Driving Seat
Author's Note: This is a long chapter, one I admit I got carried away with. After this installment, we have the conclusion to this chapter's ending, Jason's date with Maddie and the immediate fallout surrounding it. Hope you enjoy.
I arranged to pick Maddie up from her home in the suburbs in three days time for our date. I can't stop thinking about her. And I'm glad. It gives me the motivation to get my ass out of bed on Sunday for more than lunch and a horrible workout in which I'll more than likely throw it all up anyway. As I stroll into the kitchen, dressed in nothing but my boxers, Al notices me immediately and does a classic double-take to confirm I am really there.
"Master Jason! Sir, what are you doing up at this hour? Why, it's…" He looks up from the eggs he's poaching to regard the wall clock, "It's barely after nine! Normally you don't stir until at least midday." Just so you know, he is stunned, but not stunned enough to stop being sarcastic and witty in his tone of voice. And the double-take was part of his routine; this man is always a performer. I roll my eyes.
"I'm lazy; I get it, thanks for reminding me, moving on…" I move in closer until I'm standing right next to him, "I need your advice on some things. Indulge me?" Al returns to his eggs and smiles.
"Always, Sir. How can I help?"
"I've got a date." This announcement forces a genuine look of surprise from the old man. He silently places the poached eggs on a plate alongside some baked beans and whole wheat toast points, slides it across to me, turns off the stove and regards me with a weird expression. It looks oddly like pride.
"That's marvellous news. Sit down and tell me all about her." His hand is on my shoulder and already guiding me to the breakfast bar stool. I sit down and regard the plate as he grabs some cutlery.
"Isn't this Bruce's breakfast?" I say as Al hands me a knife and fork before sitting down himself.
"Master Bruce is preoccupied. I can prepare him something in a short while." The old man almost sounds excited right now. I have to smile; Al really does have a heart of gold because I'm about to yammer on for the next hour. And that's what I do. I tell him about sitting in the station, meeting Maddie and our little chat in the coffee shop. And then I go on to talk about how she looks, how she smells, how she laughs and everything in between. I chat about her moving from Park Row to Upper-West Gotham when her dad got a job in an accountancy firm and how she goes to a nice-sounding, academic high school near Gotham Heights. Al just listens and listens. He never interrupts my flow of one-way traffic and seems really interested in what I've got to say. He can tell I'm happy and I think that's why his eyes light up every now and then as I think of something else to say about Maddie. Mercifully, I stop.
"Miss Prince sounds wonderful, Master Jason." Al says taking away the empty plate I somehow managed to create during my ode to Maddie and putting it in the sink. I watch him move over to the medicine cabinet, "But surely a strapping young man such as yourself does not require dating advice from the likes of me." He comes back over with some more anti-inflammatories and an ice pack for my cheek.
"I think that's obvious if I charmed her looking like the hunchback of Notre Dame, Al." I reply knocking back the pills before pressing the ice pack against my face. The old man smirks.
"Oh yes, Sir, clearly. So in what way can I assist you?" He's studying the bruising on my torso and looking pleased with their progress. He never stops being a doctor, even in situations like this.
"I need suggestions on where to go and what to wear."
"I don't want to be viewed as meddlesome, Master Jason." That is a lie and a bad one at that. This man secretly runs Bruce's social life for him. And, when I need it, he runs mine too. The truth is that both of us would be lost without Al to virtually hold our hands and guide us through this bizarre world of privilege; there's just too many fucking forks and French shirts for any man to cope with alone.
"Al, you and I both know that I'm a sweat pants and vest kind of guy. You practically dress me for all the public dinners and parties Bruce lets me tag along to; you know how I should dress for this date already, but I don't. Tell me please?"
"It all rather depends on where you plan to go."
"So, where am I going?" Al looks irritated with my lack of effort.
"Master Jason, really…"
"Come on, Al; first date with a girl that you want to impress, where would YOU take her?"
"Well, if you really want to impress her, might I suggest…"
"You're going to say 'romantic candlelit dinner', aren't you?" Al momentarily narrows his eyes at my interruption before adopting a sunnier disposition.
