It has to be a world record: found in an alley, adopted two weeks later, and, judging by the way the vein in Bruce's head is popping out, dead in three.
I had a good run, I guess.
Ever since he spotted me jacking the tires off his car in Crime Alley, Bruce Wayne has worked to get me into a whole normal home life… thing. What the hell he means by normal, I have no damn clue. The man dresses up like a bat all hours of the night and gets waited on by a penguin crossed with Mother Goose.
Okay, so, Alfred is fine. Most of the time he's totally cool, but since it's partly his fault that Bruce's head is about to explode all over me, I reserve the right to call him Mother Penguin.
Maybe trying on Batman's utility belt while Bruce was at some dinner was a bad idea. And maybe putting on the cowl and cape over my t-shirt and jeans were even dumber. And maybe using Dick's old Robin Cycle and high-tailing it out of the cave for a joyride was kinda stupid. Or really stupid. At least I came back right away.
Well, first I crashed the bike and then I walked back into the cave. I should have known the damn place had cameras, and of course the damn butler had eyes on every room in the house at all times, the alien robot that he is.
All Alfie had to do was shake a finger at me himself and keep it quiet, then none of this would be happening. Instead, Bruce is practically purple as he tries to keep from shouting so loud he breaks glass. At least, that's what he looks like he's doing. That, or he's two steps from shitting himself and he's about to burst from the effort. Neither one would surprise me.
"You want to explain what happened in your own words?" he manages.
"Anything I say can and will be used against me." Maybe not the smartest reply, but it seems fitting.
Bruce slams his hand down on the desk and I swear my stomach hits the floor.
"I'm not going to ask you again." Though it's not exactly a threat, it's not exactly comforting, either.
When I first got here, Bruce laid out several rules from me and mentioned or implied consequences. Most of them are pretty typical, at least from what I've read in recent books and seen on the TV. I'm supposed to mind my mouth, no more smoking, no more stealing, and overall do as I'm told. So long as I do that, I can see more than the four walls of my designated bedroom. He's never outright said anything about doing more than that, but the purple of his face tells me he's two steps from throwing me through the wall or at least giving my ass an unholy beating, and I have zero desire to deal with either.
"It just seemed like a good—"
"Idea at the time?" he finishes for me. If possible, he gets even more purple. Hell, he looks like that girl from Willy Wonka who got turned into a blueberry. "You're going to have to try harder than that."
I wish he hadn't said that. I'm not a dumb kid; I know I'm not. I do dumb things, but mostly its because I just decided not to think at the time or someone pushed my buttons. Telling me what to do is still one of those buttons. Telling me I have to try harder after I'm already trying plenty? Yeah, not happening.
Instead of trying anything, I curse in more ways than I can count. I'm pretty sure something like "ass pirate" and "prick nozzle" came out along with the rest of the mess, but I can't be totally positive. All I know is that Bruce has finally had enough.
The vein doesn't exactly burst, but something else in him seems to. He lunges for me, and for a second I cringe thinking he is going to slap me right across the face. I have to force myself to keep eye contact with him, though the rest of me begins to brace for impact like I am the only one left on my side in a game of dodgeball against a 'roided-up psychopath.
Instead of hitting me, he grabs my arm and pulls me to my feet. Suddenly, we're face-to-face, and I can feel his angry breath against my cheeks. About a thousand thoughts seem to be running through his head and trying to make their way out of his mouth.
Then Alfie steps in. Weird how just an hour earlier he was totally against me, and now he's out to save me from torture.
"Master Bruce, perhaps we should all retire for the night and calm down. No good can come of short tempers."
"He needs to be dealt with," Bruce shoots back.
"We all need a good night's sleep," Alfred counters. "Any more of this tonight and I am certain someone will say or do something they may regret."
"Short of tearing off one of his limbs, I doubt anything I do now I'll regret after that stunt he pulled. What the hell was he thinking?!" he snaps at Alfred before turning back to me. "What the hell were you thinking?!"
