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Jason sat on the edge of the rooftop, boots planted on the cold concrete, elbows resting on his knees. Gotham’s night air bit through the seams of his jacket, sharp and unrelenting. The city below was its usual mess of sirens, distant engines, and the occasional yell that got swallowed up by the skyline. He didn’t flinch at the sounds. He never did.
He was in full Red Hood gear, minus the helmet. That sat beside him like some silent sentinel, the glossy red surface catching glints of neon from the streets far below. Its empty eye sockets pointed forward, unblinking. Watching, maybe. Judging, probably.
In Jason’s gloved hands sat a crumpled pack of cigarettes—soft pack, half-smashed from riding around in his jacket for weeks. The seal was broken. He’d already opened it, already pulled one out. That part was easy. But lighting it? That was the part that kept catching him.
He rolled the cigarette between his fingers, slow, methodical. Like if he just kept moving, he could put off the decision. He knew it was stupid. He hated the smell, the taste, the entire aesthetic. He wasn’t trying to look cool. This wasn’t about image. It never was.
This was about control.
If he could light it, take a drag, and not feel something crawl under his skin, then maybe—just maybe—it meant he was past it. Past him . Past that warehouse. Past the gas. Past the fire.
Smoke inhalation. That’s what the report said. Not the crowbar. Not the explosion. Just... smoke. Filling his lungs until they gave up. Until he gave up.
Jason stared at the cigarette like it was a loaded gun. In a way, it was. A small, paper-wrapped dare.
He didn’t notice the boots until they hit the rooftop behind him—light, deliberate, and familiar.
Didn’t need to turn around. Only one person landed like that: no cape, no fanfare, just the fluid grace of someone who grew up on tightropes and rooftops.
Nightwing.
Dick walked over and sat down next to him without a word. Like he did this every night. Like they were just two brothers catching up after a long day. He didn’t comment on the gear. Didn’t comment on the helmet. His eyes flicked to the cigarette in Jason’s hand, then out over the city.
Jason held the pack out, still silent. A truce. A test. He wasn’t even sure which.
Dick glanced at it for a second, raised an eyebrow, then took one.
Jason blinked, caught off guard. He’d expected a speech. A head shake. Maybe a tired sigh and a muttered “Bruce would kill you.”
Instead, Dick pulled a slim black lighter from his belt pouch, flipped it open with a practiced flick, and lit the cigarette like he’d done it a thousand times.
Jason watched him like he was seeing him for the first time.
“You carry a lighter now?” he asked, the surprise obvious in his voice.
Dick exhaled a thin stream of smoke, eyes still on the skyline. “You offered. And I didn’t know you smoked.”
Jason huffed. “I don’t. Or I haven’t. This is more of a... psychological experiment.”
“Uh-huh,” Dick said, deadpan.
Jason shot him a look. “I should say the same to you, golden boy.”
Dick shrugged. “College was rough.”
Jason snorted. “What, too many essays and not enough group hugs?”
Dick cracked a smirk. “Something like that.”
A beat passed between them, the city murmuring below.
“So,” Dick said eventually, flicking some ash off the ledge. “Why now?”
Jason didn’t answer right away. He looked down at the unlit cigarette in his hand again, still turning it slowly. Still undecided.
“I guess,” he said finally, voice low, “I want to prove that I can live through the thing that killed me. That it doesn’t get to define me anymore. That I’m the one in charge.”
Dick gave him a sideways glance. Not pity. Thank God. Just that calm, steady look he always had when he was trying to read you without pushing too hard.
“That’s a pretty textbook masochist statement,” he said.
Jason scoffed, half amused, half annoyed. “Oh, fuck you.”
“Hey,” Dick said, flicking ash again. “If you’re gonna be dramatic about it, might as well do it right.”
Jason raised an eyebrow. “What, now you’re giving me technique tips?”
“Slow inhale,” Dick said, taking another drag, smooth and unbothered. “Don’t hold it too long. And definitely don’t try to look cool doing it. That’s for amateurs.”
Jason gave him a sideways glance, the corner of his mouth twitching. “You’re really out here acting like the Marlboro mentor.”
Dick grinned. “Just making sure you don’t embarrass yourself in front of your own inner demons.”