"Oh, heavens no, Sir! Romantic candlelit scenarios are reserved for when you are properly courting one another. But I was thinking a nice meal in a restaurant would be a good starting point." You spent decades making up that plan, Al? Dinner in a fancy restaurant is the answer? Come on…I expect laziness of myself, but not from you. I sigh and tell him as much.
"You must have better than that. That's like everyone's plan for a date."
"Try the ice-rink, then dinner." We both look to the doorway and find Bruce stood there in his dressing gown. The big guy looks strangely well rested. How long has he been standing there? Did he see me eat his breakfast or, even worse, did he hear me tell Al about Maddie's awesome rack? Judging from the smile on his face, he heard enough. Great. "Good morning Alfred. Can I get some eggs and toast please?" Al inclines his head and gets up to begin preparations.
"Certainly, Sir. I shan't be a moment." Bruce strides across the floor and briefly strokes my hair. It's starting to feel less alien every time he does it. Since the nightmare, the count's hit about ten. That means it's just a little less than creepy.
"Morning, Jason. I am to take it you had a nice time last night then?" He takes Al's vacant seat beside me.
"Are you pissed at me for not staying in bed like Al told me to?"
"It will probably come as no surprise that I am, but it seemed oddly beneficial for your temperament so I have decided to overlook it." He informs me, pouring himself a cup of black coffee from the kettle.
"Very gracious of you." I tell him as he takes a sip.
"I think so." He reaches over and moves the ice pack away to examine my face. "It's looking better already." I press it back on my cheek.
"Thanks. You really think she'd be impressed with ice-skating?" Bruce takes another sip and shrugs.
"I don't see why not. You're guaranteed to be close to her the whole time. Do you not like the idea?"
"No, it's good. I just didn't expect it to come from your mouth." The big guy raises an eyebrow at the insinuation he's no good with the ladies. When he speaks though, he doesn't sound indignant, just coolly confident about the whole thing.
"I've done my share of dating, Jason." That's an understatement. Bruce may be a grim, unrelenting monster of the night, but his back catalogue reads like a countdown of the top one hundred most desirable women of modern times. I privately loathe and respect his talents for seduction at the same time, although hell would freeze over and thaw back out again before I'd ever admit a thing to him. I mean, this man gets routinely laid for APPEARANCE'S sake, nothing else but to keep up the pretence; he rarely feels any true connection with these women. But this isn't about sex, this is about finding a way in and he's pretty good at that too. So I cut to the chase.
"Then you know the importance of making a first impression and arriving in style, right?"
"Where are you leading with this?"
"I want to get my driver's licence and drive her round in my Spyder." Even though I've only got my provisional licence, I'm capable of driving any vehicle and piloting any small aircraft and to the highest standard imaginable. Bruce made sure of that last part, VERY fucking sure. I would ace any civilian driving test in the whole world and the big man knows it. That's not the problem. The problem is the Spyder.
The Spyder is a replica of the Porsche 550 Spyder, a racing car made famous by James Dean, who crashed his and killed himself in the process. Dean called his 'Little Bastard', so in honour of that, mine's called 'Little Brat'. It was meant to be Little Bastard's Son', but Al convinced me to change it before Bruce caught wind of it. It wasn't a present either; I had to build the fucking thing up from nothing but a rusted chassis and a cracked engine block so the big guy could evaluate my auto mechanical knowledge and practical expertise during 'further' or 'advanced' training. I wasn't even allowed to drive it around the grounds afterwards, even though I spent close to eighteen months putting it together. He argued that if it killed a twenty-three year-old movie and amateur racing star, then it would wipe out a fourteen-year-old hothead in less time than it takes for it to climb to one-hundred miles per hour. That would be less than twenty seconds. I still drove it around a few times anyway. It's MY car. And it's the only thing I've ever wanted to drive.
