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“The Zucchini has decided to ignore everyone in this room,” Jason announces in a weird voice, hands on his hips—like he’s copying Uncle Clark—and dressed head to toe in black motorcycle gear; his jacket and helmet both have a white skull painted haphazardly on them, and there’s a pair of swim goggles on his face with smudges of black paint on the lenses; the goggles themselves must have been painted too because Tim swears he can still see pink shining through.
“What are you wearing?” Tim asks incredulously, looking slightly affronted. “Are those my old goggles? Who’s the zucchini?”
“The Zucchini,” Jason corrects, not moving from his position or bothering to look away from the wall he’s staring at.
“That’s what I just said, the zucchini.”
“No, The Zucchini.”
“Jason, I swear to fucking—”
Dick swoops in to save the day, and snatches Tim straight out of the air as he launches himself at Jason in the self-righteous fury of a younger sibling about to whack the absolute shit out of the elder—or at least attempt to. He sets the feral twee—it’s not even a joke anymore, someone needs to get that kid tested for something—onto his feet and forcibly steers him towards the hallway.
“Swear jar, Tim.”
“He started it!”
“Swear jar.”
“You’re an asshole,” Tim informs, poking a finger against Dick’s sternum as they stop in the doorway, and Dick laughs as he shuts the door in Tim’s face, who then makes an infuriated sound not unlike an irritated horse. “I’m telling Bruce!”
"I’m telling Bruce,” Jason mocks in a high-pitched nasally tone reminiscent of a Muppet, and Dick slaps at his shoulder to shut him up, ignoring his yelp as Tim scrabbles at the wooden door with a guttural sound. It wouldn’t even be remotely surprising if he managed to claw his way through like a bloodthirsty predator—or particularly dedicated squirrel—on a mission, but one could hope.
to be continued ...