Jason snorted again, short and sharp, but the sound faded fast. He looked down at the cigarette in his hand like it was taunting him. The filter was slightly bent from how hard he’d been gripping it. The lighter felt heavy in his other hand, colder than it should have been, like it knew this was a bad idea.
Still, he rolled his eyes and brought the cigarette to his lips, more out of defiance than decision. His thumb hovered near the wheel of the lighter, hesitating.
Dick noticed.
Without saying a word, he reached over and flicked his own lighter open again, the flame flaring to life with a quiet flick . He held it up between them, waiting. No teasing, no judgment. Just there if Jason wanted it.
Jason glanced at him, then leaned in, cigarette catching the flame with a soft crackle at the tip. He inhaled.
Big mistake.
The smoke hit his throat like sandpaper soaked in gasoline. His whole chest seized up as he coughed hard, the first drag erupting into a full-body reaction. His shoulders jerked forward, a sharp bark of a cough escaping before he could even pull the cigarette away. His eyes watered instantly, vision blurring as he doubled over, hacking like he’d swallowed a mouthful of gravel.
He nearly dropped the cigarette. Barely caught it between two fingers before it could hit the rooftop. His breath came in ragged pulls, lungs burning in a way that made the hairs on his arms stand on end.
Dick was already laughing—trying to keep it quiet, but his shoulders were shaking, and the smirk on his face was loud enough on its own.
“Shut up,” Jason wheezed, waving him off as he blinked through the sting in his eyes.
“I didn’t say anything,” Dick said, lifting both hands in mock innocence. “Though, for the record—I did tell you not to try and impress anyone.”
Jason flipped him off with a gloved hand, still coughing under his breath. He sat there for a second, letting the air settle back into his lungs, letting the burn die down. His pride stung more than anything else.
He flicked a bit of ash off his glove, narrowed eyes still watering. “Feels like I just inhaled sandpaper dipped in acid.”
“Yeah,” Dick said casually, leaning back on his hands. “That’s how you know you’re doing it right.”
Jason scowled. “You’re not helping.”
Dick grinned. “Not trying to.”
With a stubborn glare at the cigarette, Jason brought it back to his lips and took another drag—this one shallow, careful. Controlled. He held it for a second, then exhaled slowly, forcing himself not to cough. It didn’t hurt this time, but it didn’t feel good either. Just... empty. Dry. Like pulling air through a campfire.
He leaned back on his palms, letting the cigarette dangle between his fingers, half-forgotten already. The ember at the end glowed faintly in the dark, the wind stealing wisps of smoke before they could rise.
He didn’t look at Dick. Didn’t need to.
It was barely smoked—just enough to say he’d done it. Just enough to prove to himself that he could. That it wasn’t some ghost with its hands around his throat.
“Yeah,” Jason muttered, voice low and ragged, still carrying the scrape of smoke and pride from earlier. “I’m good. One and done.”
Dick nodded like he’d expected that answer all along. He brought his own cigarette back to his lips, inhaled smooth and steady, like he’d done it a thousand times before—and maybe he had. He exhaled slow, the smoke curling in front of his face before being tugged away by the wind. Like this was just another rooftop ritual, just another Thursday morning catching their breath before the world asked for more from them.
“Smart move,” Dick said, eyes fixed on the horizon as the first hint of pale light started to seep in around the skyline. “First hit’s the best it ever gets. After that, it’s just you chasing it—drag after drag—while your lungs scream and your body pretends it’s fine.”
Jason let out a half-laugh, dry and short. “That’s poetic. In a depressing, chain-smoking existentialist kind of way.”
“You’re welcome,” Dick said, smirking faintly, as if he didn’t even try to be profound—it just happened sometimes.
Then came the silence. Not the awkward kind, not filled with tension or things unsaid. This one was quiet in a way that felt earned. Like both of them had talked enough for now. Like the conversation was still happening, just not out loud.
The wind swept across the rooftop again, colder than it had any right to be in April. It tugged at Jason’s jacket, made the smoke trail sideways from Dick’s cigarette, and carried the faintest smell of wet asphalt and damp concrete. Gotham smells.
