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The massage chair in his room was the best part of Wayne manor.
Okay, maybe the second best (first went to the library)....No, the third best (second went to Alfred’s domain, the kitchen). Well, regardless of the massage chair’s ranking, Jason could concede it was a decent part of the house, especially after a patrol during which all the villains seemed to have collectively decided to run around the entirety of Gotham, forcing Red Hood to do an unethical amount of cardio in one night.
Jason snuggled into the chair and increased the heat of the weighted heated blanket on his lap. Good ol’ Pride and Prejudice in one hand and a thermos of green tea in the other… His night couldn’t conceivably get better unless Austen herself decided to jump through the window. If he came back, why couldn’t she?
Around chapter three, he heard footsteps outside his door. He wondered if his wish really had come true when the footsteps stopped outside his door. He could usually tell whose footsteps it was, but the hum of the massage chair droned out identifiable tells.
No, probably wasn’t Jane Austen returned from the dead. Probably Bruce or something. Jason decided to ignore the footsteps and went back to reading.
Except everyone was supposed to be asleep by now. Damian had school in the morning (so had to be in bed according to Alfie’s rules), and everyone else had come back from patrol and headed straight to be. Alfred would have knocked by now, so it wasn’t him.
Jason groaned, turned off the chair, and trudged over to open his bedroom door.
On the other side of the door, Damian yelped like a cat mid-yowl.
“Demon-brat? What are you doing here?” Jason sipped his tea.
“I am merely taking a promenade in my own home. Is that so unheard of?” Damian's hands fiddled with something behind his back.
The boy insisted on plain solid coloured white pajamas for whatever reason, so Jason had the strange sense he was talking to Damian back at the league. He seemed younger this way.
Jason was about to say that he heard Damian's footsteps outside his door, but he was sure it would send the little marmotte spiraling, thinking he was a “failure of an assassin” so Jason stayed quiet. The kid already had a chip on his shoulder about that.
“Well if it's nothing more, I'm going back to reading,” Jason turned. The massage chair was calling his name.
“Todd!” Damian blurted. “I…there is something that has been made for you.”
Jason quirked an eyebrow, and felt both giddy and nervous. It had been some time—three weeks—since Damian's assassination attempts on Tim, and he seemed apologetic enough about it, but the fact that it still happened was something to be wary of. He had seen Damian grow up in the League, so he knew what he was capable of, but seeing him try to kill Timbit was jarring to say the least.
The kid thrust a something at Jason, and Jason stifled a recoil. Upon further examination, he burst out laughing.
The object was a stuffy, one of Red Hood but it looked like he had been inflated into a ball. The stuffy had no neck and its arms were practically stubs.
“Artistic license, I see.” He smiled at his brother's rendition of him. But aside from that, all the details of the Red Hood costume were replicated to a T. Even a small scuff on the back of his helmet was represented using some embroidery on the fabric.
He reached a hand out to mess up Damian’s hair.
“Cease this nonsense at once, Todd!” The kid said, flustered
“Thanks for the stuffy, Dami. But why is it fat?”
“You do not need to thank me. I only did it to fulfill my textiles teacher’s assignment. And secondly, he is not fat! He is muscular.”
“Muscular where?”
Damian let out an exasperated sigh, “You are impossible. If you cannot see it then it is not my problem.”
“Oh I can see the stuffy alright,” Jason turned the toy around. Fat Jason Todd took up more than enough eye space. “But seriously, kid, this thing rocks!”
Austen didn’t need to jump out of his window to make his night better after all.
“I am…pleased to see my work was satisfactory. Goodnight now, Todd,” Damian spun on his heel.
“Wait! What do I call him?”
“I am sure, or at least, I hope you can figure it out.”
Jason was going to name his rotund double Jimothy to piss off Tim, but Dick took one look at it on Jason’s bed and dubbed it Fatson Todd. Unfortunately, Dick was very good at naming things (Batmobile, Batcave, Batcomputer…) so the name stuck.
