Please Note: Before you read this story, it might be worth mentioning that when you call the Police department's reception desk, that is very different than calling 911. The reception desk is for non-emergencies.
The Boys in Blue
Story 12: The Desk Jockey
If you asked Jason Todd to write out a list of all the things in life that scared him, then a laid-up and very bored Dick Grayson would make the top ten. Maybe even the top five. Because as much as people seem to think his big brother is just a nice person—and maybe he is to certain people—there's nothing quite like an acrobat with nothing to do.
If you were to ask Jason what you should do with a laid-up, very bored Dick Grayson, he would have told you to sedate the bastard until he was fighting fit again. And after a few days of dealing with that particular brand of nightmare personified, you'd probably come to the same conclusion.
It was too bad, then, that the Bludhaven Police Department didn't get the memo. With five stiches in his head, a cracked rib, and a broken tailbone, it was against protocol for Dick to head back out into the field. So he was stuck behind a desk; specifically, the receptionist's desk.
Which, in retrospect, was one of the worst decisions Detective Phillimore Wallfried Burns ever made.
The police department's outer sanctum was comprised of two parts: the receptionist's office and the lobby. The outer sanctum was a small room in total, no bigger than a college dorm room, cut in half by a long wooden desk and a glass paneled divider. On one side of the divider, there were a few tall filing cabinets, a landline phone, more types of forms than one would care to count, a couple printers, a computer, and all the other little trifles that might make up an office. That side was covered by a gray carpet complete with dark coffee stains and cigarette burns. The office served as a kind bridge between the police department's lobby, which was open to the general public and officers alike, and the main offices where most of the real work happened. On the other side of the glass divider, was the lobby. That floor was tiled. And there were waiting chairs, a little table, a stash of pens, and a litany of boring posters on traffic laws, 911 protocols, and the like.
There was nothing interesting about the outer sanctum. Nor was there anything interesting about reception work. Nothing. It was all answering boring inquiries, occasionally putting a call through to dispatch, handing out forms, filing paperwork, printing more forms, and unofficially running little errands for random officers who were 'too busy' to handle such trivial matters on their own. The job sucked. There were to two ways about it.
But when one had broken bones—and Dick would argue that his bones weren't 'that broken'—then one could expect to find one's self in such unenviable circumstances. With the usual dayshift receptionist on vacation in Nebraska, Burns had been itching to stick one of the Wayne boys out front where they couldn't do any more damage. Lucky Dick Grayson had drawn the short stick there.
Thanks for nothing, Uncle Joker.
Sitting in the office all day was a pain in the ass. Literally. If you've ever broken your tailbone, then you'll know that sitting down for extended periods of time is just as unpleasant as standing up or walking around. And sadly, there's not a thing you can do about it. Well, you can complain, but it hasn't been known to help.
Dick tried to find ways of amusing himself. On day one it was crossword puzzles and Sudoku. On day two it was secret 'Nightwing work'. On day three it was hacking the Batcave. On day four it was hacking the FBI…yeah, things escalated quickly. But in his defense, Dick Grayson was bored to tears.
"What have you got there, Rookie?"
Sergeant Amy Rorscharch stepped through the little door at the back of the BCPD's reception office. She was holding a paper coffee cup in one hand and stirred the contents with a little plastic stick. Her short brown hair was pulled back in a low ponytail, her shirt cleanly pressed, her tie straight and tight, her badge clipped neatly to her belt. Amy was always a professional, and as such, very respectable.
Which was more than could be said for Dick. He hadn't bothered wearing a tie at all, the top three buttons of his shirt were undone, and his sleeves were rolled up high on his forearm. He turned slowly in the spiney chair he'd stollen from Chief Redhorn the other day, and let his eyes roll apathetically in her direction.
"It's a book on palm-reading and divining horoscopes," he said monotone.
Amy gave him a confused smile. "Why?"
"Madam Alzbeta taught me the basics back at the circus—she was the best mind you—but I've gotten rusty. Figured I'd brush up."
"Why?"
