dumpsters for food. It’s easy. He’s done it before—well, maybe not the snow thing—but none of that really matters.
He only needs to make it through a day or two, then he’ll be back in business. The Bat probably has a new years party to attend after all, he’s sure the Justice League have some kind of event. Maybe a gala. Or a private thing with whatever family the shadow has behind the mask. When the streets are full again he can try pickpocketing the rest of what he needs, a few quarters here and there. He can’t—
He can’t see very well. Touching the closest building, he runs his fingers along the rough surface until he’s turning sharply into a narrow alley. The burn in his eyes and nose stops, and he lets out a quiet sigh.
Looking around, he sees the silver shine of a garbage can peeking out from under the snow, and pulls on the flattened cardboard box haphazardly stuck behind it. He places it on the ground, to protect himself from the needles—smiling when he confirms the layers are thick enough to not instantly grow soft with water—and takes a seat, bunching up as best he can when more shivers wrack his body.
Fuck it. Might as well.
Jason uncurls slightly, groaning when some of the matches slip from his pocket and onto his platform. A few roll off into the snow, destroying themselves of their use. He picks one of the dry ones up, and pulls the box out to light it.
It comes alive. The brightness burns less blindingly than the snow had done during the day. It’s comforting, yellow like the dress Mom liked to wear when she was sober.
Like… the cape of a Robin.
There’s a loud stomp overhead, and Jason flinches, looking up just in time to see the shadow leap across the rooftops surrounding him, before landing with a thud and disappearing out of sight, in the direction of The Bowery. His mouth crooks into a smile, still a little stiff. Well, looks like his Justice League theory was wrong. The Bat is just as antisocial as everyone thought he was.
There’s nothing to see above anymore. The smog has taken care of all the stars—it doesn't make a difference; Jason has never seen them so he can hardly miss them now. It’s dark, he realises, after a dog barks in the distance, and looks down to see that the match has been blown out by his shuffling.
He lights another.
Jason tilts his head, gazing at the flame. It dances in front of him, uncaring of the shitty situation he’s in, twisting this way and that. He turns it slowly, careful not to let it burn out, watching as it morphs into another dancer, then another. Eventually, it burns down to his thumb, and he snuffs it in the snow.
He wants to see it again. Him again.
The next match is a little longer, a little rounder. It twirls between his fingers, and the yellow flutters into the shape of a cape, gently swaying in the small sliver of wind escaping into the alley. Jason leans back against the bricks, feeling the cardboard beneath him slowly soak through, down the middle at his heaviest. He watches the Robin dance and flip across the void, sparking through the night without a care. The smoke hugging it almost looks like a pair of dark wings.
“You’re not afraid of the shadows, are you?” Jason mumbles, “they protect you.”
The flame dies again; and Jason remembers.
“Oh, that’s right.”
The Bat hadn’t protected him. At least according to the rumours. No ones seen Robin for months, and there’s been no new Gotham capes on scene either. Just the Batgirl, who Jason doesn’t really think is much of a kid anymore at this point.
Maybe Robin had run away, sort of like what he’s doing now. Maybe the shadow is just as fucking bad as his Dad is too, only in private. It’s a believable idea, Jason wouldn’t want any of the other kids he knows around Two-Face’s goons either, even if he’s stuck living with one. Not that it matters, all their parents are the same kind of crooks too. But then again, The Bat has also never taken Robin so deep into Crime Alley before, at least not in any kind of way visible to Jason and the other residents.
It’s only now, after all this time, that the shadow has begun to patrol here more, alone; ruining Jason’s feeble earnings one punch at a time.
He shivers and strikes another match; then another, and another. Making his way through the bundle, trying not to envision the missing Robin as his eyes grow hazier.
It’s futile, he can’t help but see the boy wonder flutter to life each time he chances a look at the flame. He’s curious as to what his short life must have been like, the adventures and mysteries, whether he had a favourite blanket or stuffed bear or a dog to go home to, just like Jason.
