Chapter Text
Robin is contemplating throwing himself in the harbour when he sees it.
He’s just four swings away from the harbour, and really tempted. Going through the pros and cons, he’s already half convinced.
Pros :
- Cooling himself off from this damn heat.
Cons :
- Becoming a meta due to the water's frankly alarming levels of radiation
Hmm, that last one isn’t all that bad, Robin tells himself. It just depends on the direction of that evolution, he could even end up with superpowers. So really, it’s 1.5 in favour and 0.5 against.
Mind made up, Robin straightens up and pats the head of the scowling gargoyle he’s squatting next to. He barely takes a step on the building’s slim ledge when a corner of the already bright sky lights up further.
He groans loudly and, with a sigh, throws himself off the building petulantly.
The wind whips through Robin’s cape as he swoops gracefully through the air, but he finds no relief from it. No matter how light the material of his suit is, the heavy weight of the protective layer makes him dreadfully hot on this already warm summer night.
The solution is obvious in his opinion, but good luck convincing Batman to sacrifice protection for comfort.
As he reaches the apex of his swing, and flips throught the air, Robin takes a moment to contemplate the upside-down night sky.
Gotham’s sky is rarely clear. During the daytime it's a smudged and suffocating gray smear, heavy with the weight of trapped fumes. It adds to the city’s overall atmosphere, that oppressive feeling that seems to hang from everyone’s shoulders like backpacks. Having them hurry through the streets single-mindedly, a strange mix of self-absorption and hyper-vigilance dogging their steps.
It’s even worse at sunset, when the smog scatters light in strange ways and the sky takes on an orange tint, the sun nothing but a blurry, blazing disc behind it. From what he’s seen during sunrise, it’s not too bad in the better parts of the city. But in the more unfortunate ones like Crime Alley, Robin half expects to see zombies crawling through busted windows or shambling from behind dumpsters.
Landing on the ledge of an apartment complex, Robin doesn’t pause before he’s moving again. Barely two breaths in and he’s throwing himself off the building again, grapple at the ready.
Gotham’s night sky is bright, unnaturally so. Robin has no problem finding suitable places to land. This sky has the same murkiness as its daytime counterpart, more smoke than sky, but the city’s artificial lights lend it an eerie, ghostly glow that sets unease coiling between his shoulder blades.
As he feels sweat pool beneath his armpits, Robin can’t help but curse this godforsaken city.
Maybe he’d feel better if he had someone to punch. Several someones.
Unfortunately, so far tonight has been unprecedentedly calm - as if the usual evildoers have also succumbed to the heat and chosen to stay inside.
Not unfortunately, he reminds himself, boots slamming angrily on the concrete. Boring is good. Boring means no one's getting hurt. Even if Robin is being slowly cooked in his suit, it’s not something he should want to trade for personal comfort.
Still, it’s fucking hot.
By the time Robin reaches the GCPD’s roof, his simmering irritation has him forgoing the usual stealthy approach in favour of landing gracefully - albeit heavily - in front of Gordon.
"Yes ?" He asks, refraining from crossing his arms, knowing it would only make him hotter.
"Hello to you too, Robin. I’m fine, thank you for asking." Gordon replies dryly.
In capitulation to the heat, he’s forgone his usual brown duster, standing instead in a white shirt with the top three buttons undone and the sleeves rolled up to his elbows.
Robin eyes his bare skin enviously. What he wouldn’t give to be that undressed.
At his unimpressed silence, Gordon pushes off from the door he’d been leaning against and crosses the distance between them. When he reaches Robin, he extends a hand, offering a can of iced tea.
Even with the time Gordon had spent waiting outside, Robin can see from the condensation beading on the metal that the can is still cold.
Suddenly aware of how dry his mouth is, Robin reaches out and takes it.
The first sip is heavenly - cold and sharp - and nearly washes away all his frustration. It also drains half the can in one go.
Next to him, Gordon waits patiently, head forward, eyes on the skyline.
"Thanks." Robin tells him sincerely, wiping his mouth with the back of his glove.
Without waiting for a reply, he rises from his crouch and meanders towards the edge of the rooftop, boots tapping lightly against the concrete. He settles at the far corner, back to the moon and one knee up, letting the pitiful breeze ghost over his face as he takes another, more measured sip.
It’s not that he doesn’t trust Gordon enough to stay close. Far from it.
In the three years he’s been Robin, he's had time to get to know the older man and come to trust him with his life.
Under that gruff exterior, Jim Gordon is a genuinely good man. Morally upright and deeply compassionate, he’s one of the best people Robin knows. And Robin knows superheroes.
But Gordon is also an eminently competent detective.
And Robin, with his particular set of circumstances, has to be careful.
There aren’t many child heroes - in fact, until recently, there weren’t any at all.
Robin has the dubious honour of being the first of his kind. The first child to don the mask. And from his very first meeting with Gordon - a man for whom "protect and serve" is more sacred oath than slogan - he’s been acutely aware of the man’s eyes on him.
