Fic: "Black Masks and Gasoline" | Jason Todd, Tim Drake | rated-r
Title: Black Masks and Gasoline
Fandom: DCU, Jason Todd, Tim Drake
Word Count: ~900 words
Rating: R. Because Jason drops the F-bomb at *least* 20 times.
Notes: I wrote this some time ago (November, maybe?) and submitted it anonymously... somewhere. I’m honestly not sure where. I decided to clean it up and share it with you, because I haven’t posted anything in a while due to school and work and other adult-type obligations. Also, who doesn’t like to read about Jason being a bad-ass (with a heart of gold)? Also, I stole the title from the band Rise Against. Hooray for political punk!
Comments are love <3
***
Fuck.
*Fuck*
I mean, this was *bound* to happen, right? It was fucking Gotham City, so of course it was. Just given enough time. Enough... what was it called... dysphoria? Disenfranchised youth?
Jason thinks you can call it whatever the fucking hell you want, because it's all the same thing to him. It's all people just being fed up with the shit that life has been feeding them. And they want to take back some tiny *iota* of control to this miserable fucking life. Because not everyone in Gotham is a fucking idiot. And people have been growing restless for years, it seems.
Fucking decades.
There were whispers of it when he'd been living on the streets as a kid. And the whispers grew louder into murmurs and the murmurs grew into short, dry passing comments passing through cracked, dry lips and the stale breath of the city's dwellers. And years went by. Meetings formed and people connected and it how all of these things start. History is simply littered with events like this.
And why the fuck did Bruce Wayne think that the city was *his*? Jason thought that was pretty fucking narcissistic; fucking aragant. A city can't belong to one man, after-all. A city is itself given to everyone. It's not something you can *own*.
Bruce thought he could protect her. Thought he could fix her even, so that her flaws weren't showing. But he couldn't do that. Even Bruce couldn't stop fucking destiny. Couldn't stop the restlessness that had been running through the roads, the veins of Gotham's body.
Because these people, they were slowly realizing that they had nothing to lose. Absolutely fucking nothing. And Jason, of all people, knew how dangerous humans were when they felt like they had nothing to lose.
And if Jason cared just a little bit more, he'd march right up to Batman and fucking spit in his face and slap him with a righteous 'I told you fucking so!'
But really, at this point, Jason couldn’t care less. He couldn’t care less about a lot of things.
Which is why, he had no problem ripping open the cabby's door and pressing the barrel of his pistol to the trembling man's temple and cocked it, "You have ten seconds to get the fuck out of this car. And my math ain't so good."
It had been from a group of early 20-year-old that he had been given a gas mask to mere moments before they released the N2O4 gas bombs in the buildings. Jason saw the thick brown gas; recognized it immediately.
Leather had been pressed into his hand, “Here, take this. Cause it’s about to get *better*, brother, but first it has to get a little worse.” And not even twenty minutes later report of that chlorine gas was accumulating low in the city proper at approximately 10ppm and growing. They didn’t know where the source was coming from.
All Jason knew was that he had to get out of this fucking hellhole.
The cab was in reasonable condition, inconspicuous enough against the mobs and riots and he’d gotten as far as Grant Park when he saw it out of the corner of his eye: bright red and black suit crumpled near the alley between Logan and Racine.
Jason swerved the car after a moment of ‘let him fucking rot’ and drove back, gas mask firmly in place when he exited the car.
Tim had been… robbed it looked like. His belt was empty, the cowl had been pulled back and he had two black eyes. There was a pile of puke not to far from where he was leaning against the wall. The boy seemed unconscious but his breathing was wrecked and he was twitching every few moments. Nerve damage? Effects from the neurotoxin? Probably both.
There was more movement coming from behind the dumpster. Jason readied himself for a fight immediately, but all he saw was blond pigtails of a four-year-old little girl.
He moved closer.
Blond pigtails, nice shoes and high-quality pale-pink North Face jacket; this girl wasn’t a street kid. Probably just got separated from her parents and Drake was doing the honorable thing by helping her.
She was also sporting a Bat-issued re-breather in her mouth and nose. Tim had probably given it to her and told her to hide. Which was dumb considering even vigilantes can’t beat toxic gas.
Jason wanted to roll his eyes and walk away. Wanted to leave Gotham for good and burn any remaining memory he had of this place, “Don’t you know, Drake, that in the event of an emergency, secure your own oxygen mask first and then help the child sitting next to you? Do you not listen to airline safety instructions?”
He reached down and scooped Drake up in a fireman’s carry and held out his hand to the little girl.
Her eyes were huge and red and irritated from the gas; she was so scared. His heart tightened and then melted in his chest.
Jason handed her the keys to his cab and pointed to it. He pointed to her then, and made the universal hand gesture for ‘drive’.
Her lips turned up around the re-breather and she hesitantly took hold of his hand.