He thinks they could’ve been friends.
It’s something he’s thought of before, embarrassing, wistful dreams of flying through the sky. Becoming one of the tinkering laughs echoing over the skyline.
Going home to a hot meal, a reward for his awesome heroics.
A bubble bath. A massage for all the aches and bruises.
…A better place to call home.
The cardboard is a soggy mess now, slowly icing over as the snowline creeps higher and higher, powdery flakes dusting over his hair and nose.
He really should’ve worn his hoodie instead.
His scarf is too short to wrap around both his head and neck, and with the way his fingers are beginning to cramp, he doesn’t know if he could unwind it even if he tried. There’s two matches left, the rest of the stumps are scattered around him in a wide arc, marking the spot like a fairy's ring of mushrooms.
If he could be stolen to another world right about now, he’d welcome it.
Jason lights the first match, and touches his finger to the white centre. He can’t feel the heat anymore. Closing a shaking hand around it, he braces it from the channel of the alley, trying to make the burn last. He should’ve done this with all of them, but he was too busy being enamoured by the light show, like a fucking idiot.
A moth stumbles past his barrier of fingers, and flies into the flame.
Jason sighs under his breath, slow enough as to not disturb it, curling closer, eyes drooping as the match turns to embers above his fingers.
The shift in his position makes something press uncomfortably against his thigh, and he blinks slowly, struggling to make sense of what he felt beyond the numbness. Pulling back, he reaches into his pocket, jerkily pulling out—
His book; the paperback copy of Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice his Mom had found in the library’s throwaway bin, with its dogged ears, missing pages and ink splattered spine. He’d kept it with him for the entirety of December, so that if anyone asked about the gifts he’s received he could pull it out to dissuade their pity.
It’s the last thing she gave him before she got too sick, and the only real kind of inheritance he’s been left with since she died a little less than a year ago, a few weeks into the new year.
He’s been planning to fake the missing pages and sell it, but he hasn’t found any paper with the same dimensions as the book so far, not that he’s been looking very hard, but at this point?
Jason flips through the pages in his hand, dimly lit by the city lights reflecting in the smog above.
His Mom wouldn’t care, right? He’d like to think she’d agree with his wish, to at least hear the fireworks. Even she had lasted long enough to for that, to watch them through the window beside her hospital bed. He doesn’t think his guesses would be good enough to fill in the gaps in the story anyway.
Scraping the final match against the row of red dots, he struggles to light it, hands trembling, and he loses his grip. The box falls into the snow, and he gasps, tearfully. He turns and scrapes the match across the brick instead, sobbing in relief when it finally sparks, chest heaving as his lungs ache, and—
A rumble fills the air.
Jason sits up, suspiciously, as a roar whirls past the alley; somewhat distant—but not by much. He hurries to protect the little embers, brushing the frozen, pathetic tears from under his eyes once he’s sure it’s survived the sudden scare.
He brings it to the corner of the book, and sets it on fire.
It doesn’t take much. The pages had stayed mostly dry in the deep pocket of his jeans, resting above his thigh instead of the damp patch below, and it only takes a small tug for the cover to tear off, falling to blend with the mush on the ground. Jason closes his eyes as he smells the burn of ink under the smoke, and slowly shifts to stand as he holds up the burning book.
The snow is up to his ankles, even in this shrouded spot between the buildings. He can see the slope of white grow higher near the entrance, but it doesn’t matter.
Rumbles are still coasting through the area, soft vibrations through walls, and purring under his feet. If there’s a working car nearby it has to be warm. Warmer than here at least.
He grits his teeth and takes a step, holding his book up like a torch. It’s almost a third-turned to ash now, he doesn’t have much time left to track down that car. Another step. Jason’s eyes widen; he can’t feel the snow anymore. Everything below his knees is so—
Fucking.
Numb.
But that’s good. Right? He breathes in slowly, holding the flames close to his face, melting the ice off his ears.
He can work with that, it doesn’t hurt anymore to walk this way. It’s helpful.