"I see. You'll have to take a hit on your allowance to pay me back some of the insurance costs, a few months at least." How tight-ass can a billionaire really get? He's got enough money in his bank account to flood an Olympic-sized swimming pool and he's going to take my lousy two hundred dollar monthly allowance to pay for my car insurance? It'll cost hundreds of thousands to get me legally behind the wheel. Unfortunately, this is him being as nice as he can be without doing a Wicked Witch of the West and melting into a pile of sludge. So I accept it with a nod.
"And for the date?" I inquire.
"I'll give you enough to cover the costs of the skating and the dinner."
"So, two hundred bucks?" Bruce drains his mug before answering.
"Maybe two hundred and fifty, just to be on the safe side." There won't be any helicopter rides or an overnight stay in Madrid then, just the basic package. That's cool. At least he hasn't said 'no' to anything yet. That means today he likes me…or at least feels guilty enough about something he's done to me to try and be nice. Either way, I'm on his mind. It's nice to have someone like him think of me like that. Hopefully Maddie is thinking of me right now too. Suddenly, Bruce's hand is underneath my chin and he's looking at me with welcoming eyes for once. "She's got a hold on you, huh?" He says with a smirk, "You haven't said anything for almost five minutes." I'm still not crazy about him being so tactile (Al is an awesome alternative to a thesaurus, although he's harder to carry around) with me. He is trying harder to reach out to me though. I pull my head away from his hand slowly. Before, I would've reflexively jerked it back before he had a chance to blink and given myself whiplash.
"Did you hear me recite War and Peace about her just now?" Bruce nods taking his hand back.
"I got the cliff notes." He considers. "I know someone who's a certified driving instructor. He owes me a favour and it's possible I could get him to test you today and put in the paperwork to the DMV to be processed tomorrow. Or you could just wait until tomorrow and Alfred can get you down to a testing station or something." Most people would have to wait for things like this. It's the last day of the weekend, nobody in their right mind is going to want to do anything like work today, least of all driving instructors, but Bruce knows SOMEBODY. And this somebody owes him a favour, him and half of Gotham society. These, ladies and gentleman, are the inherent advantages of having a billionaire playboy who is also a colossal philanthropist and do-gooder…at least the public think so anyway.
"If I did it today, how soon could I get my licence and insurance papers sorted?" Bruce takes another moment to mull over the question as Al puts down a plate of eggs and toast for him. He inclines his head to the old guy without looking up.
"Probably before the end of the working day on Monday, Tuesday morning latest." He takes a bite of his breakfast before looking up for my reaction. What do you expect me to say, Bruce?
"Get him down here, please."
It's three hours later and I'm trussed up in a pair of black slacks, a white shirt and a grey, lamb's wool sweater standing by my Spyder and waiting for the instructor. I'm not nervous or sweating or even entertaining the slight possibility I could fail the exam; I'm just embarrassed that I look like some preppy rich boy who got taught a lesson. Al insisted on combing my hair and Bruce insisted I present myself in formal attire for his 'friend'. The big man said if I want my licence, I will do it looking like I care what other people think of me. I bet this guy, Mr Joules, is an absolute bastard to his other students, but will practically bend over backwards for Bruce to pass me. He'll be my friend, try to start small talk and generally be a colossal kiss-ass. I see him coming from a mile away. The smuck pulls up alongside my Porsche in a new Audi TT with a silver finish; he's trying to make me think he's good enough to take me through the test, that he belongs in this world of privilege. He doesn't know I think wealth is a bad joke and choked with too much pretentious bullshit. I still want my licence though. So I meet his wave with a smile when he gets out the car.
He's a big man, maybe as big as six-five and definitely weighs close to three-hundred pounds, just the kind of dimensions a lot of Gotham's criminals would kill for. He's a little round in the face and long in the tooth, judging by the bad comb-over job on his virtually bald head and the iron-grey hue of what's left. He's dressed in a neat, but cheap three-piece suit, a charcoal number with a light-blue tie while his footwear is definitely a special from Best Buy; slip-on black shoes with a bad gloss finish. I note his fake Rolex watch and comparatively modest silver wedding ring as he adjusts his grip on the clipboard he's carrying. He beams at me, his dark green eyes communicating nothing but polite surprise.