Below them, the city began its slow crawl toward morning. A few headlights blinked through the gloom. Somewhere, a truck rumbled to life. Birds started chirping in the distance—reluctant, like even they knew Gotham wasn’t the kind of place to greet the sun with enthusiasm.
Jason sat still, fingers loose around the cigarette that now smoldered lazily between them. He hadn’t touched it since that second drag, hadn’t really thought about it. The ember was fading, the paper near the filter crisping from neglect. Forgotten. Irrelevant.
He leaned back a little more, one palm planted against the rooftop gravel, the other still holding the dying cigarette out to the side like he wasn’t sure what to do with it. His eyes scanned the city, slow and quiet. Watching the way the light started to shift across the buildings, shadows stretching and shrinking like the city itself was waking up from something heavy.
“Gotham looks different before the sun hits it,” he murmured after a while, not really thinking about whether he was talking to Dick or just the wind. “Like it’s pretending to be calm.”
Dick glanced at him, then followed his gaze out over the rooftops and the skyline.
“Yeah,” he said. “It lies to you a little. Makes you think maybe it’s not that bad. Then the sirens start up again, and it all comes rushing back.”
Jason nodded slowly. He didn’t disagree. He just let the silence come back, this time a little heavier. Not bad, just full.
He glanced down at the mostly full pack still resting beside him, then wordlessly picked it up and offered it across to Dick.
Dick made a soft hmm sound as he took it, turning the pack over in his hand, thumb brushing along the crumpled edge. He pulled another cigarette free and gave Jason a look that was more curious than judgmental.
“These are mine,” he said simply. “I mean—this is the brand I usually grab.”
Jason raised an eyebrow. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” Dick flipped the cigarette between his fingers with idle ease, then looked back at Jason. “Why’d you pick it?”
Jason shrugged, gaze drifting back toward the horizon. “It was just the first one I saw that I recognized. Some of the guys who run with me smoke ’em.”
Dick smiled faintly, that kind of crooked, half-there smile he only gave when something surprised him but made sense in hindsight. “Well, good call then. These are relatively clean, as far as they go. Fewer additives, slightly lower nicotine than most of the big-name brands. Makes them a decent starter. Doesn’t fry your lungs quite as fast.”
Jason scoffed lightly. “Starter. Like it’s a training wheel habit.”
“I mean,” Dick said, lighting up again, “you did almost die on your first try. I think you qualify as a beginner.”
Jason rolled his eyes but didn’t argue. He watched as Dick took a drag, casual, practiced, no coughing fits in sight. It was weird. Not bad, just weird—seeing Nightwing do something so normal. So human.
He leaned back on one elbow, eyes narrowing slightly. “Does anyone know you smoke?”
Dick exhaled smoke toward the sky, then shook his head. “Not really. And if they do, they’ve never said anything. I don’t make a habit of it around the others.”
Jason tilted his head. “Hiding it from the family, huh?”
“Not hiding,” Dick said. “Just… not sharing. It’s not a thing I do so much as a thing that sometimes happens. Usually when I’m alone. Or with Amy during stakeouts.”
Jason blinked. “Amy?”
Dick nodded. “Detective Rohrbach. You know, from Blüdhaven. Sometimes the two of us end up stuck on surveillance for six, eight hours in the same car. Chain-link fences, lukewarm coffee, and nothing happening. Lighting up passes the time. Helps us blend in too—people expect someone in a beat-up Crown Vic to be smoking out the window.”
Jason huffed. “Cop stakeout cosplay. Nice.”
“Gotta play the part,” Dick said, grinning as he leaned back on his hands, cigarette bobbing between his fingers. “Not everyone’s as intimidating as you just sitting still.”
Jason snorted, the sound low and sharp. “Guess I should put that on a résumé. ‘Menacing without movement.’”
“Honestly?” Dick said, pulling out another cigarette and lazily tapping it against the pack. “You could walk into a PTA meeting and the room would clear out like someone yelled ‘bomb.’”
Jason tilted his head slightly, like he was weighing the truth of it. “Only the guilty ones.”
Dick chuckled, popped the cigarette between his lips, and flicked the lighter to life again. The flame flared in the blue-gray morning light before vanishing with a practiced snap . Smoke curled upward, soft and thin, before the wind carried it off the rooftop like a secret.
