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Summer in the city, and hot doesn’t even begin to describe it. The air’s lifeless, smelling like gasoline and rising reek of uncollected garbage. Some of the hydrants have been -- liberated -- and after the shrieking of the kids have died down, there’s a stringy tendrils of water that soak into the sidewalks, and travel downhill, picking up dirt and plastic along the way.
Bet you didn’t even know Gotham had hills, but that’s water for you.
It always finds a way.
And there’s a feeling of wanting to crawl out of your suddenly shrunken skin and rip all this bullshit wide open. It’s no surprise than crime spikes in the dogged days of summer. The weather’s on a hair trigger, so why wouldn’t you be?
+
A kid slouches out of a 24-hour convenience store, his red hoodie slung over his eyes and loose jeans blunging with junk food. He squints suspiciously at the dusty black Corvette that’s doubled-parked outside the Helping Hands Clinic. He takes his time, going over to it, and soon as he’s within grabbing distance, something does.
It’s an unbreakable hold. But the kid struggles at first, like he’s forgotten that.
The check-pattern on this guy’s suit is something that hasn’t come close to what normal people wear since the mid-seventies at least. (Polyester will never die, but you will.) It’s loud and aggressive, and the rest of him just follows, this huge guy stuffed into an unbelievable suit, a match trembling in the corner of his mouth.
“You got it, kid?”
The kid scowls, and digs through his jeans until he finds what he’s looking for it. He fumbles, briefly, before the man snatches it from him, and gives him a smile that's just bared teeth (slightly discolored).
“How’s your old man? He’s good people,” says Matches. (Yeah, who else could it be?)
Jay blinks, blue eyes blazing, on edge. “Fuck you,” he spits out.
“Maybe later,” say Matches, eyes sliding down, speculative.
Jay flushes. Maybe it’s the heat.
Someone bangs the clinic door open wide and shouts, “You comin’, Matches?”
Matches gets out and locks the car. "Watch the car."
Jay snorts, unbelieving. “Who’s gonna steal is piece of shit?”
But when his turn comes, he catches the keys and tucks it into his pocket. Matches is munching on a Hershey bar as he goes up the steps, flecks of chocolate getting caught in his mustache and chin, melting. “Don’t let anyone scratch the ride.”
Jay kicks the car. “Piece of shit,” he says, to the empty street.
+
In the evening, the sun sets, but the heat still lingers, close to the streets. The lights of the Helping Hands Clinic is blazing-bright, but the rest of the street is dark, except for a few flickering streetlights. The car’s long gone, and the shadows grow longer and longer. Something in the darkness moves -- flies -- above the street. A couple of seconds later, something brighter follows it.
... And five years later.
There’s beads of sweat gathering on the news anchor's hairline, as he beams out to all in the Gotham metropolitan area. Skin the color of leather, his teeth are unbearably white. He drawls, “And it’s officially a heat-wave, folks, as temperature climb to an excruciating hundred and fifteen today, continuing a streak of over a hundred-degree days. I tell you what, the folks in Gotham just can’t seem to catch a break these days... Now to you, Cathy. What do you have for us?”
The pretty blonde woman next to him dimples charmingly, and begins. “Thanks, Jim. News reports are coming in that a Wayne Foundation gala has been attacked, and Bruce Wayne, the host and Gotham’s first son has been taken hostage. How many times is that, Jim, that Mr. Wayne has been kidnapped in the last few years?”
“I don’t know Cathy, but there’s something quite irresistible about that man. To would-be kidnappers, that is...”
Jason turns off the blaring television but not before it’s switched stories again -- it’s now on a human interest story about a heroic dog (no, not Krypto). “Fuck,” he says, “you might just get kidnapped too often in this town. People don’t seem to take it seriously anymore.”
Bruce, with duck tape sealing his lips, says nothing. That’s all right though. That way, his silence doesn’t drive Jason as wild as it otherwise might. There’s an excuse for it, after all. But Bruce looks furious, absolutely livid, and Jason smiles at that. Life is good.
“I take it seriously, though. And I’m sure you do too.”
It’s only a matter of time before Bruce gets out of his restraints. He should be out of them now, actually, but he’s staying put, glaring at Jason like it’s the Last Judgement, and he’s about to be thrown straight into the pit. And Jason -- well, not getting off on it -- no, listen, he’s not -- but...
“I just wanted to see how you were, and your secretary simply won’t make appointment with me. Am I on your blocklist or something? That’s really not how you should treat family, Bruce, it really isn’t.”
Jason perches on Bruce’s desk (quite lightly for such a big guy that he’s grown into) his hands on his chin. Bruce twitches, like he wants nothing more than to knock Jason off, and Jason leans over, and Bruce leans in. And holy shit, that duck tape is dissolving -- can it do that? -- Is Bruce mad enough to eat duck tape?
Jason’s left foot, booted leather and streaked with mud, nudges in between Bruce’s pinstriped, wool-clad thigh. And there it lingers until Bruce surges forward, putting all his weight onto Jason’s leg, bringing him down onto the floor.
With a whoop, Jason throws himself into the fray -- only metaphorically, since he’s pinned to the floor. And then it’s a quick punch-kick-headbutt through a window -- which really, ought to be made of unbreakable glass but whatever.
Jason’s zip line holds, and the sweltering night air closes around them like a fist.
“C’mon, Bruce, I come back from the dead, the least you owe me is a hug.”
And yeah, Bruce might be just be struggling not to fall to his death or something, but Jason can definitely feel an half-hearted sort of embrace.
It’s a start.
… And the end, because Bruce knees Jason in the groin and falls away, shouting as he does. “Call, next time.”
Jason’s laugh booms over the buildings, and there’s a loud crack of thunder that follows, drowning him out.
+
The heat breaks, and the storms roll in, flooding the dirty streets of Gotham with rainwater, clean water that swells and rises and sweeps away the filth.
At least, for the moment.