Warnings: language

Disclaimers: These guys aren't mine, they don't belong to me, worst luck, so don't bother me.

Archive: Fine, but if you want it, please ask first.

Feedback: Hell, yes.

Please note; this story is based on a supposedly true incident involving Ethel Merman, known for her, shall we say, salty language. If you don't know who Ethel was, look her up-she was one of the greats.

Swear Jar

"Goddammit."

"Problem, Roy?"

There followed a string of both creative and impressive curses until finally. "I hammered my thumb."

"Is it broken?"

"No, but it sure as shit hurts. Bastard."

Dick ignored him. The Titans were trying to repair some of the damaged caused by Brother Blood's latest attack, trying to save some of their budget by doing it themselves and having mixed results. Roy wasn't happy, that much was apparent but they had larger problems, starting with a semi-ruined headquarters and moving on to the PR disaster they were dealing with since some of the battle's fallout had damaged a few piers in New York Harbor along with sinking three tug boats and two ferries. They were insured but the Titans were still taking the blame and lots of it.

"Fuck all."

"Roy?"

"I hit my goddamned thumb again."

"Maybe you might want to do something else for a while."

"Screw you, Bird Boy."

That was enough for one day, it was hot and they were all tired. "This is getting old, Roy."

"Frigging excuse me?"

"The swearing. Grow up."

"Who died and made you the fuckin' expletive police?"

"Dick's right, lighten up with the swearing, okay? It's annoying."

"Quoth 'Mr. Cornfed Midwestern Rube'."

"That's not called for."

"Really Wally? Get fucked. My hand hurts, our building is a pile of recycling and I've lost everything I owned in the twenty story pancake we're trying to flip. I seriously hate offending you, but go screw yourself."

"Roy, we're all frustrated but please try to be nice."

He looked at Donna, as always trying to calm the waters and maybe later she'd let him try to... "Darlin',you know I love you but you need to stop butting into other people's conversations or you're going to end up with your tits in a wringer." He leered, "And you know I'm the guy who can do it."

"You're disgusting."

"Back off, Roy."

"Bite me, Birdboy, and you can fuck off, too."

Garth was hanging back, mostly watching but listening. "I understand that there are certain words on the surface which many people find offensive and I know we're sometimes criticized in the press for things like this. Perhaps if there was some sort of penalty for anyone using them, might that help?"

Wally nodded. "Sure. My grandmother had a swear jar, Anyone who swore had to put a quarter in the jar and then Gram kept it. I think she used it for Christmas presents."

"Jesus H. fucking Christ—that sounds like something a grandmother of yours would do, West."

A moment later Dick had found an old pickle jar, now rinsed and ready for use. "Twenty-five cents, no matter who says it, no matter why. Agreed?"

"You're a bunch of pansies. I swear to God...lame asses."

Dick held out the opened jar, Roy let a coin drop in. "Happy?"

"Ecstatic. Okay everybody, back to work."

Things went fairly quietly for an hour or more then, "Motherfucker!"

"Roy?"

"Bastard hammer again."

"Fifty cents." Robin pointed to the jar.

"Got to hell."

"Seventy-five."

"Sonofabitch."

"A dollar."

Roy was pissed, frustrated and annoyed, ready to rail against the unfairness of life when he pulled out a twenty dollar bill, placing in in the jar with as much attitude as he could muster. "This should cover the next day or two, now go fuck yourself."

7/19/10