Jason glanced over at him, arching an eyebrow. “You’re two in already. You aiming to go for a record or something?”
“Maybe,” Dick said with a shrug, stretching his legs out in front of him like they were on break between shifts. “It’s rare I get to smoke without someone acting like I just kicked a puppy in front of them.”
Jason’s smirk was immediate. “You mean like Babs?”
Dick barked a laugh, caught mid-inhale and coughing once into his shoulder. “Oh, especially Babs. You light one near her, she doesn’t even speak. Just hits you with that look. Like you personally betrayed a decade of health campaigns.”
“I’ve seen her stop a mugging with a glare ,” Jason said. “But yeah, sure, let's talk about how you get chewed out.”
Dick held his hand up, palm out. “Hey, I never said it wasn’t fair. Just…intense. She's got this whole ‘disappointed mom who still loves you but really expected better’ vibe.”
Jason laughed under his breath. “She once made one of my guys cry. Just a low-level grunt. All he did was flick a cigarette butt on the sidewalk. She didn’t yell. Didn’t say a single word. Just looked at him like he’d spit on the flag.”
“She’s got disappointed librarian energy,” Dick said, shaking his head fondly. “Like she’ll erase your criminal record and your existence with one red pen.”
“Right?” Jason said. “You feel like you owe her a handwritten apology for even thinking about doing something dumb.”
Dick let the cigarette hang between his fingers, lips twitching at the memory. “But, God, I still love working with her. She’s like a one-woman system restore button. No matter how bad things get, she shows up, recalibrates the chaos, and tells you how you screwed up. Nicely. Mostly.”
Jason gave a short nod. “She’s a force.”
There was a pause, a familiar one, and then Jason shifted, elbow resting on one raised knee.
“Alright,” he said, eyes narrowing slightly, “what about Tim?”
Dick glanced over. “What about him?”
Jason smirked. “Bet he tried smoking once and then went home and researched lung cancer for six hours straight.”
“Twice, actually,” Dick said, and Jason barked a laugh. “First time was high school—some girl he liked was into the ‘bad boy’ type. He took one drag, choked so hard he almost passed out, and never called her again.”
Jason shook his head. “Sounds about right.”
“Second time was with me,” Dick went on, fishing the lighter out again. “Few years back. We were doing recon in this dive bar and I was trying to blend in. Handed him one to complete the image. He looked at it like I’d given him a live grenade. Took half a puff, gagged, and then went on this spiral.”
“Let me guess—he pulled out spreadsheets?”
“No, worse. The next day he left a sixty-page meta-analysis on my desk. Peer-reviewed citations and everything. Titled ‘The Measured Decline of Pulmonary Function: A Brief Reminder.’ ”
Jason stared at him for a beat, then barked out a real laugh—short, raw, but real. The kind that slipped out before he could pull it back. “That is so Tim it physically hurts.”
Dick grinned, proud of the reaction. “Right? He’s way too tightly wound to ever actually pick this up. He’d spiral after the first puff. Spend three hours calculating the exact number of minutes it shaved off his lifespan and then another six trying to get them back with vitamins and guilt.”
Jason smirked. “So what is he now, like… seventy percent coffee, thirty percent existential dread?”
“Don’t forget the five percent superiority complex,” Dick added.
Jason shrugged. “Yeah, but that part’s earned.”
They both chuckled, and that was all it took—the wall came down. The space between them softened. They slipped into something easy. The rhythm of brothers who had survived too much, who rarely had time to talk about the small things but knew the small things were what actually mattered.
They gossiped like it was a second language. Unfiltered, unapologetic, the kind of conversation that didn’t belong to heroes but to siblings who’d watched each other bleed, who knew the shape of each other’s scars even when they didn’t talk about them.
“Steph talks in her sleep during ops,” Dick said between drags. “Not all the time, but when she does, it’s wild . Once she spent twenty minutes arguing with an imaginary barista about almond milk.”
Jason raised an eyebrow. “Did she win?”
“Oh yeah,” Dick said, exhaling smoke. “Even asleep, she’s stubborn.”
Jason laughed. “Figures.”