"Every good circus has a sideshow," he shrugged, "a little cliché maybe, but lord if she didn't keep us all on our toes."
"And you're going this why?"
"Cuz' I'm bored!"
"Well next time don't break your butt on a skateboard," Amy advised.
Dick's face turned red. "I didn't break my butt!"
A grin split Amy's face but she buried it behind the lip of her coffee cup. What a jerk-ette. You'd think a broken tailbone would stop being funny after a week. But no. No it would not. Apparently. Dick was about to tell her just where she could shove her coffee cup when the phone rang.
With a sigh, he picked up the receiver. "Hello, Bludhaven Snake Pit, we never close."
"You can't answer the department phone like that!" Amy snapped as she strode forward to take the phone out of his hand. With a seriously peeved look at Dick, she put it up against her own ear. "Sorry about that. You've reached Sergeant Amy Rorscharch at the Bludhaven Police Department, what can I do for you?"
Dick went back to his palm-reading. Madam Alzbeta had called her work 'palm reading', and inasmuch as she used the creases in a person's hand to glimpse images of their near future, she hadn't been wrong exactly. But Dick suspected that the old Czech woman had been a meta, or at least been attune to the same kinds of forces as Zartara and Zatana. As such, her methods had been a little…different. So the book, really wasn't helping refresh his memory that well. Alzbeta always told him he could well develop the skill if he chose to, and since now he had all this downtime, he figured he'd give it another shot. Could come in handy in his real line of work. You never knew. He just needed some willing subjects to practice on.
Two such victims—er, people—walked into the police department a half hour later. The first was a woman in her late 40's with round thin rimmed glasses, a soccer-mom overcoat, and blond hair that almost certainly came from a box. Behind her was a young black man in a styling sports jacket, a pair of crisp Levi jeans, and expensive looking sneakers. Seeing his victims—right, people—approaching the desk, he levered himself painfully out of his seat and stood to greet them.
The woman walked up to the glass divider and set a red faux leather purse down on her side of the desk. "I work for the town council," she began, "and I'm here to pick up…is that a crystal ball?"
Having momentarily about that odd curio, Dick took a second to process. "It's uh…paper weight."
She gave him a skeptical look. "And I suppose that book on Palmistry and Roman Fortune-Telling is just a stack of printer paper?"
Dick gave her one of his nicer smiles. "Ok, you caught me. Wanna see if it works?"
Intrigued but pretending not to be, the woman placed her hand on the desk palm up as Dick slid back the divider window. He took her hand in both of his, and pushed his memory back to his childhood and the days he spent in the old woman's trailer.
"Ok, I'm not doing this properly but…" Dick's eyes slid closed. Rather than looking at the lines in her hand, he felt them. Felt for them in her skin and in that weird place-between-places that Alzbeta once taught him how to feel. "Huh…looks like you're going to get that loan for the summer house in California."
The woman looked flabbergasted. "How did you…that's…I have been trying to get the bank to approve…how did you do that? Are you spying on me? Do you have all our financial records…" she gasped, "have we been hacked?"
Huh, I was right about something? No, way. Nope. That can't be right. Alzbeta said this sort of palm reading takes years to learn.
"Woah, lady calm down," Dick put up his hands defensively, "I have literally no idea what I'm talking about. That's just the first thing that popped into my head."
"Popped into your head?" the woman demanded. She was close to shrieking at him.
You'd almost think I gave her bad news, he thought wryly.
"Hey now," said the young man from behind her, "no need to get all worked up, ma'am. Let's just see how legit this shit really is." He addressed Dick, who was starting to think his pastime might have been a bad idea. "Let's see you read my palm, brother."
Unflinching but skeptical, the young man thrust his hand forward. Dick took the hand in his own. Well, can't get myself into any more trouble, he thought. He closed his eyes and trailed his fingers along the creases in the man's cold dry hand. Along his life line. He followed it, tugging on it as he might a thread of spider silk, until his mind reached the first little snapshot. It was like seeing a memory…a memory of something that had never happened. He didn't know what he was seeing in that little not-quite-memory, but from the mute playback of events up-happened, he thought he had a vague idea. Withdrawing from maybe the place-between-places, Dick looked up at the young man.
