Flesh

It's been ten days since I was mistaken for a ball machine by some enthusiastic baseball fans. My head is less messed-up and things are less trippy than before. This is apparently a good thing. Al says I'm recovering quicker than he expected. It's still not quick enough for me. I lie on my bed during the day and stare at the ceiling, wondering if I can will myself to heal faster. The concussion's almost gone, but it's left my hand-eye pretty fucked up. Yesterday I spent almost an hour crumpling up paper and tossing it in a wastepaper basket thirty feet away. Out of my hundred attempts, I only landed sixty-two; normally it's closer to ninety-five. I'm still getting dizzy from time to time too, especially if I'm trying to push myself. Where's the big guy in all this? He's at work or on patrol. At the moment I'm banned from any duties, including night watch on the cave systems. He's basically shut me out of the only activities that give my life any real meaning. What do I do instead? Well I spend a lot of time jacking-off on my bed and setting new highs for pulling it in a day. Today I counted eight, new high score. I need to hurry up and go out on patrol.

I wake up on day eleven of my forced convalescence, as Al calls it, hating life. I don't want to get up, but I desperately need a shit. If I could hold out I would, but I can't. So I get up and run to the bathroom. While I'm there, I take a shower, brush my teeth and reluctantly refrain from cutting my wrists. I get dressed and wander downstairs. It must be after midday because Al's making pasta, not scrambling eggs. Bruce will be at work…even though it's Sunday. I think about striking up a conversation with Al and then think better of it; cooking is like some kind of art form to him. So what now for the wounded boy soldier? I'm generous and make myself honey on toast and a glass of OJ before going and visiting my new best friend, daytime television. I hate TV so much. A daily viewing diet of fat people, fat women, survival stories, soap operas and animals doing stupid tricks has made me want to destroy broadcasting. If I have to lie here and watch Loose Women again, I will lose it. Thankfully, I'm too late for that treat. Instead, there's some documentary about a women who weighs as much as six of me and needs more than twelve-thousand calories a day to maintain it. Jeez, it's a fucking struggle for some people out there huh? I couldn't imagine the courage it takes to make it through the entire MacDonald's menu every day of the week; it must be horrific for her. I watch ten minutes and then turn it over.

What's next for my viewing pleasure? Some guy with one arm is talking about how he survived a shark attack.

"Luckily my arm got in the way." The guy tells the camera and, credit where credit is due, the cameraman manages to keep it steady even though you know he wants to burst out laughing like I am. I turn over again, finishing my toast through fits of laughter.

I work my way into a soap opera about people living in Texas, but lose interest when one of them gets capped in the foot and nearly dies as a consequence. I got shot in the stomach only six months ago; I didn't nearly die. For a couple of seconds I DID die, but you don't see me screaming like a four-year-old with a stubbed toe. I flip through channels and programmes for about an hour. Eventually, Al comes into the lounge with tuna pasta salad. He sets down the tray beside me and asks if I need anything else.

"Watch TV with me Al?" Yeah, I asked Al to watch bad TV with me. I'm that desperate.

"I'm afraid I deplore that idiot box, Master Jason."

"Watch a movie with me?"

"I really do have other duties to be attending to…"

"I am so fucking lonely right now Al. Please do something with me. Non-sexual would be preferable, but I'm open to other ideas." My joke is not met with the humour I was expecting. Al shoots me a sour look, but doesn't leave just yet. Is he actually considering?

"Perhaps we could watch something. What kind of genre do you like?"

"Anything with violence and hot women."

"I see. Star Wars?"

"Princess Leia is the only women in any of those films and she is NOT hot."

"Perhaps you should cite the name of a preferred actress for me to narrow my choices to?"

"Jodie Foster." Al raises an eyebrow at my choice; he doesn't think Jodie's hot either. Bruce is the same. I have a thing for Jodie Foster though. Not in Taxi Driver with Bob DeNiro but in Silence of the Lambs with Tony Hopkins. I love that opening sequence when she's training at FBI boot camp and covered in sweat. I've just thought of someone else. "Or Demi Moore. Have we got Striptease or G.I. Jane?"

"Adolescence has really altered your perception of quality cinema, hasn't it?" Oh, you've got such a dry wit, Al, let me laugh at your outstanding jokes. I give him the short and sweet answer.

"Star Wars has always been shit. Look, if you really don't want to watch hot women take their clothes off, we can stick on Lord of the Rings or something."

"Would you be partial to X-Men?"

"I don't know Al; I really don't get how they get their powers."

"It's either that or a screen classic. I was thinking Gone with the Wind or the Wizard…."

