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Jason
The lug nut squeals when I tighten it. The tire’s holding firm onto the axel. I give it one last turn, proving that it’s as tight as it’s gonna get. My job here is done.
I wipe the sweat from my forehead with the back of my hand, making sure not to leave motor oil on my forehead.
I toss the wrench on the ground and the bats in the far end of the cave flutter and shriek in disapproval.
Tim pops his head out of the Batmobile, “Did you finish fixing the wheel?”
“Yeah, and here’s some advice. When you drive over a dead body in the road, remember that it screws up the tire alignment.”
“It wasn’t a dead body,” Tim says, stretching further out the window, “It was one of those orange and white cones. And I tried my best to avoid it.”
“Whatever. Next time you take the Bat-limo out drag racing and fuck something up, I’m not doing secret emergency repairs. Next time, you can fess up to Batman, and then you guys can get your own mechanic. The last thing I need is Bruce coming down here and accusing me of stealing his tires again.”
I open the driver’s side door and shove Tim into the passenger seat. I almost feel bad, because kid slams against the door pretty hard, but then I remember he’s the reason I’m in the Batcave, playing mechanic. To be fair, the only reason I agreed to this is because Batman is off world doing some shit with the Justice League, so there’s no chance that we’ll run into each other.
Bruce and I are getting along pretty well. It’s Batman that I want to give a swift kick in the face. I know they’re the same person, but if I can look at Batman’s actions apart from Bruce’s actions, it’s healthier for everyone.
That’s not to say that I don’t lend a hand when Team Bat needs backup. I just reserve the right to tell ‘Vengeance’ to fuck off when I feel like it.
I put my foot on the brake as I get ready to press the remote start, but before I press anything the engine roars to life.
I take my foot off the gas and my hands off the wheel, and the car responds by engaging the child lock and driving full speed out of the cave.
Tim’s frantically pushing buttons on his side of the dashboard, but even someone as tech basic as I am can recognize the sound of consecutive error codes.
“Tim? What the—?”
“I’m trying,” he snaps back.
The irritating failure sounds are on a repetitive drum loop, as Tim curses under his breath.
I can’t even turn the steering wheel because its locked, just like the gas and brake pedal. I look around for something heavy in case I have to shatter the widow to make our escape that way.
The Batmobile isn’t clocking top speed so if I jump out the window and use myself as human shield, I can absorb most the impact and save Tim from becoming a smear on the pavement. If I tuck myself tight enough to avoid hitting my head, I’ll probably get a dislocated shoulder and some second-degree road rash, maybe a broken knee if I land wrong, but I’ve had worse.
My fingers graze a hammer under the seat, but before I grip the tool, the dashboard screen comes to life and a giant video screen shows a confused Nightwing looking back.
“Hood? Red Robin?”
Before I can express my displeasure, Tim answers, “Red Robin and Hood here. Are you requesting backup? Copy.”
“Hey guys! Things here are a little dicey. The drug deal we’ve been monitoring at the docks went sideways and instead of shooting each other, both sides teamed up and started shooting at us. And by us, I mean me and Robin. I’m all for making new friends, but I wish the rival drug cartels picked friendship bracelet making instead of shooting at Nightwing and Robin as their new group project.”
“Do you need backup, Nightwing?” Tim asks again.
“Yeah. Backup sounds great. I called for just the car for a quick retreat, but since you’re in it, that’s super too. With you and Hood joining the fight, the four of us can even the odds really quickly.”
There’s only a few major drug players in Gotham. If these two cartels are who I think they are, I’ve been trying to shut them down for months. I actually gave thought to asking the Bats for help. Now’s my chance to take these guys down.
Tim lifts his shirt over his head as he talks, “We’re not too far away, Wing. ETA ten minutes. I’ll be suited up when I get there.”
Nightwing gives a cheery, “Can’t wait. Over and out.”
The screen goes black as Tim shimmies out of his jeans. He steps one leg into his suit as he struggles to get dressed sitting down.