"What the hell were you thinking?!" Now it's my turn to snap, and I'd bet good money my face is now almost as purple as his is. "You're the damn idiot that took in a street-trash mess and you think I'm just going to sit around your huge fucking house and nod like a puppet when you tell me to stay put?! I heard on the radio there was a police stand-off and you were busy schmoozing Wayne Enterprises investors. Someone needed to help! And I figured you're only half of what you are because of your stupid gadgets, anyway!"
I'm an idiot. Yelling at an irate Batman is probably the dumbest idea in the world. I'm an idiot with the worst death wish ever. Worse yet, though, is I don't believe a word that I'm saying but I can't stop myself from saying it. I'm mad and I can't explain why, I'm confused but I don't know what the hell I'm confused about, and I just wish Bruce would finish yelling at me or knock me to next Tuesday so I can go to bed and forget I don't belong here.
Only he doesn't. He stands there and stares at me for a while, the purple of his face fading to red, then pink, then finally back to its normal pale. As the blood drains away, he keeps his eyes on me. I shift uncomfortably under the his stare. I almost preferred the angry vein to this creepy quiet.
"You need to go upstairs, Jason," he orders me. Though he's worlds quieter, it sounds worse. Way worse. So much worse that I forget whatever I'm angry about and do as I'm told.
Halfway up the stairs, I realize this is it. I've pushed him past the point of tolerance and he's going to kick me out.
Now I wish I had just let him throw me through a wall.
As soon as I'm in my room, I close the door and collapse against it. Everything that happened in the last couple of hours hits me at once and I kind of want to puke. For three whole weeks I had a new family. A new dad, a new grandfather-penguin-goose person, and a house bigger than the old apartment complex I used to live in. I went from living in a condemned building on my own with maybe one meal a day to having a bed the size of a boat and three square meals. Whatever square means.
Of course I fucked it all up. Like I said: world record.
No point in dwelling.
I grab the suitcase Bruce bought me to help pack up my things from my old place and start piling my stuff into it. I try to keep most of what they bought me out of it in case they want to return it and get their money back, but some things I can't get rid of. Most of it is clothes for the winter, but there's also this really cool pocketknife Bruce got me when I first came to the manor. I know it probably cost more than the rent my parents used to pay, but it seems like it's worth more than money.
It's the first real gift anyone got me since my mom died last year. To be honest, it's probably the first gift anyone got me since she started using real bad four years ago.
I stare at the magnifying glass and clock parts of it when there's a knock at my door. Not even thinking about the mess my room is now in, I call out, "Yeah?"
I expect Alfred, still prim as he usually is, to come in and tell me that it would be prudent for me to brush my teeth, take a leak, and get my ass in bed. In so many words. Except it's Bruce. For a second I think he's changed his mind in not killing me tonight, but his face still seems relaxed.
Actually, it seems exhausted. I know the feeling.
At first he looks at me, but then his eyes land on the bag behind me and the pile of crap I have around it. Suddenly, he looks anxious.
How the hell did I just make friggin' Batman anxious? I didn't even say anything!
"Going somewhere?" he asks, though he doesn't sound particularly pissed.
"I thought I'd beat you to the punch," I shrug.
He stares at me for a while, then squares his jaw. I know what's coming. Sure, I'm surprised it's happening so damn soon, but then again maybe I'm not. I'm almost more surprised it took three weeks for him to realize what a screw-up I am.
He gestures to the bed and together we sit down. It's like in those movies when someone is about to be broken up with. I've just never seen a movie where it's happened in an "I don't want to be your parent anymore" sort of way. First time for everything?
Bruce even starts off the whole thing as cliche as possible. He takes a deep breath and, with that fake sad look people get before kicking someone to the curb, he says, "We need to talk."
World. Fucking. Record.
Ah, me and my late-night rambling writing. I figured the six-month period between Jason being taken in by Bruce and becoming Robin had some interesting adjustments. Why not write them down? I'm not quite sure yet how I see their father-son relationship going, but I guess that will come with time. For now, I hope you all liked my random writing.
-Defective