"Do not finish that sentence, Al; I am warning you." Does he think I'm five or something? I kind of slouch back and sigh at the futility of this conversation; we might as well be on other planets. I'm about to give up and tell him to just leave when I think of the perfect movie to watch. "A Fistful of Dollars. Clint Eastwood as the Man with No Name." Al raises his eyebrow again, except this time there's a slight smile to go along with it.

"I had no idea your generation cared for spaghetti westerns. I must admit, Mr Eastwood is one of my favourite American film stars." The man considers for a moment. "I suppose I could watch one film with you."

One film somehow turns into four and kills eight hours of the day. Al disappeared briefly during The Good, The Bad and The Ugly to check on dinner and Bruce wandered in from work during the first ten minutes of For a Few Dollars More, but, aside from those minor interruptions, I almost forgot how bored I was sat on my ass. Bruce decides to take his dinner in the lounge and sits next to me on the couch, essentially squashing me against the side with that gargantuan frame of his. Add to that about three feet for elbow room and I'm practically hanging over the edge. After about twenty minutes, he finally notices me doing an impression of a sardine crammed in a test tube and moves further down the couch. He's decent enough to apologize to me and I'm decent enough to roll my eyes in response. Just when the action starts to die down, he begins to inform me about his day at the office. I ignore most of it, but I do get the gist he was trying to improve Wayne Tech sales figures by cutting down on manufacturing cost. I'm glad he could make his company more greedy than normal; it gives hope to all of corporate America trying to wring the consumer dry of his wages.

"So what did you do today?" He asks me when he's had enough of his own voice. I shrug my shoulders.

"I jerked it like six times. Aside from that, nothing."

"And your hand injury didn't make it more difficult?" I wasn't expecting funny from him, not by a long way. I look at him for the first time since he arrived in the room. The big guy's smiling at me, clearly thinking he's making a big effort by not disapproving. Actually, now I think about it, I guess he is. I smile back. "So we are making progress I see. This is the first time you've smiled at me in two months."

"I'm notoriously hard to amuse."

"Something I think we share in common."

"Are you trying to bond with me?"

"Is that what you think is happening here?"

"Yeah, I do. Left it too late don't you think?"

"I've already apologized for putting you in such a dangerous position on that night. What more can I say?"

I don't give a fuck what he says. Words don't mean jack where I'm concerned. I'm not a good conversationalist and I don't pretend to be. Actions speak louder than words. Everyone knows that. That's why we tackle crime with our fists and feet rather than our mouths. Bruce still doesn't understand that when he speaks to me like this, all I hear is white noise. Whenever he bitches at me, whenever he tries to apologize to me, whenever he tries to speak to me at all, I really only hear half of what he's saying. It makes me wonder what he hears when I talk to him.

"It shouldn't have happened, Bruce. How 'tied up' could you have gotten in that warehouse?"

"I was physically restrained for almost twenty minutes."

"Why couldn't you just tell me that? That would make so much more sense given the context of things. I've spent the last week-and-a-half being unbelievably pissed at you for nothing. You're such a load of crap." This is when I think Bruce loses his mind. He reaches over and physically pulls me over to his side so that I find my head against his chest. You have got to be kidding me. He's trying affection to fix things between us, affection. It is, without doubt, the most pathetic strategy the big man's ever employed to curry my favour. I'm not six or desperate for a father. I stiffen immediately, but find my body doesn't like that so I have to soften. Now he'll think I like what he's doing. I open my mouth to say something to the contrary only for him to speak for me.

"I know Jason, I know. You don't like this, you don't want this and you just wish I left you alone. But let's just pretend that you live under my roof, are technically my child and, if you really didn't want this would've reacted far more violently than you did. Just relax and watch your movie."

"Since when have I ever been 'your child'? And in what universe would I ever want to be your child?" I counter only for his hand to run through my hair. I don't know why but I shut up immediately when I feel that contact. I just stop thinking for a few seconds and enjoy the sensation of being the centre of attention. Somewhere inside there's a part of me that wants this open display of love. There's also another part of me that wants to bite his hand off, but it's being quiet for once. So I do as he says and watch the movie, half-slumped in the big guy's arms. This isn't fixing our relationship and this isn't bringing us closer or any of that other stuff that needs to happen for this partnership to survive past next month, but it is nice. It's a brief little lull in all the fighting and tensions that won't be remembered tomorrow by either of us when everything goes back to routine, but it is nice. So I let myself enjoy this moment. If there had been more times like this in the past, more relaxing evenings watching TV and eating dinner in comfort together rather than apart, maybe we'd be better together. Maybe there'd be less fighting and arguments and defiance to be contending with. Maybe we'd be one big, happy family. Maybe. After this moment is over, because these times are so rare, I'm going to be bitter about it all, but right now I can enjoy it.

Jason Todd is happy to be in Bruce Wayne's company, what a novelty.