It wouldn’t be so bad if their paths only crossed as Commissioner and vigilante. Unfortunately, Gordon’s position - and his rapport with Bruce Wayne - meant that, unlike other cops, he also got to meet Dick Grayson.
He’s seen both pairings : Batman and Robin. Bruce and Dick.
And no matter how you dressed them up, a weird kid is a weird kid. Robin’s particular brand of oddness, he’s convinced, transcends disguises. Not to mention the shared physical features.
Maintaining his identity around him is like walking a tightrope, and no matter how confident Robin is in the air, that’s not something he’s willing to risk.
He trusts Gordon with his life. But not with his identity. Which means keeping a distance - physical and otherwise.
The wry twist to Gordon's mouth tells Robin the older man knows exactly what he’s doing. As usual, they both tacitly agree to ignore it.
"So," Robin drawls in the lingering silence. "What’s up ?"
Gordon doesn’t answer right away. He shifts slightly, the weight of his gaze still fixed on the hazy skyline before flicking briefly toward the Bat-signal behind him, dark now, but still looming like a question mark.
"I was hoping you’d have an update," he says eventually. "On him".
Him, but Robin doesn’t need clarification.
His grip tightens minutely on the can, the cool metal now slick against his glove. It feels less like a kind gesture now and more like preemptive appeasement.
"I already told you," he replies measuredly, breathing deep to smooth out the curtness from his tone. "He’s off-world. League business."
"And you still don’t know when he’s coming back ?" Gordon asks, not unkindly, just weary.
What, am I not enough ? Robin wants to snark, but it’s that weariness that has him holding his tongue. Besides, he knows it’s not about that. His competency isn’t being doubted here.
Robin sighs and tips his head back, eyes closed for a beat. " If I did, i’d have told you."
It comes out flat nevertheless, like Gordon, he’s frustrated by the situation, worried at the mounting tension they can both feel.
It won’t be long until somebody tries their luck. And while Robin is fairly sure he can handle it, his presence doesn’t have the weight Batman's does.
Gordon hums, thoughtful." You sure he’s alright?"
"Yeah," he says, softer this time. " He’s fine. He’d let me know if he wasn’t."
Gordon nods, slow. Robin hears it more than sees it.
"I trust that," Gordon says. "It’s just… when he disappears like that, things get tense. The city notices. I get questions. We’ve been lucky so far because of the weather, but I don’t know how long that’ll last."
"Believe me," Robin mutters wryly. "I get it."
Gordon sends him a look at that - part sheepish part commiserating.
There’s a pause. The breeze returns, a thin useless whisper of air.
"Didn’t mean to haul you up there just to repeat what you already said," Gordon adds, sounding a little apologetic. "Figured maybe something changed."
Robin shrugs, the motion more a twitch than a full response. "No problem. I live to serve." He says dryly, but softens it with a little smile.
Gordon snorts, tossing his head like a horse. "You and me both, kid." He says back, equally dry.
Robin hides a smile - real now - behind gloved fingers before brushing it off.
"Well," He says, crushing the empty can between his palms. " If that’s all, I’ll be off then." He goes to tuck the can into an empty pouch on his belt.
Gordon shifts beside the darkened signal, rolling a shoulder like it’s stiff. "You holding up alright ?"
Robin stills. Head bowed, he watches moonlight play over the silver circle of metal in his hands.
Maybe it’s that quiet little reminder that keeps him from going with his first instinct and answering perfunctorily.
"I’m… doing okay." He settles on eventually.
Gordon hums again. " You’ve got a hell of a weight on your shoulders for someone your size." he says, glancing sidelong at Robin. Then, more gently, "Don’t know how you do it."
Robin snorts lightly and deflects, voice light. "Good core strength." He offers. Sorry Comish, I’m all out of honesty tonight.
Gordon gives a soft, almost fond shake of his head. "That’s not what i meant."
Robin shrugs and flashes him a small, impish grin. "I know."
And he does. But what’s he supposed to say ? What can he say ? That he’s tired ? Sure he could and Gordon would even understand. But even if he’s not the pillar of strength Batman is, he's still Robin. And that means something.
Is the heat getting to him ? Absolutely. But it’s the pressure, more than the temperature, that’s unbearable. Every time Batman disappears -however infrequent it is - he feels like a shadow pretending to be the real thing. And that pretending bleeds into everything he prefers to ignore, becoming heavier the longer it lasts.
So instead of complaining, no matter how well it might be received, Robin smiles.
"Don’t worry about me, Commissioner, " he says. " I always land on my feet."
Gordon looks at him for a moment. The city stretches behind him, painted purple and red by the rising sun. Then he nods, gaze dropping to his own feet.
"I know you do."
But when he looks up again, the rooftop is empty. Robin is gone.
Far away, his figure can just be seen slicing through the air, cape spreading like wings behind him.