Urchin
Combat, a guy once said, is a game of inches. Right now, my fist is about three inches inside some thug's grill, breaking eight of his front teeth. So I guess that guy was right. I drop my target without any further trouble and wait for the big man to finish off his man too. My first night back on the job after my boiled kettle impression is a slow one. If my fever slowed me down some, I haven't been able to notice; every guy we face is as wooden and stiff as a dead tree and even less interesting. Bruce takes his guy out with a nerve pinch, something I can't help but roll my eyes at; the big guy is all about the fancy touches. I wait until I'm sure he's finished before speaking.
"Next move, Boss?" Instead of staring off into space to consider what to do next, Bruce stares at me.
"Home."
"Should I drive?"
"Very funny."
The drive back is conducted in the normal otherworldly silence we're both used to. Tonight was boring, but probably productive from a tactical standpoint. Judging from which rackets we closed down, the big guy is trying to cause enough damage to incite a little more competition between the gangs in Gotham and make them take bigger risks to get a profit. It's smart, for sure, but so damn tedious; this might take weeks. I can't help but sigh out loud when I consider this, but the boss is beyond reacting to it. He doesn't care how I feel, just so long as I do as I'm told. It's always been that way with us.
While we're still on the way back to the cave, I take the opportunity to take off my left glove and study my hand. I knocked out a total of twenty-six individual teeth with my left hand tonight. It looks like the Kevlar plating on the knuckles held up nicely to the abuse; my hand looks pristine. I admire it for a few more minutes before slipping my glove back on. I guess tonight wasn't a total waste of time.
Al greets us on arrival without any sense of urgency. Why would he? It would've taken a miracle for us to get hurt tonight, an underworld miracle. The man offers us tea and coffee on a tray, something I think he only does to remind us he's actually supposed to be a butler, not a nanny. I don't like either option, but Bruce takes some black coffee to the armoury with him. That leaves Al and me alone together.
"How was tonight's patrol, Master Jason?" He asks me in that polite manner of his. I shrug whilst removing my mask.
"How many ways are there to say 'boring', Al?" He smiles at me.
"I see you are fully healed from your earlier illness and once again back to your charming self." Al's entitled to do 'wit' towards me. When he fires sarcastic remarks at me, I don't mind. The guy's actually funny and, with all the grief Bruce and me give him, he deserves to poke fun at us. So I smile back at him.
"Keep your chin up, Al. It's only a matter of time before I land back in bed again. There are good odds on a concussion if you want to place a bet." Al adopts a reluctant expression.
"I was rather thinking cracked ribs myself, Sir." I nod in agreement.
"That's a strong possibility too." Al places the tray down and draws within touching distance of me. I can see he's about to say something serious just from the way he moves in. He puts a hand on my shoulder and nods.
"I am glad to see you are feeling better. I've got a smoothie waiting for you in the kitchen if you would like it." Al, what a guy. I really do just want him to be my grandfather some days. The man spoils me in a way Bruce will never be able to. The big guy can buy me anything in the world, but he can't make me a smoothie or listen to me talk about my past without being judgemental. He doesn't look after me when I'm sick or speak to me even when I don't deserve conversation. Al spoils me in a way that makes me feel good about myself, like I'm not a bad kid. He makes me feel like I'm just a little bit wilder than most guys my age, a little bit more restless. He doesn't lecture me or ground me or ban me from the cave when I do my own thing; he just asks me to be more considerate next time. That's why I love Al. That's why the guy is someone I consider to be my friend. I nod.
"After this stuff finishes here, I'll be right up." Al smiles, patting my shoulder briefly before removing his hand.
"I shall see you shortly." I watch him pick up the tray and begin his ascent up the steps. As I do, Bruce returns from the armoury clad in his dressing gown and slippers. I haven't even gotten round to taking my cape off. The man just got out of a forty-pound suit and into his pyjamas in less than a minute-and-a-half. Impressive stuff. He sips from his mug as he approaches me.
"How do you think tonight went?" He asks me, stopping only a foot away from me. His voice and expression are unreadable; I can't tell if he's mad or not. I shrug.
"We did what we wanted to do. I think it went well." Bruce nods along, taking another sip of his coffee.
"And how do you think you performed?" I roll my eyes at what is always a rhetorical question with him. I give him snide cynicism.
"Why don't you just tell me how I performed?" He takes yet another sip. There's a long uncomfortable pause, usually the precursor to an argument or lecture. Then he speaks.
"You were fine." That is high praise from Bruce. To say I was fine, such a vague and ambiguous term to describe my performance, is to say I did everything to an adequate standard. If I was bad, he would get so much more specific with his vocabulary and begin to intricately turn me inside out. And when I say adequate standard, I mean in his eyes. Since Bruce doesn't like adequacy, it means if I were to have been working with anybody else, my performance would have garnered a high standard of praise. So inside I'm happy with myself.
"That's it?" I check.
"That's it. Goodnight, Jason."