"'Allo lad, Martin Joules is me name and a'll be y' driving examiner t'day. You're Jason, right?" Jesus; this guy's from Yorkshire in England, DEEP Yorkshire. What's he doing in Gotham? "Either speak lad or shake me hand, either'll do." I do both. He's got a strong grip.
"You're from Yorkshire."
"Aye, that's right, 'uddersfield in Yorkshire. I've heard you were a smart lad, but I never heard you was a keen boxer as well; that's a nice shiner you got yourself there." He laughs pointing to my eye, "He must've hit like a bloody truck to do that." Okay…so this guy obviously isn't going to handle me with kid gloves or keep his opinions to himself, not a Yorkshireman's style; they're loud and brash at funerals. I've already decided I like him. That's why I smile.
"Yeah, but he went down like a sack of shit when I tagged him back." And he's still in a coma. Martin just laughs before clapping me on the back. I nearly shriek because of the bruises.
"So, an 'ardcase as well, eh? And you've got some snazzy trainers on your feet there to boot!" He says gesturing at my vintage Air Jordans that both my 'parents' told me explicitly not to wear for this. He crouches down to get a better view. "My grandson's been chopping at me to get him some monstrosities like these. My lad lives back 'ome in York with his family and he can't get shoes like these over there. So I try to bring 'em back something unique from across the pond, y'know." He stands back up. "Anyway, enough chewing your ear off already! You want your driving licence, so let's get it sorted shall we?" I shrug my shoulders.
"Buckle up."
Ninety minutes later, Martin gives me a blunt evaluation of my driving skills as we pull back up in the grounds. "Your driving style gives me a pissing heart attack!" But… "But, you still somehow managed to pass without a single mistake, it's bloody baffling stuff!" He hands over a copy of his exam sheet; nothing but ticks and an undeniable pass. Job done. Martin's talking about my acceleration at stop signs, turns and my overtaking on freeways; I squeeze through gaps a bike rider would struggle with. Still safe though. I shrug my shoulders.
"I'm not going to have a lawsuit on my hands if you croak after this, am I Martin?" I say with a lethargic sigh. The big man rolls his eyes at my sarcasm but then smiles.
"A'll go quietly, lad, not one to kick up a fuss."
"What do you owe Bruce a favour for anyway? One of your students crash into his limo or something?" He laughs at the suggestion.
"I'd owe him more than a favour for that, Jay! Nah, it were me wife. She was dying of cancer and Mr Wayne was nice enough to arrange an all-expenses paid trip for us to Paris through his charity foundation. It made her so happy, y'know? She died only a couple of months after that, but she went out with a smile on her face." Even though just speaking about something like that must really hurt him, Martin's still smiling and sunny about the whole thing. The man's got a positive outlook, no question. So I consider.
"Is your grandson about my age?"
"Yeah, a little older though; he's seventeen."
"How big are his feet?" Martin scoffs, already seeing where I'm going with this line of questioning.
"Bigger than yours, lad." I roll my eyes. Did he raise his eyebrows with some thinly veiled jibe at my manhood? I don't care if he's got a bigger dick than me; I'm trying to be nice here.
"Gimme a size, Martin, not a trump card."
"43." I pull off my sneakers.
"I always get sneakers a size bigger than my feet. These are 43s. You can take 'em for your grandson if you want." Now the man looks indignant and a little guilty.
"I am still getting paid for this, Jay. I can buy him some shoes me self."
"Yeah, two things with that, Marty; one, these are Air Jordans Mark ONE, produced in 1985 so, unless you want to fork out a bank loan for these bad boys on eBay, you're out of luck. And two, they're MY sneakers; one day I'll be famous and you'll be able to trade these for a retirement in Hawaii." Martin laughs at what I think is my ridiculous confidence levels before folding his arms and offering me a hard stare.
"What makes you think I want t' go t' bloody Hawaii?"