"Well?" the guy asked, "what do you see, officer?"
"Remember, I could be wrong," said Dick.
"Yeah, I got that. I don't believe in this shit. What's say you just give me the diagnosis?"
Dick looked the man straight in the eye, delivery absolutely deadpan. "You're going to spend a romantic evening with a flat-footed white man who has a wide hooked nose, beady brown eyes, and an early onset of male-pattern baldness."
The poor young man looked absolutely horrified for half a second before he burst out laughing. "Oh man, you really had me going there for a second. Like…hahaha…was there wine and cheese in our…hahaha…romantic…hahaha…evening?"
Still keeping a straight face, Dick answered. "Yes."
"And what color was this man's hair…hahaha…what was left of it?"
"Brown. With a little gray."
The young man—because Dick never got his name—kept laughing. He was nearly in hysterics. It was in that fortuitous moment that Detective Burns walked into the receptionist office. He came up behind Dick, looking as imposing as a pot-bellied middle-aged detective could look, and stared at the guy still laughing his ass off out in the lobby.
"What is the meaning of this horseplay?" Burns demanded.
The young man on the other side of the divider looked up at the newcomer, and his face suddenly became three shades paler. He scanned Burns up and down: male-pattern baldness, check. Beady brown eyes, check. White, check. Flat-footed, likely. Without a word of explanation, the young man screamed and fled.
"You'll never take me alive, flatfoot!" he shouted upon his exit.
Baffled, Burns turned to Dick. "What did you do?"
"Nothing!" said Dick defensively, "ask her!"
Burns turned to the woman. "Well? Spill it."
"Forget it! I know my rights. You're not getting anything out of me. Not one thing." The woman turned on her heal and walked out of the precinct.
"What. Did. You. Do?" Burns repeated.
"Why do you always assume I've done something?" Dick fired back.
"You are usually the common denominator," Burns pointed out, "so for the last time, Rookie, what did you do?"
An annoying ringing sound interrupted them. Saved by the bell. "Phone," said Dick. He picked up the receiver. "Hello, you've reached the Bludhaven City mortuary. I'm sorry we're not taking bodies at the…"
Burns ripped the phone out of Dick's hand. "You've reached the Bludhaven City Police Department. This Detective Phil Burns speaking."
Chief Redhood shook his head with that type of annoyance that any parent would recognize when dealing with a trouble-prone child. His favorite spinney-chair was missing form his office. Again. The one with the super squishy seat and backrest. Fortunately, the police chief knew where to look.
Redhorn took himself up the receptionist office. And sure enough, Dick Grayson had stollen his chair once again. The kid lounged back in his super comfy chair, surrounded by pillows, with his feet kicked up on the desk. He was reading a book on Roman Fortune-Telling. Redhord decided it was best that he didn't ask. The chief shook his head again as he walked up to the desk.
"I see you've taken my chair again," said Redhorn.
Dick looked up at him, readjusting his glasses with his middle finger. "Is that a problem?"
"Stealing is against the law you know. We have cells around here for that sort of thing." He was almost proud of himself for suppressing his smile.
"I didn't steal it exactly. It's still in the building," said Dick.
"Uh-huh," said Redhorn, "stealing from your boss though…?"
Dick made a pouty face that had 'fight me' written all over it. "Your chair is the only one that's even a little bit comfortable. And if I have to be sitting here all day…"
The police chief raised an amused eyebrow at the kid. "Well, you wouldn't be in this situation if you didn't decide to go skateboarding on the cobblestones downtown."
"Finish that thought, I dare you," said Dick darkly.
Well, challenge accepted. "You wouldn't be stuck behind a desk if you didn't go and break your butt."
Dick's face turned a suitable shade of red. Redhorn got the impression the kid was about to tell him exactly where he could shove that skateboard which should not be spoken of, when the precinct phone rang.