Heading deeper into the alley, he takes a turn to the right, grinning when the rumble grows louder. It’s only a quarter of a block before he makes the next turn, stumbling as the snow grows higher, reaching up to his calves.
Eventually, he grows to realise that despite the numbness, he can barely walk at all like this. It feels like dragging weights through the sand.
A tyre off the wheel. His Mom off the floor.
The rumbling cuts off, and he looks up, holding out his makeshift torch until he can shine a light on what’s ahead of him.
Sitting there, parked just beyond the sidewalk, is a black, strange looking car. Jason blinks slowly, stumbling forwards. It's naggingly familiar, like there’s something he should know about it, but it’s getting so cold he can hardly think. He doesn’t care if it’s the Joker’s own vehicle at this point, so long as it's warm.
He can’t even feel the way his teeth are chattering like he knows they are, he can’t feel anything but the reassuring beat of his heart as he struggles forward and out of the alley.
Fuck. It's as if he’s been walking for miles and miles, even if he knows logically it’s only been two corners.
Unless it wasn’t, he isn’t too sure anymore.
The sidewalk is no better, he’s almost swimming when he finally plops out of the snow. Gasping for breath and pressing his forehead against the car. The roads here aren’t salted—the Gotham city council doesn’t care—but there’s thankfully enough ploughs to go around, keeping them free of snow. He kneels on the icy ground, feeling it stick to the skin showing through the holes in his jeans.
His book is on the final stretch, and he holds it close as he looks under the car. The engine is off now, but there’s no ice beneath it yet, likely still warm from excess heat. Even the snowflakes are melting the moment they touch the windows of the car.
He leans over to lay down, between the curb and the edge of the car, facing the sky as he holds up his hand, watching as the final edges of Pride and Prejudice disappear from sight. A little Robin runs across the fading page, cartwheeling off the edge. He doesn’t bother dropping it, letting it burn into his hands, charring his palms. He can’t really feel anything anymore, and he wants to savour it until the end. So his Mom knows he really does appreciate it.
Did.
It tickles his skin, and he breathes in the smell of burning flesh replacing the ink.
Now with it gone, he rolls over, and like a worm; begins to slowly crawl under the car, letting out a sigh of relief when he feels the rush of warm air enter his lungs. The numbness is already beginning to fade, in the little pocket of warmth above the tar and gravel, and a grin cracks across Jason’s face.
“Awwee-some.”
He’s really done it. This is a way better shelter than what he’d set up before. If he’d found it sooner maybe he would've even been able to save the book for later.
But whatever. Things happen. His Mom would understand that; would understand the need for survival. He curls in closer, savouring the damp ground. If he angles his body just right, then even when the owner of the car comes back, they won’t be able to run him over—not accidentally at least.
Jason closes his eyes for a moment, rolling over to his back again to stare at the underworkings of the car. It’s too dark to really see anything, the light of the distant streetlamp can only do so much, and it’s not at the right angle to hit it from there regardless. He touches the metal. There’s something weird about the car, nothing about the design seems recognisable. It could just be his head, but you’d think he’d have enough experience to know, with all the car scrapping he’s assisted with.
He lays there quietly. Listening to the muffled cacophony of the night.
The shivering is gone, and his breathing is calming.
It’s starting to feel… warm.
Weirdly warm.
Reaching up to press against the undercarriage again, he frowns in confusion. Had the owner come back without him realising? Jason blinks lazily, he can’t feel or hear any rumbling, he can hardly hear a thing at all.
It keeps getting toastier, in increments. His red shirt itches against the road, so Jason rolls slowly to his side with a huff.
There's barely enough room to stay in this position for long, but he makes the squeeze.
It’s so dark under here, there's nothing really to see. When his hands touch the ground he feels the texture of ice—
…But that can’t be right. It's warm.
And it’s his neck, now, that's feeling smothered.