I know full well that there isn’t a spare Red Hood suit in the Batmobile, so if I want to do something more than just sit in the car as civilian Jason Todd, I need a suit. Robin and Red Robin’s suits would both be comically too small to fit. Nightwing’s closer to my size but his spandex suit won’t stretch over my bulkier frame. I can almost hear Nightwing saying in my head ‘it’s not spandex its stretch leather’.
Whatever it is, it’s not gonna fit.
That only leaves one option.
I reach under the seat and next to the escape hammer, I can feel the dense Kevlar and leather of the Batsuit. Batman’s gonna be so pissed.
I pull the suit from under the seat, and I hear a high-pitched gasp from the passenger seat. The gasp is followed by a slow, whispered,
“No. Jay, no.”
“He’s off world, Timbo. It’s not like he’s gonna miss the suit. Besides, it’s not my fault I can’t share clothes with any of you lightweights.”
“Jay, no.”
“I think you’re stuck on a loop, buddy. You might need to reboot.”
Tim just blinks, still frozen with one pants leg pulled halfway up his leg.
I push the seat all the way back, so I have room to disrobe since the Batmobile is still driving itself.
I put the cowl on first just so I can get Tim used to the idea of Bat-Jay, but when his eyes get wider than before, I realize that might not have been the best idea.
Before Tim can vocalize whatever’s going on in his head, the dashboard screen goes back on, and team leader Dickhead starts talking again.
“There’s been a collapse on the western wall so when you enter it has to be through—whoa.”
“Don’t look so shocked. I make a great looking Batman,” I say with a grunt. I take off the cowl, realizing I have to put the suit on first and then the cowl.
“Uh, not gonna agree with you on that, Jaybird. I make a far more handsome Batman. The question is, why are you borrowing Dad’s clothes?”
I yank the suit up to my waist, “It’s the only suit that fits. When you called for the Batmobile to start driving to the scene with me and Red inside, my helmet wasn’t inside the car with me. Listen, if you want my help, then I’m wearing the suit.”
Damian’s face appears next to Nightwing, “Batman is right. A true warrior must adapt to all circumstances.”
“Hold on a minute,” Nightwing says shaking his head, “I am not calling Hood Batman.”
There’s a loud explosion in the background and Nightwing grumbles, “That’s not good. Gotta cut communication. I’ll see you two when you get here.”
The screen goes black again.
The Batmobile goes back to silence. The only sound is the snap of leather as I put on the Old Man’s borrowed gloves.
Eventually I hear rustling from the passenger side.
“Nice to see you’re getting dressed again, Timmy. Wouldn’t want you to show up to the fight in your underwear.”
“Sorry, Batman.”
There’s no anger or sarcasm in his voice. When I look over, he’s fully suited up, sitting up straight in his seat. He turns to look at me, and even through the domino mask I can see that he’s looking at me with the weird blind devotion that he gives the real Batman.
It’s unnerving to say the least.
I clear my throat, “I’m not really Batman.”
“You’re wearing the suit, which means you’re Batman. And as Red Robin, you have my full support.”
“Ugh, you’re just as bad as the demon brat.”
Tim gives me a nervous smile as he turns away from me and looks at the tablet on his lap. His voice is oddly official.
“As Nightwing said, we can’t use the western entrance. The security system in the warehouse has been destroyed most likely from the building’s partial collapse, but the security footage from the surrounding streetlights shows that if we can approach the fight from the roof, we’ll have a better vantage point. The roof is also the most stable place to position ourselves if the building collapses further. Is that alright with you, Batman?”
My eye twitches under the cowl when he calls me that.
“That’s a terrible plan.”
Tim looks back at me wounded, “No it’s not.”
“Look, I may have Batman’s suit on, but I’m not him. I’m not gonna sit with my thumb up my ass on the roof like a fucking gargoyle when I can just as easily jump right into the fight and beat some drug dealers to a pulp.”