The kid picked up the phone with lightning reflexes. "Hello, you've reached Madam Rosa Le'Costa's. I'm afraid all of the girls are busy at the moment, but if you'd like to schedule…"
Redhorn slowly tugged the phone out of Dick's hand. "This is the Bludhaven Police department. Police Chief Redhorn speaking….Ah, Commissioner Gordon…no, that was Officer Grayson. He's been have a hard time sitting behind a desk all day…Yes, I'll get him under control…Yes, I realize his conduct is unprofessional…No, I am not running a ring of hookers out of the police department…What's that?...Oh, yes. Thank you for the heads up. We'll keep our eyes open for Black Mask. Any help you can give us will be most appreciated…Yes, I'll deal with it. Goodbye, Jim."
The chief set the phone back down on the receiver and turned his weary eyes on Dick. He folded his arms over his chest as looked down at the unruly police officer, still lounging in his favorite chair.
"End of today," he said.
"What?"
"End of today," Redhorn repeated, "you can keep my chair till the end of the day. After that, I want it back in my office. No more complaining. Got it?"
Dick picked up his Palm reading book again. "Fine." He glared up at the chief then with baleful eyes. "You could let me head back out into the field you know."
"No, I could not."
"But…"
Redhorn cut him off with a raised hand. "Next time, think twice about breaking your butt."
"I broke my tailbone. Tail-bone. A tailbone is not a butt."
"It amounts to the same thing."
"I DIDN'T BREAK MY BUTT!"
Dick put the book aside. Reaching up, he pushed his glasses out of the way and rubbed at his bleary eyes. The letters were 'jumping around on the page' again, words reduced to vibrating lines of text despite the corrective lenses, and Dick figured that it was time to take a break. The book wasn't helping him that much anyways.
The book mostly just dealt with the general skill and a little bit of history. It dealt with old palm reading traditions, variations of which were practiced by the Ancient Greeks, Romans, Mesopotamians, Egyptians, and the peoples of India. It looked at the palm reading offshoot used by the medieval witch hunters, the tradition of the Renaissance men and neo-classical doctors. It looked at the traditions throughout Eurasia. And finally, at the work of the Hippies. In these more traditional takes on the skill, there was a certain science. Sometimes, perhaps, a type of divination. Something in the hand might show a studied palmist some discernable truth.
But as fascinating as the book was, Alzbeta hadn't taught Dick this kind of skill. Her version of palmistry, or chiromancy, was an admittedly bastardized take. Where the traditional palmist systematically examined the creases in a person's hand to determine a few vague truths, the old woman used the physical contact to draw a connection between her client and an unknown force.
Alzbeta believed there was a universal force, neither good nor bad, through which one might peek into the fabric of the universe. A place where time and mystery were irrelevant. She believed that every living being was permeated by this unifying force, and that if one could connect to this force, one might glimpse pieces of a person's future. She believed that, with the right training, anyone could tap into this force.
Dick hadn't much believed in Alzbeta's 'universal force', but he'd listened dutifully as a kid. And apparently, he'd retained those memories into his early adulthood. As a hyperactive 7-year-old, he hadn't even managed to grasp what she'd been teaching him. But now…now he couldn't say that the old woman was exactly…wrong. Because he had felt something when he looked into the lives of the two victims—sorry people—earlier. It was weird. But also, kind of…well…cool.
Then again, maybe his seeing 'stuff' (for lack of a better term), was purely accidental. Maybe it was all just a figment of his overactive imagination. Maybe even a repercussion of slamming his head into the Joker's crowbar. Dick couldn't be sure that it wasn't the case. The timing did fit, after all.
If only I had another victim...
Detective Burns burst back into the receptionist office in a swirl of angry phones and paperwork.
Well, problem solved…
"Rookie!" screamed Burns. And wow, that nickname did not sound endearing when he said it. Seriously, did nobody around the precinct use his real name?
Dick spun his chair around lazily to face the irate police detective. "Yes…" he drawled.
Burns held up the stack of papers in his hand. "This woman from the city council just called to tell us that our receptionist was doing this creepy palm reading thing…"
"Was I right?" Dick asked.
Burns blinked at him. "What?"