It's an hour later and I'm sat at the breakfast table in the kitchen, drinking blueberry smoothie. I've managed to change from my costume into my PJs and have the added bonus of Al for company. After he forced me to put on my top to prevent further illness, the man has been entertaining me for the past forty minutes with stories from his time in theatre. Since I'm horribly hard to impress and quite possibly the worst audience member in the world, Al's doing pretty well to hold my interest. It helps that he's an interesting guy and that, once again, his stories are funny. At the moment he's halfway through a memorable performance of Shakespeare's Hamlet, in which he played the evil king. I won't lie, some of what he's saying goes straight over my head, a little too highbrow for my tastes, but I get the rest.
Apparently, when Prince Hamlet forced him to swallow the poison from the chalice in the final scene, Al started choking and spat the water into his co-star's face, adlibbing the line 'How doth it taste to you?'. Everyone in the audience broke out into laughter and applause. I just smile. Other highlights were the moment his tights fell down during a dramatic soliloquy and the scene he went to kiss the queen and almost poked her in the eye with his crown. Al describes them as 'the follies of youth', although it's debatable whether thirty-five can be considered 'youthful'. Maybe compared to his current age, which is rumoured you can determine by counting the lines on his forehead, it's young.
"I wish I could act sometimes." I tell him, finishing off my drink.
"For what purpose?"
"Why else? To make money."
"Acting is meant to be a noble profession, meaning that performing is more about spiritual rewards than monetary gain." The guy says it like he's delivering a dramatic speech. He looks at me afterwards, trying to see how I'm going to interpret that. I think I know what's coming next. So I feed him the expected question.
"Is that how you felt?"
"Heavens no; I was only in it for the money." Al says grinning at me. Score one for Jason. I saw that one coming. I still smile though; the man knows how to play me just the right way. If I hadn't been expecting that response, I might have laughed. Maybe.
"This probably sounds dumb, Al, but you're the finest human being I've ever met."
"I fear that would constitute 'overkill', Master Jason. There are far better examples of humanity than myself."
"Yeah, but I don't know those people. I probably don't want to know those people either. I'm saying out of the people I know and all the people I've ever met, you're the only guy I'd consider my friend."
"Are you saying you don't consider Master Bruce your friend?"
"He's not my friend. He's my mentor, my guardian and my biggest critic, but he's not my friend. He probably never will be."
"You are being rather unfair towards…"
"Don't defend him, Al. Don't defend him, don't try to sell him to me as a good guy and sure as hell don't make this conversation into being about him and me. This is all about YOU and me, Al, just you and me. Understand?" Al raises an eyebrow in surprise before nodding. There are things I want to say to this man that I don't want others to hear. Things that are personal and private. It's a rare moment for Jason Todd to lower the drawbridge to the castle, but I'm doing it now and not for long.
"Golden boy told me that you were worried about me when he came a-calling the other day. He said you were worried about my behaviour and my health. You probably think that's no big deal that it's natural when people you care about are ill and you fuss about them. Let me tell you that doesn't happen in my world. My own father didn't give a shit about me when I got sick or acted out; he just smacked me around until I shut up. My mom was too busy dying of cancer to notice. Every guy I slept with on the streets didn't care how badly they hurt me so long as they got what they wanted. Bruce doesn't care about me either so long as I do what he says. This is fact, Al. Okay? This is fact. But you DO give a shit about me and that means more to me than any praise I could ever get from the big guy. You are the only man I have ever known whom I have never once wanted to hurt in some way, that I've wanted to suffer. That makes you special to me. That makes you my friend. I never want to hurt you, Al. I never want anyone else to hurt you. And I will never let anyone else hurt you so long as I'm still breathing. And that's…" I catch myself before the dam waters break and I reveal everything I keep inside. I take a couple of deep breaths and gauge his reaction; he looks plenty stunned enough already. So I dial it back. "And that's all I want to say about that. So now we know where we stand with one another." The old man smiles at me warmly.
"I always suspected you had a heart, Master Jason. It is gratifying to see it being worn on your sleeve at this point, instead of somewhere deep inside you where daylight fears to venture." I can't tell whether he's trying to say Bruce is an emotional hermit or I'm a nasty, little bastard but I resist the urge to roll my eyes and shrug instead.
"I'm not allergic to being nice, Al. It's just a damn hard job to do when you keep the company I do. Scum don't respond to heart-to-heart talks all that well if I'm honest. They like fist to face negotiation better. "
"Well, I hope we don't have to go down that particular route, Sir."
"So long as you don't say I look adorable in tights or try to grab my ass, we'll be cool." I tell him with a grin. He returns it.
"I will bear that in mind."
"Right, well, I gotta get some sleep before Bruce goes to bed or else it'll already be time to get up for breakfast." I announce getting to my feet.
"Shall I tuck you in, Sir?" Al inquires to show he can still carry the banter even this late into the conversation. I sigh.
"We're friends, Al, just friends. Don't make this weird." I say rounding the table. I lean over and kiss him on the cheek. "Night, Al, love you." I add before walking off.
That's two for Jason in one night. Good work, Jay-Jay.