Tim crosses his arms over his chest and leans back in his chair like a child that’s about to have a tantrum. I guess the ‘you have my full support’ phase is over.
“You just want to fight in the Batsuit,” he pouts.
“Hell yeah I do. And since the guy-wearing-the-cowl calls the shots, that just sucks for you.”
“Nightwing’s the leader,” Tim mumbles under his breath.
I deepen my voice as much as I can, “No one tells Batman what to do.”
Tim’s still has his arms crossed, but his mouth angles into a smile despite himself.
It doesn’t take long until we get close to the scene. I tell Nightwing to give me control of the Batmobile. I can tun off the lights so we can sneak up as best we can in a giant Batcar. I park outside of the back of the warehouse and strap on the utility belt, giving a quick look through the pouches.
The front pouches on the belt have smoke bombs, batarangs, and other combat tools, but the far right-side pouch has… Skittles?
Red Robin shrugs, “To prevent low blood sugar?”
“More like, cuz Batman has a sweet tooth.”
Our debate is interrupted when a metal bat slams against the passenger side window, cracking the glass. The guy takes another homerun swing as I scramble out of the driver side door with Red Robin right behind me.
I hop onto the hood, crouching down into the most Batman way that I can. I narrow my eyes at the bat wielding asshole and growl a pitch perfect Batman impersonation.
“You’re going to regret that.”
I pounce on the guy. It doesn’t take more than a boot to the face to knock him down.
Nightwing appears from behind me, “Looks like there can only be one bat-man, huh?”
I spin around to face him with my fists raised.
Nightwing holds up his hands as he laughs, “Easy, Batman. Save your punches for the bad guys.”
He quickly turns serious, “The henchmen are mostly around the northside of the warehouse, but the cartel leaders are still at the docks by the pier. How do you want to play this—” awkward pause and gritted teeth “—Batman.”
“Glad you asked, Chum.”
Dick looks like he’s about to strangle me, but I’m having too much fun to stop, so I continue.
“We can send the baby Robins to take care of the riffraff in the warehouse, and you can come with me, little buddy, to fuck up the cartel kingpins at the docks.”
“I made a better Batman,” Nightwing says with a frown.
I pull the cape over half my body dramatically, “I have spoken. Do not defy me little one.”
“I’m older than you are jackass,” Nightwing yells as he runs after me to the docks.
“Yeah, but I’m still taller.”
Batman always gets the last word.
When we reach the docks, Nightwing is proven right. The heads of both the drug cartels are sitting with a few bodyguards, just chillin’ like a fight isn’t going on in the warehouse in the distance.
Nightwing and I duck behind a few crates, so we can study the surroundings before we make our attack.
I press the comm at my ear, “Red Robin? How’s it going? Kicking ass and taking names?”
“Red Robin here. The targets aren’t very chatty. We might get a little further if Robin stops knocking them out before I can question them, though.”
“It is not my fault that your methods are slow and ineffective. Do not be discouraged, Father, everything is going to plan.”
“Did you just call me father?” I ask.
Damian clears his throat, “I am sorry, the transmission is breaking up. We will relay back with you later.”
I roll my eyes as the comm link silences. I re-focus back on the mission in front of me.
Nightwing twirls his Escrima sticks in his hands. The electricity sizzles as he speaks.
“Ten guards to protect two people. A little overkill if you ask me. Are you ready, Batman?”
“They don’t call us the dynamic duo for nothing, right little buddy?”
“I’m. Older. Than. You.” he says overemphasizing every word.
“Yeah,” I say jumping on top of the crates, “Older and a lot slower.”
I charge toward the guards. They barely get the chance to yell, Batman, before I start to mash their faces in.
The Batsuit is heavier than what I usually fight in, but the cape makes it possible for someone as heavy as me to feel like I can fly. I take down the first jerkoff by sweeping his legs out from under him. His friends try to grab me from behind, but I twist to face them easily and reach for my gun…
… that’s not on my thigh because I’m in the Batsuit.