"Did she call because I was right?"
"Wait, are you actually psychic?" asked Burn, interest piqued against his better judgment.
"So, I was right," Dick crowed.
"Hold on just a minute there," said Burns, "because I'm getting mixed signals from you…"
"Let me clarify; I'm not into you," said Dick.
"Not those kind of signals!" screamed Burns.
"Oh."
"Here," paperwork and angry city councilwoman temporarily forgotten, Burns thrust his hand Dick's way, "let's test this out. Read my palm."
Now this was just too good to pass up.
Dick took the detective's hand in his own and closed his eyes. He felt for the tendrils of Alzbeta's force like he had a few hours ago, but only halfheartedly. Because this was Detective Burns and Dick had his own plans brewing, a prank of epic proportion. So, rather than testing out his hypothesis and attempting to sink himself into the swells of Alzbeta's force, he decided to make something up.
After a few more seconds, Dick looked Burns straight in the eye. Drawing on ever bit of acting training Batman had ever given him, he kept his face perfectly blank.
"Well?" Burns demanded, "what do you see?"
"You're about to put on four inches around the middle," he said.
"What?" Burns demanded, "that's it?"
Dick shrugged. "That's what I said."
"You're a fraud," Burns scoffed. He dropped the stack of paperwork off on the desk. "Fax those over to Councilwoman Daulton. She wasn't able to pick them up earlier because you scared her off."
As Burns left the office, Dick rolled the chair over to the fax machine and got to work. He smiled as he sent the papers through. Because messing with Burns was going to just be too much fun.
On his lunch break, Dick pushed himself out of that blasted chair and fairly limped out of the office. Everything hurt from his sacrum to midway up his lower lumbar. It was a sharp, ever present ache. It was annoying. His ribs still screamed at him when he twisted is torso at all. And he was still getting dizzy spells and having trouble focusing left over from the concussion. That said, it was all nothing he couldn't handle if he would just be allowed to do something. But he wasn't. If he was at work, then they stuck him behind a desk. If he was at home, Jason went full on 'mother hen' on his ass (the traitor) and threatened to sew him down to the couch. Jason's worry might have been endearing if it wasn't first and foremost, incredibly inconvenient.
At a snail's pace, Dick made it back to the locker room. And seriously, if he was just given the chance to move around more, he wouldn't feel so stiff. But he wasn't and he didn't, so he was annoyed with himself before he even reached him locker. Stupid Joker. Stupid crowbar. Stupid rules. Dick would have been much more irritable if he hadn't also been in the act of pulling a prank of his 'stick-up-the-ass' superior.
Dick opened his locker and withdrew a pair of standard issue sweatpants. The Bludhaven police department had a gym connected to the precinct open to all personnel and all officers were issued a set of gym clothes as part of their uniform kit. Which really worked out rather perfectly for Dick's little plan. In a few seconds, he made short work of the padlock on Burns's locker and swapped their pants. Dick's pants were two full sizes smaller that the older detectives; a fact which would become readily apparent when he put them on instead of his own.
Trap set, Dick went back to his own locker and pulled out a soggy grilled-cheese sandwich with bacon, a water bottle, and a little package of dehydrated fruit. Since there really wasn't anything for it, he limped—sorry walked—back to the receptionist desk to eat his lunch.
"How's life been treatin' ya behind that desk, Bluebird?"
Jason Todd sauntered into the precinct lobby from the public entrance. He was dressed in full uniform, complete with his radio and sidearm. His hair was mussed in that 'I just went for a run' way it often was, and his cheeks had a healthy glow about them under the myriad little scars. MC strained on the cherry red leash in his hand, sniffing at all the new smells in the room. Admittedly, Dick was a little jealous. At least Jason was still out on patrol.
Pulled a face that was dangerously close to a pout, Dick made a point of slamming his fist on the stapler as he finished putted together packages of paper forms. "You're not supposed to bring Miley here."