"Hula girls are crazy about English guys." He relieves me of my sneakers. Jason Todd should've been a salesman; I've have their eyes out in five minutes flat, no doubt. Martin nods at me in nothing but sincere appreciation.
"He'll love these." The man remarks, putting them to one side. He pats me gently on the shoulder. "You're a good lad, Jay. He's lucky to have you, y'know, Mr Wayne. He might not see that now, but when you've gone away, he'll see it then." He sighs longingly, "All parents see it eventually. Congratulations on passing your driving test." He extends his hand out for me to shake. I accept it without any hesitation.
"See you round, Marty."
"Aye, 'opefully. Go give him the good news, eh?"
After Martin drives off in the same way he came, I dig my dress shoes from the trunk and take a wander up to the house. I find Bruce exercising in the gym. The big guy is swinging on the rings with the grace and fluidity of a man half his size. He spots me when he performs an iron cross. He says nothing and I hold up the exam sheet. Even suspended ten feet off the ground and fifteen feet away from where I'm standing, Bruce still manages to acknowledge that it's a pass. He nods in satisfaction before dismounting from the rings with three twists and a somersault. He grabs a towel to dab at some non-existent sweat as he approaches me.
"How does it feel for it to be official?" He asks drawing level with me. I nod.
"Good."
"And you like the examiner I got for you?"
"Yeah, he was nice."
"Good. I was confident his personality would match up with yours. Other examiners wouldn't display the same patience with you."
"Why might that be?"
"Because you're a sarcastic, teenage brat." I roll my eyes at him. He's probably right though; I rub up authority figures the wrong way. That's why I'm not in a mainstream school; because detention and getting kicked out of class would become the hallmarks of my academic career. Al has infinitely more patience and time for my bad habits. In fact, he's the only reason I possess the equivalent of a 4.0 grade point average across every subject possibly taught in the curriculum. Without him, I'd barely scrape a D.
"And you love me for it." I fire back.
"Love's rather a strong word for it, Jason." He offers teasingly.
"Whatever, big man. Marty says I can pick up my licence tomorrow, special delivery. Can you take me down in the Spyder? I'll drive you back." He doesn't look crazy about the idea. This becomes clear when he tries to palm me off with the usual excuses.
"I'm rather busy at work tomorrow, Jason."
"So take a day off."
"I'm sure Alfred would be more than willing to…"
"No, thanks. Unless you want to come home to a corpse instead of a butler, you'll take me."
"Jason…"
"Please Bruce. This is important to me. And it's important that you come too. Most dads would love to be there when their kid picks up his licence; it's a big deal."
"I thought you made it very clear that I was not your father, Jason, or ever would be." Oh what a surprise; Bruce being difficult. I go the soft route.
"Do you love me, Bruce?"
"I think we both know the answer to that."
"Right and are you proud of me for passing my exam?"
"Yes, of course I am."
"So you'll come right? You'll take me?"
"You promise to be careful on the way back? I don't want history to repeat itself." He's referring to James Dean's monumental crash on the road in '55. He wants a guarantee I won't just hammer down the gas pedal and try my luck on sharp bends. I want him to be impressed, not paralysed from the neck down; from the neck up is enough already. I shrug.
"I'll pinkie swear with you if it'll make you feel better."
"No jokes, please. Can I trust you to be safe?" I scoff at the notion that I am unsafe in any way. I'm reckless NOT unsafe. In my mind there's a difference. Although I can't tell you what that difference is just this second, there's definitely one. Definitely. So I go all out.
"I didn't get my licence to kill myself, Bruce! I did to score a girlfriend! Why else would I dress like a reject from a polo pony club? I just want to impress her on Tuesday, let's not turn this into a death wish or anything!" He seems to respond to this.
"Alright, fine. You're doing this to impress Miss Prince, fair enough. As long as you take it easy, I'll go with you tomorrow. I'll call in at work in the afternoon." I decide to push my luck again.
"No, you can't." I watch his whole body involuntarily tense, his muscles bulge and flex into obscene dimensions when he clenches his fists. He practically snaps his response.
"Excuse me?"