He unwinds his scarf, pulling it ‘round and ‘round, then bundles it up under his head, a shitty imitation of a pillow, but it’ll do for now. Jason doubts he’ll be able to sleep like this, not when he knows the city’s firework display is on the verge of beginning soon.
It’ll wake him up straight away, but he wants to try seeing them before the moment they launch; from the Wayne Tower in the distance, and the buildings beyond.
He doesn’t have a watch on him, so he won’t know for sure when it’s time to get up, but by the sounds of the celebration spewing out onto the streets, it shouldn’t be long now.
Maybe it’s a good thing he’s wearing nothing around his wrists, because the stickiness is getting worse.
Another tug brings his shirt up to his armpits. Fuck, his muscles are screaming at him, there’s so little room to manoeuvre under the car. It takes him another minute to claw it off.
He startles as a door slams somewhere, almost hitting his head, and a dog starts barking.
The sound of music floods the air, and he can hear the countdown now. There’s not much longer to go before he should climb out. Maybe if he gets on top of the roof of the car he’ll have a better vantage point to see the lights. The buildings aren’t exactly skyscrapers here, but as much as he denies it he is pretty small.
His tank top feels like it's soaked in sweat, and he doesn't waste another moment before ripping that off too, ignoring the pop of stitches as it goes.
From somewhere high up, he hears a little girl screaming four. He hopes she doesn't run off the balcony. All the ones along the street here are on the verge of collapsing.
Something's getting—
“Shit, what?” Jason mutters, only—
He doesn’t. His tongue doesn’t move.
It takes him a moment to rattle out of his confusion, and force his lips apart. They're stinging faintly, but he’s too focused on the heat below to investigate.
There’s molten flames licking up his ankles. He thinks so, at least. Until he looks down and finds nothing but darkness.
No fuckin’ fire to be seen anywhere.
He shoves his heels together anyway, until the shoes slide right off. They were always going to fall apart sooner or later.
There’s more shouting, and he hears the number… five?
Five, right.
Five minutes ‘til midnight.
He’ll have to get up soon. Jason squirms closer to the edge of the car, his socks are still on, and his jeans are starting to feel hot too, but doubts he'll have much luck pushing them off.
Denim is such a difficult fabric; the friction would stop him with ease, given how weak his arms feel right now.
Given how he can’t feel them at all.
God, his eyelids are so heavy.
Two.
His burning head pops out from beneath, and he smiles in relaxation when the back of it touches the chilly snow in front of the curb.
He sleepily watches the white cloud of air escaping through his nose.
One.
A yellow rocket flies into the night sky above.
Like a Robin.
Jason doesn’t make it long enough to see it explode.
*
There’s something in his lungs.
There’s something in his lungs. There’s something in his lungs. There’s something—
He gasps, choking and swallowing liquid. It’s awful in his throat. He’s drowning, but he isn’t. It’s nothing like anything he’s ever tasted before. He’s—fuck, he's shuddering, hands flinging towards his own eyes. Because Jason can’t see. But they’re moving too slow; his limbs, like he’s still stuck in that awful awful snow.
He’s swimming in it.
Everything feels so, so heavy.
When he forces his eyes open, all he sees is green.
Green.
Green.
Something hauls him up, and he breaks the surface, coughing.
“Did it work?”
A low, rough voice. Distant.
“His heart is beating.”
Someone… familiar. Maybe from TV. He lurches, coughing again. Goddamn it.
“How fast?”
“Elevated, obviously, but it's within the normal range.”
“Good. Get him on the gurney, we don't have much time before they notice we're here.”
There's a blurry image of blue and red in front of him, overlaid in that sickening green. He sort of feels like he's floating somehow, despite the pain in his lungs. He blinks. And then—
“Kid?”
“Huh—fu—” he coughs.
“You're going to be okay.” The shadow is hovering above him, yellow symbol across his chest. Jason blinks again.
“Batman?” He asks hoarsely.
Everything goes dark before he can get a response.
Fuck, what a bummer.
(But he swears he’ll make it this time.)