Jason gave him a roguish grin as he leaned an elbow on the public side of the desk and slid back the little glass divider. "But she was lonely," he drawled, "see, I went back on my lunch break to let her out ta pee. And wouldn't ya know it, she didn't wanna go back inside. She wanted to stay with me. So I said, what the heck? Dick's not busy. So I brought her along. Figured there was enough room in that office for two."
"I can't baby sit," said Dick flatly, "Amy will kill us both."
"Don't start stickin' to the rules now, Blue," said Jason. He bent over and hefted the puppy into his arms. "After all," he said as he set her down on the desk, "you're the one that bought her."
"Yeah, by she's your dog," Dick protested.
"MC won't be any trouble."
"Not for you maybe."
"Exactly my point!" Jason handed MC over the desk and pushed her into Dick's lap. "Here. Play nice."
"Hey, no!" Dick tried to stand up without hurting himself too badly, one arm wrapped around the squiring puppy, the other braced against the armrest of the chair. "I'm not baby sitting your dog."
Jason leaned through the divider window and pushed them both back into the chair. "You are."
"Am not!"
"Are so."
"Am not!"
"Are so."
"I refuse!" snapped Dick, "what will Amy say?"
Jason just grinned. "That's not really my problem anymore. Now be a good dog Uncle, and keep MC company."
"I have…papers to staple." Dick picked up the stapler and snapped it open and closed at his brother's nose.
Grinning like the Joker, Jason shoved the thing out of his face and picked up Dick's palm reading book. "Yes, I can see you're super busy."
Childishly, Dick snatched the book out of Jason's hands just as he opened it to a random page. "Don't you have parking tickets to hand out?"
"Nah," Jason lazily stretched his arms over his head until his back popped. Dick wanted to murder him. "Before lunch I was presidin' over a big accident in the Walmart parkin' lot. Turned kinda ugly for a hot minute when this one dude tried to punch another dude, but he punched Captain Eliot instead…real mess. Took up most of the mornin'."
"I know what you're doing you asshat, and it won't work," said Dick sullenly.
Jason laughed. He didn't deny the fact that he was intentionally trying to get his brother all worked up. Instead, he leaned over the desk again and reached for the book. "So, what'cha been up to?"
Dick sighed. "Well, it's about fifty, fifty whether or not I'm doing this right. Alzbeta had her way and this book talks about something else…honestly, I have no clue what I'm doing."
"Redhorn said you caused quite a stir with some councilwoman," said Jason sagely, "sounds ta my like you're doin' something right."
"OK, so maybe I accidently got somewhere. I don't know. I just so god-dammed bored!" Dick threw himself bodily into the back of the chair. MC leaped down from his lap and started exploring the office as puppies do. Dick didn't even bother trying to stop her. It would be more work than it was worth.
The first twinge of real sympathy crossed Jason's face. "Wanna keep tryin' it out?"
"Huh?"
Jason held out his hand. "Here, have another go. But if you see me dyin' again, you should first know that I don't wanna hear it."
Taking Jason's hand, Dick closed his eyes and forced himself to focus. He was almost afraid too. What is he could learn Alzbeta's skills? What if you did figure out how to feel his way into the universal force she talked about? What if what he saw turned out to be real? His fingers brushed against his brother's skin, but what he saw was not the future—at least he didn't think so—it looked more like…the past. He saw the Lazarus pit and brief snapshots of what happened after. The images seemed to flash in and out, dim then faded into white, moving almost too fast to see. But then, not quite fast enough to be obscured. Dick didn't want to know. He pulled away.
Guess I've got my conformation, though. Probably can do this hocus pocus. Great. For the man who has everything, the Force. Voila.
"Well?" Jason looked at him with expectant green eyes, oblivious. "Get anythin' interesting?"
Dick pushed the images out of his mind and mentally filed them into the 'Deal With Later' box at the back of his brain. He grinned mischievously up at his brother. "You're going to meet a tall woman with curly green hair, a long nose, a peg-leg, and warts."
"Joy," Jason deadpanned.
"What's that dog doing in here?" demanded Amy. She stood just on the inside of the doorway between the reception room and the back offices. She had another coffee mug and a doughnut in hand. She looked decidedly pissed as her sharp eyes tracked MC around the room.