The momentary delay is just enough time for one of them to slash me with a serrated knife. It cuts deep, as I jump out of the way.
“Big mistake,” I growl, “You just made me angry.”
Nightwing’s voice chimes in from the other side of the fight, “And you don’t want to see him when he’s angry.”
I barrel though each of them, treating everyone with the same anger as if they were the one that slashed my arm. I land punch after punch, and it doesn’t take long before there’s only two left. I launch myself into the air and the buoyancy of the cape helps me easily sail over their heads. I land on one guy’s shoulders, resulting in a loud and satisfying crack. He crumples down to the ground, and I throw his body into the final attacker, knocking them both out.
I take heaving breaths looking for more opponents, but they’re all knocked out. I enjoy a good beat down just as much as the next guy—especially if I’m the one doing the beating—but my arm wasn’t a big fan of picking up a 200 pound dude and throwing him. Blood from the wound is gushing out at a steady clip at this point.
I slap my hand over the wound to stop the hemorrhaging and scan the area for Nightwing. He’s a good distance away, doing his acrobatic gymnastics, or whatever the hell it is that he does.
I lower myself down so that I’m sitting on the wooden planks of the pier and lean against one of the posts on the dock.
My first concern is to stop my arm from bleeding. I wonder if the utility belt has stitches. I wouldn’t put it past Bruce to prioritize a slot in the belt for candy over a needle and thread.
I need to wash out the wound before I start with stitches, but looking at the water over the side of the pier—nope that water isn’t even close to drinkable. Also, if I move my hand to start stitching, I’m gonna start bleeding again.
I close my eyes and take a deep breath. I really need Nightwing to stop taunting the enemies and get on with it. I’m not close enough to get the showoff’s attention, but unfortunately, I can still hear what he’s saying.
“Haven’t you guys ever heard that drugs are bad for your health? You know what’s also bad for your health? Me.”
That—that wasn’t even good.
“As for me fellas, the only thing I smoke are my enemies.”
Okay. Getting better.
I can hear the sizzling of the Escrima sticks as he strikes.
“And a little crack here,” an oomph sound from what I assume is Nightwing unleashing a punch to the gut, probably cracking a rib or two, “And a little crack there,” someone slams against a wooden crate, cracking the crate on impact.
“Aww, fellas, I was talking. Didn’t anyone ever tell you it’s rude to fall asleep while a guy’s talking?”
I take a few steadying breaths while I assume Nightwing is zip tying the two for the police, but honestly, I wouldn’t be surprised if Dickwing was doing crochet over there. He’s done everything else in creation to stall checking on me.
Thankfully, he calls out, “Batman, are you still here?”
I don’t want to waste energy on talking, let alone raising my voice, so I kick a piece of debris close to my boot off the side of the pier. Nightwing must hear the splash because after a moment I hear, and feel, the creak of footsteps under me as he runs on the pier.
He drops down next to me.
“Are you okay?”
“Got stabbed. Or slashed. Or whatever.”
Nightwing sits on his heels, “The Batsuit doesn’t make you invulnerable.”
“Yeah. No shit.”
“Wow. Someone’s grumpy when he’s got a little boo boo.”
I’m wounded, but that doesn’t stop me from kicking his shin, hard, “It’s not a boo boo. I’m bleeding out you stupid son of a bit—.”
“Okay, okay,” he says rubbing his shin, “Move your hand so I can see what we’re working with.”
I lessen the pressure, but don’t move my hand completely away. It still causes a rush of blood to leak past my fingers.
Nightwing bites his lip.
“Not good. That needs stitches. I’ll need to stitch it up before I move you.”
“I don’t need your help. I’ll wait for it to stop bleeding and I’ll do it myself.”
Nightwing raises an eyebrow, “Now that sounds just like something Batman would say. I think cosplaying with his suit has gotten you a little too deep into character.”