Jason went to bed looking at Fatson Todd each night as the toy had a permanent position on his night table. The longer he looked at it, the more he liked it. From its eyes that looked like black holes to its seams where he could see some of the parts Damian knotted off the thread, Damian had all but stitched I love you I guess into Fatson Todd’s existence.
So Fatson Todd was a surprise newcomer to Jason’s list of favorite things in the Manor. He made for a good pillow, a good soccer ball, and an especially good missile.
The last one was unfortunate for Tim.
Tim was generally pretty smart, except for mornings. No coffee = no brain cells for Timmers, and no brain cells for Timmers = perfect timing for Jason’s attack.
Jason stood at the railing overlooking the foyer, poised to strike. Just as Tim walked under his position, Jason dropped Fatson Todd and leaned out to watch impact.
Fatson landed squarely on Tim’s head, drawing a confused blerp sound from Timmy before rolling away. The plan was simple in concept and elegant in execution, as all good plans were.
Tim stared down at Fatson Todd staring up at him, but he hadn’t had his coffee yet so didn’t seem to be computing. Tim looked up, and Jason ducked back out of sight.
“Are you…a bomb?” Tim asked Fatson.
“It wouldn’t be very nice to make a Jason themed bomb,” Tim said aloud sleepily. “But it would be very appropriate.”
Jason was offended at first but could concede that yes, it actually would be appropriate and pretty funny. Next time he needed a bomb, he was going to have to make it him-themed.
Fatson, the beloved, also made for a pretty good leg-prop. Jason had twisted his ankle pretty bad last night and hoped that if he fastidiously kept to the rules on what he should do for a twisted ankle all day, then his ankle would forgive him and he could go on patrol tonight normally.
As he scrolled through the entire catalogue of Netflix looking for something to rot his brain without being so stupid it annoyed him out of his fugue, Jason considered that Fatson was, unfortunately, probably his favorite thing in the manor now. Of course, Fatson could and did leave the manor. He was definitely top five in the manor and first when they were at the apartment.
I should make an official list at some point, Jason mused.
Footsteps outside his door caught his attention, the familiar cadence of Damian trying to be sneaky. Jason acted mildly surprised when the door opened, revealing his little brother with an arm full of fabric.
Jason quirked an eyebrow in a very clear what are you doing in my room? question that the twerp ignored. Instead, Damian climbed onto the bed next to Jason and wordlessly began setting out his supplies.
Jason wrinkled his nose in distaste. “You lose a needle in my bed, and I’m going to bedazzle your katana.”
Damian cut him a haughty glare. Clearly, the kid thought himself above such human failings as dropping things.
The kid would probably be fine, but Jason would follow through on his threats if he got poked with one of those needles. He didn’t ask what Damian was sewing, and Damian didn’t explain. The blue and black fabric spoke for itself.
“We could call this one Buttwing,” Jason said. “Because he’s got a fat ass and he’s a butt.”
Damian looked aghast. “We are not calling my creating Buttwing.”
Unfortunately, Damian’s reaction settled the matter.
“Fatson Todd and Buttwing. It’s only fair.”
Damian scoffed and took the remote. He turned on some nature documentary about fish, which was fine enough to zone out for. Jason even got some trivia out of it.
The door opened a little while later and Dick wordlessly traipsed in and threw himself down over their feet. He narrowly missed impaling his namesake on Damian’s pincushion.
“Whatcha making there, Dami?” Dick asked after a moment, raising his head. “A Fatman for your dad?”
“I am making—”
“That’s Buttwing,” Jason supplied.
Damian glared at him. Jason grinned. It was fun being hilarious.
Dick laughed, because he actually had a sense of humor. “Aww, that’s adorable. I love him, Dami.”
Damian scowled. “It isn’t even made yet. It’s stupid.”
“No you,” Dick said, snatching the remote as the documentary rounded up.
Dick clicked onto a football game, and Jason decided he was going to root for the guys in red helmets because obviously. No one but the sports announcers said anything, which was oddly soothing. Jason closed his eyes and leaned back, absorbing the quiet companionship by osmosis.
Maybe his family could make that top five list.
- Fatson Todd
- Library
- Kitchen
- Massage chair
- These guys or whatever