Drake had better not fucking puke in his cab.
Fandom: DCU, Jason Todd, Tim Drake
Word Count: ~900 words
Rating: R. Because Jason drops the F-bomb at *least* 20 times.
Notes: I wrote this some time ago (November, maybe?) and submitted it anonymously... somewhere. I’m honestly not sure where. I decided to clean it up and share it with you, because I haven’t posted anything in a while due to school and work and other adult-type obligations. Also, who doesn’t like to read about Jason being a bad-ass (with a heart of gold)? Also, I stole the title from the band Rise Against. Hooray for political punk!
Comments are love <3
***
Fuck.
*Fuck*
I mean, this was *bound* to happen, right? It was fucking Gotham City, so of course it was. Just given enough time. Enough... what was it called... dysphoria? Disenfranchised youth?
Jason thinks you can call it whatever the fucking hell you want, because it's all the same thing to him. It's all people just being fed up with the shit that life has been feeding them. And they want to take back some tiny *iota* of control to this miserable fucking life. Because not everyone in Gotham is a fucking idiot. And people have been growing restless for years, it seems.
Fucking decades.
There were whispers of it when he'd been living on the streets as a kid. And the whispers grew louder into murmurs and the murmurs grew into short, dry passing comments passing through cracked, dry lips and the stale breath of the city's dwellers. And years went by. Meetings formed and people connected and it how all of these things start. History is simply littered with events like this.
And why the fuck did Bruce Wayne think that the city was *his*? Jason thought that was pretty fucking narcissistic; fucking aragant. A city can't belong to one man, after-all. A city is itself given to everyone. It's not something you can *own*.
Bruce thought he could protect her. Thought he could fix her even, so that her flaws weren't showing. But he couldn't do that. Even Bruce couldn't stop fucking destiny. Couldn't stop the restlessness that had been running through the roads, the veins of Gotham's body.
Because these people, they were slowly realizing that they had nothing to lose. Absolutely fucking nothing. And Jason, of all people, knew how dangerous humans were when they felt like they had nothing to lose.
And if Jason cared just a little bit more, he'd march right up to Batman and fucking spit in his face and slap him with a righteous 'I told you fucking so!'
But really, at this point, Jason couldn’t care less. He couldn’t care less about a lot of things.
Which is why, he had no problem ripping open the cabby's door and pressing the barrel of his pistol to the trembling man's temple and cocked it, "You have ten seconds to get the fuck out of this car. And my math ain't so good."
It had been from a group of early 20-year-old that he had been given a gas mask to mere moments before they released the N2O4 gas bombs in the buildings. Jason saw the thick brown gas; recognized it immediately.
Leather had been pressed into his hand, “Here, take this. Cause it’s about to get *better*, brother, but first it has to get a little worse.” And not even twenty minutes later report of that chlorine gas was accumulating low in the city proper at approximately 10ppm and growing. They didn’t know where the source was coming from.
All Jason knew was that he had to get out of this fucking hellhole.
The cab was in reasonable condition, inconspicuous enough against the mobs and riots and he’d gotten as far as Grant Park when he saw it out of the corner of his eye: bright red and black suit crumpled near the alley between Logan and Racine.
Jason swerved the car after a moment of ‘let him fucking rot’ and drove back, gas mask firmly in place when he exited the car.
Tim had been… robbed it looked like. His belt was empty, the cowl had been pulled back and he had two black eyes. There was a pile of puke not to far from where he was leaning against the wall. The boy seemed unconscious but his breathing was wrecked and he was twitching every few moments. Nerve damage? Effects from the neurotoxin? Probably both.
There was more movement coming from behind the dumpster. Jason readied himself for a fight immediately, but all he saw was blond pigtails of a four-year-old little girl.
He moved closer.
Blond pigtails, nice shoes and high-quality pale-pink North Face jacket; this girl wasn’t a street kid. Probably just got separated from her parents and Drake was doing the honorable thing by helping her.
She was also sporting a Bat-issued re-breather in her mouth and nose. Tim had probably given it to her and told her to hide. Which was dumb considering even vigilantes can’t beat toxic gas.
Jason wanted to roll his eyes and walk away. Wanted to leave Gotham for good and burn any remaining memory he had of this place, “Don’t you know, Drake, that in the event of an emergency, secure your own oxygen mask first and then help the child sitting next to you? Do you not listen to airline safety instructions?”
He reached down and scooped Drake up in a fireman’s carry and held out his hand to the little girl.
Her eyes were huge and red and irritated from the gas; she was so scared. His heart tightened and then melted in his chest.
Jason handed her the keys to his cab and pointed to it. He pointed to her then, and made the universal hand gesture for ‘drive’.
Her lips turned up around the re-breather and she hesitantly took hold of his hand.
Drake had better not fucking puke in his cab.