I try to scoot away, but Dickhead is already cutting the sleeve right at the shoulder. I have no idea where he got scissors from.
He cuts the sleeve off and takes a tiny medical kit from his utility belt.
As he’s threading the needle, he glances at me for a second.
“You’re too quiet,” he says with as much side-eye as he can give behind the mask, “What are you thinking?”
“I’m thinking about how mad the old man’s gonna be when he finds out you turned his suit into a tank top.”
Dick laughs hard enough to make threading the needle impossible.
When he pulls himself together, he motions for me to move my hand away from the wound. When I do, he makes me elevate my arm to stop the blood from flowing as quickly. He uses a tiny water bottle to wash out the wound and I can’t bite back the hiss of pain that slips out.
“I’m guessing you’re going to refuse painkillers?” he asks.
I nod.
“Okay,” he continues, “Do you want something to bite down on?”
I reach into the utility pouch and toss some Skittles in my mouth.
“I’m good,” but after a second my chewing slows down, “These taste weird. I’m not sure if it’s the residual blood from my fingers or if they’re stale.”
Dick frowns at me. “Then stop eating them.”
“I said they tasted weird. I didn’t say I was gonna stop eating them.”
Dick takes a Skittle from the pouch—making sure it’s not one that has blood on it—and pops it in his mouth.
After a moment of deliberation he nods, “Yup. They’re stale. And now that we’ve got that cleared up, can I start the surgery?”
“Knock yourself out, chum.”
“Stop,” Dick whines.
Dick’s needlepoint project hurts a lot more than I expect. Less than if I did it myself, but more than I can play off without making audible grunts of pain.
“I’m sorry, Little Wing,” Dick whispers.
I turn my head to focus away from the pain and I can see the two little Robins running toward us from the distance.
I don’t really want an audience, and thankfully, my little brothers know better than to ask questions. Instead, Tim gives me a quick nod and tells Dick that the police are at the warehouse and he and Damian will watch the dudes we beat up in case the cops come over here to ask questions. They probably won’t though. The real action was at the warehouse. Dick can most likely finish up the stitches and we can all be back in the Batmobile before we even have to alert them that we have some thugs and two crime bosses gift wrapped for them.
When it’s just me and Dick, and he’s finishing off the last stitch I take a lazy exhale.
“Thanks. I guess I owe you now, or something.”
Dick ties off the knot. He looks at me without saying a word.
Oh no. I know that look. He’s going to ask for a hug. This motherfu—
His arms wrap around me—somehow avoiding aggravating my arm—and we’re hugging. I’m pretty sure a hug from me is just as rare as hugging the real Batman. Either way, we’re doing this.
Something about the hug makes the pain in my arm lessen and for a second feel like I’m twelve-years-old again…
The first thing that comes to mind is a mission that I tripped over a trashcan when I was twelve. It was during one of my earlier missions with Batman. Batman was all the way on the other side of the alley when it happened, so he didn’t see, but Nightwing did. I gritted my teeth until the mission was over. When it was time to leave Nightwing told Batman he wanted to stay back and talk with me, and as soon as Batman left, he knelt down and asked if I was okay.
I had just fought multiple guys twice my size, with metal chains, but I couldn’t stop from crying when he asked me something as simple as how ya doin’, kid.
He sat me down and checked my knee to see if it was okay. When we were both sure my knee was just bruised, he gave me an ice pack, told me everything was alright, and he gave me the same hug he’s giving me now.
Dick smiles at me, “I’m here if you ever need my help, Little Wing.”
“I don’t need your help. I can handle myself just fine,” I say with a smirk.
It’s the same thing I said when I was twelve.
The way his face lights up lets me know he remembers it too.
I add, “But I’m never putting on this suit again. And if you even think about taking a picture, I will cut off your hand.”
Dick laughs as he helps me stand, “Too late. I texted Tim in the car. He took plenty of pictures already.”
I give him my best Bat-scowl.
“I hate you all.”