"I need you to help me modify the Porsche tomorrow afternoon. You can't go to work." He looks unbelievably huge and scary right now. But I've faced down bigger men and won. I stand my ground as he tries to compose himself.
"Jason, I do think you're starting to test my patience now. What modifications are you planning to make?"
"Just cosmetic. I want a new paint job, windscreen, tyres, and a stereo putting in." He glares at me.
"Take another car." I shake my head resolutely.
"No, it has to be the Spyder."
"Why? I've got a modified 550 in the garage you can use. It has all those features."
"But it's not mine."
"I can make it yours."
"No, I didn't build it, I don't want it." He sighs, the irritation he's currently feeling laces every word.
"I gave you the option of adding extra features to the car during the initial build. You wanted to construct an exact replica of Dean's car. It's your own fault."
"Just give up your time for this one thing, Bruce. I don't ask the Earth of you."
"It could take all day."
"So let's start today." He still doesn't look willing. I try a different line. "I'd do it myself, but I'm still not feeling too hot and, as good as Al is, he sucks at welding and electronic installation; remember that alarm system he installed? It kept us awake for four days." That was bad. Al set an override password for the system, but he couldn't remember what it was. Since the system was for the cave, we couldn't hire out an IT expert to fix it; we had to guess what the password was…for hours. Eventually, I sussed it out; it was EastwoodofEden. Why? I don't even know. The film title is East of Eden and Clint Eastwood isn't even in it; James Dean is.
"Why are you pushing so hard?"
"Because when you're not saying 'no' and being a grim asshole, you're someone I actually want to spend time with, as loony as it may sound." I yank off my sweater. "And you know for a fact you need someone, hell, you need ANYONE to challenge you or you'll get complacent. Complacency is the beginning of an individual's last successful days, isn't that what you're always saying?" I start unbuttoning my shirt. "So how about we make a deal; if I beat you in three rounds of sparring, you stay home tomorrow. If you beat me, I'll let you make up your own mind." I take off the shirt to reveal the sparring gear I'm wearing underneath. I kick off my shoes and let my pants drop to show my flame streaked boxing shorts. Bruce looks curious.
"Was this your plan all along, Jason?" He inquires as I duck behind the ring and pull out my sports bag. I perch myself on the edge and begin putting on my boots.
"No, this was my back-up plan all along. Isn't that always what happens when diplomacy with stubborn people fails, we resort to fists?" I fish out my gloves and headgear.
"Sometimes. But sometimes picking fights with those people backfires. The aggressor isn't always automatically the strongest in such a confrontation." Bruce is trying to say, albeit with some subtlety that I'm still too injured to go toe-to-toe with him at our level of competition; we pull NO punches or hold anything back. Even Batman underestimates the kid.
"If you're scared a kid who's been severely spanked by some very bad men is going to kick your ass all over the ring, just give in now. Last chance." I say rolling under the ropes and into the centre of the ring, headgear on, gloves on and mouth guard in hand. For a split second, I'm really hoping he'll just let me have my own way, but then he climbs on the apron and steps through the ropes. His gloves always hang on his corner's post, along with his mouth guard and headgear.
"Three rounds, Jason. You lose, I go to work tomorrow, end of story." I've got to admit, as far as plans go, this is pretty stupid. I struggle to contain Bruce when in peak physical condition and right now I'm probably operating at seventy-five per cent. My seventy-five per cent is most guys' hundred per cent and, against pretty much everyone else in the world I could still beat them convincingly. But not Bruce. Even if I was in perfect shape, the best I usually manage is a draw. Plus there's my face; it's still healing and not up to further punishment. And then my body is a soft target too with all the bruising. Fuck, I'm screwed. Easy Jay-Jay; think of Maddie and how you want to impress her; you need his help. He's suited up and ready now. He puts in his mouth guard and reaches over to set the timer. He looks at me one last time to make sure this is what I want. I dare him to not push the ENTER button and call it off. He pushes the button.
"Start of Round One…" The computer's voice announces over the intercom. The bell rings and we're off…