“Duke,” Dick continued, reaching into the pack again, “keeps stealing pastries from the fridge in the Cave. Swears he isn’t, but he’s got powdered sugar in his mask half the time. You’d think the world's greatest detective would crack down on it, but—”
“Alfred?”
“Lets him get away with it. Every time.”
Jason scoffed. “That tracks. Duke’s got the golden child energy. Kid could get caught hot-wiring the Batmobile and Alfred would ask if he wanted tea after.”
Dick gave him a knowing look. “Bruce knows too. He just doesn’t care.”
Jason grunted. “As long as nobody touches his protein bars.”
They both nodded in solemn agreement.
Another cigarette. Another flick of the lighter. Another story lit along with it.
“Cass,” Jason said after a beat, more thoughtful, “still refuses to sit on chairs like a normal person. Perches on the back of them. I saw her crouched on top of the monitor bank in the Cave once like some kind of owl. Scared the shit outta one of my guys.”
Dick laughed. “I’ve seen her land on a gargoyle mid-sentence and finish what she was saying without breaking eye contact. She's pure chaos. Elegant chaos.”
“She’s cool, though,” Jason said, his voice softer. “Just… sharp. Like she knows what you’re gonna say before you do.”
“She probably does,” Dick said. “Cass doesn’t talk much, but she listens better than all of us combined.”
They both nodded again, and the conversation dipped for a beat, just enough space for a breath.
Then Jason said, “Alright. What about the gremlin?”
Dick’s face broke into a slow smile. “Damian?”
Jason grinned. “Yeah. What’s his deal with vices? Or is his vice just being a condescending little shit?”
“Mostly that,” Dick said, laughing. “But—get this—he tried to take up green tea like it was some kind of character trait. Got obsessed with this ceremonial brewing method. Full traditional setup. Teapot, bamboo whisk, cloth napkin. Whole nine yards.”
Jason blinked. “You’re kidding.”
“Nope,” Dick said. “Had it shipped from Japan. Refused to let anyone else touch it. Called it his ‘mind-centering ritual’ like he wasn’t threatening someone with a katana fifteen minutes earlier.”
Jason was laughing now, full-on. “God. That kid.”
“I love him,” Dick said, shaking his head, “but I’m also terrified of what he’s gonna be like at twenty. Either Gotham’s greatest detective or its most stylish warlord.”
Jason tilted his head. “Both. Definitely both.”
And just like that, they kept going. Riffing off each other. No tension. No forced smiles. Just two guys watching the city yawn awake from a distance.
Each cigarette Dick smoked seemed to unlock another memory, another story, another thread binding them back together. There was something steady in it, something grounded. No missions. No masks. No Bat-shaped shadows looming over them.
Jason didn’t light another cigarette. He didn’t need to. The first had served its purpose. Whatever part of him needed to prove he could hold it, inhale it, survive it—he’d done it. Now he just let himself lean back, his shoulders finally unclenching, muscles loose beneath his jacket.
The skyline brightened slowly, shadows retreating. Gotham’s illusion of peace peeled away as the hum of traffic rose and neon flickered to life. Morning had officially arrived, dragging with it the weight of the next shift, the next patrol, the next choice to make.
Jason glanced sideways, brow lifting slightly. “You know this is weird, right?”
Dick looked over, one brow raised. “What, us not trying to beat the crap out of each other?”
Jason shook his head slowly. “No. Us sitting here at the ass-crack of dawn, talking about Tim’s research papers and Cass’s gargoyle posture while you casually torch your lungs like it’s a spa day.”
Dick smiled around his cigarette. “Weirder things have happened.”
Jason nodded, eyes on the skyline. “Yeah. Like me lighting one of these and not spiraling into a pit of trauma flashbacks.”
They sat in the silence that followed. Not heavy—just full. The kind of quiet that made space instead of pressure.
Then Dick said, voice light, “Next time, we bring coffee.”
Jason turned, gave him a look. “Seriously?”
“Yeah. Gossip’s always better with caffeine.”
Jason laughed again—real and unguarded this time. “Fine. But I’m picking the place. And if it’s one of your weird minimalist cafés where the chairs are just concrete blocks and they only serve single-origin pour-overs, I’m lighting a cigarette in the middle of the floor.”