And because he was a real asshole rather than just a pretend asshole, Jason decided to throw Dick under the buss. He gave Amy an innocent look. "Dick was really bored, so he asked me to bring MC in to keep him company."
Dick glared at his evil little brother. "Why you…"
But Amy cut him off. "If it's not part of our canine training program, it doesn't belong. Get this dog out of here, Rookie."
Ring. Ring. Ring.
Still glaring at Jason, Dick answered the phone. "Hello Sinner, you've reached the final circle of hell. I'm afraid Satan can't make it the phone right now…"
Pretending to be innocent, and more put-upon than he was, Jason took the phone out of Dick's hand. With a longsuffering sigh, he put it up to his ear. "I apologize for my incompetent underling," he said, "this is Satan."
Amy snatched the phone out of Jason's hand. "This is Sergeant Rorscharch at the BCPD, what can I do for you?"
But she didn't get any farther than that.
"It's happening!" shrieked an almost manly voice from the back offices. A split second later, Detective Burns dashed into the receptionist's office wearing Dick's sweatpants which he mistakenly believed to be his own. "It's happing! I put on four inches 'round the middle! It's happening!"
Amy stood frozen in place with the phone paused midway to her ear. "What the actual heck?"
Dick just shrugged. "Dunno."
The phone rang.
"Hello caller, you're on the air with Dr. Fraser Crane. Go ahead…"
Captain Savanah Eliot took the phone out of Dick's hand. "This his Captain Eliot of the Bludhaven City Police department."
When 8:00 rolled around, Jason was done in. He trudged his ass up to the reception office and pushed open the door. MC ran up to greet him, wagging her little tail and standing up to pay at his shins. With a smile, he bent down to pet her before looking up as his brother who appeared dead at his post.
"Ready to get out of here?" he asked.
Dick just starred at him blankly. "I've been sitting here so long, I think I'm fused to the chair."
"Maybe next time you'll think twice about breaking your butt on a skateboard," Jason smirked.
There was a middle finger extended in his direction. "I didn't break my butt. And that's still a lame-ass cover story."
"And that was a lame-ass pun," Jason snorted.
"Fuck you."
"Come on, let's go home." Jason extended a hand to held Dick get to his feet. It still took his brother longer than strictly necessary to stand up. And when he was finally on his feet, Jason found himself the recipient of an unpredicted hug. He awkwardly patted Dick's back. "Get a move on, Gimpy. MC and I are hungry for dinner."
"Fuck you."
[The Ministry of Kick-Arse Bats] 9:43 PM
Jason: I just thought you should all know, Dick is a menace when he's bored
Alfred: Figured that out all on your own, sir?
Jason: Hilarious, Alf
Dick: Try being me! This is agony!
Tim: You wouldn't be in this kind of agony if you didn't go and break your butt
Dick: I DIDN'T BREAK MY BUTT!
Dick: You're all a bunch of assholes
Dick: ASSHOLES I tell you!
Alfred: Master, Dick, there's no reason to use all capitals on us. And please do refrain from using such unpleasant language over the chat. It looks even worse in print.
Dick: I DON'T CARE!
Jason: See what I mean? He's been real cranky since the Joker broke his butt
Dick: He did NOT break my BUTT!
Author's Note:
So before anyone asks, in this world I've created, yes, Dick kind of gets his own 'superpower'. Because I'm bored and I like to watch the world burn. Also, I started this story at 4 AM and I thought it was funny. Dick's new 'super power' takes his 'people reading' skills literallyXD.
The character Alzbeta and her unique version of palmistry is based solely on my Aunt Irina. Like Alzbeta, she's very bohemian (ha, pun). She's a quirky lady from Bílý Kůň, Česki Republiki (the town is so small you can literally drive through it in 15 minutes). I'm not going to go into details about Aunt Irina's own peculiar brand of 'not-quite witchcraft,' because that would take forever. But think Star Wars XD. Alzbeta's and Dick's abilities are based in the hypothetical world of, 'what if Aunt Irina is right?'
