[DC] Street Rules
Feb. 19th, 2009 05:23 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
runespoorTitle: Street Rules
Fandom: DC
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Even before Bruce took him in, Jason's job was to protect.
His friends only return long after night has fallen.
Jason hears their giggles from the moment they start climbing the stairs, and that makes it a little better, makes his shoulders unlock, but his position doesn't change – sitting against the wall, his arms crossed tightly against his chest.
He's kinda mad, and having to fight against the almost-cold isn't helping. He wouldn't feel it as much if he was asleep in his sleeping bag but the sleeping bag is rolled up and is going to stay that way until he's had a few words with them all.
The door gives a screech when they push it open; even if he'd let himself doze off he'd be wide awake now. The noise of people entering his turf should be enough to pull anyone straight from one's cozy dreams if they were going to make it. Jason's very good at it. It's probably helped that even when he was a kid he'd learned to snap out of bed whenever; Mom didn't always realize what she was doing in the kitchen. It was Jason's job to make sure she didn't hurt herself.
“Hey, I think the light's still on—” the whisper carries loudly into the room.
“That's weird, it's not like him – oh, hi, Jason.”
“How come you're still up?”
They sound surprised.
“Waiting for you, assholes.”
They ignore the cuss. Jason's got the dirtiest mouth. Sometimes they dare him about that – they pick something, anything, and they listen to him spout chains of swearwords until he runs out breath or patience. Jason doesn't think that much about of it, there's nothing that creative about dropping f-bombs every other word, but it makes them laugh. They're young, much younger than Jason has been since a long, long time, even though he's not the oldest among them.
They're kids, and that means a lot of things, but mostly that means it's also Jason's job to look out for them and help them into looking for themselves.
It's Jason's job to do a lot of things.
Usually it's not that much trouble, 'cause most of the things he does for them he'd do even if he were on his own – like the from-asleep-to-awake-in-a-blink trick – but other times it's a pain to look out for dumb things he knows much better than to mess with.
Like tonight.
“Aren't you going to kill the battery?”
Yeah, yeah he will. He's had to leave the flashlight on to be sure he wouldn't fall asleep before they came back.
But he's got a more important point to make, so he ignores the question. It's not meant to be a jab, anyway; it's just thoughtless mind-to-mouth little kid stuff. Or else it's a real question, and that's good, because they're getting they can't take things for granted anymore, and that includes the obvious stuff, like food and roofs that don't leak, and also everything else.
“What were you guys doing?”
He doesn't uncross his arms.
They're so wired they don't even realize. Or they don't care.
“We got a job!” one of them blurts out.
“At that hour? What kinda job is that?”
They've gotta hear the disbelief. The turning wheels of potential 'oh shit' anger, on the other hand...
Jason feels fast, thinks fast. His bad feeling is only mild because he doesn't think whoever they said yes to – he knows they've said yes – will bother hurting them when they don't follow through. Whatever it was, tonight it was only an offer. The real work would've started later. Easier to back down from an offer.
And they don't have what it takes to get the only night-time offers Jason receives and sometimes takes. Not the desperation and not the anger. And none of the not-giving-a-damn, cocksure disdain for anything but the ten bucks at the end.
Probably the guy who talked to them was stupid and acting on his own.
Jason's been cautious to keep them mostly off the radar – except for smokes and pot, but those don't count, and some shop-lifting, tire-jacking stuff, but that's just because they've got to eat. He's even going easy on the purse-snatching. Seriously, he can't do much more than that.
Bah, the offer isn't much to worry about anyway. They'll drop the offer. He can take one bruiser.
“A real sweet one.”
The emphasis leaves Jason thoroughly unimpressed.
“Wow, a sweet job offer at fucking one a.m? You gotta tell me about that.” Moron.
The idiots' shell is so thick they don't even lose the shiny bright happy unconscious smiles.
“Don't be jealous, buddy, you're welcome to join!”
This time, Jason doesn't even pretend to swallow his snort.
“Fat. Chance.” He raises his eyebrows. “Well, you were gonna tell me. So tell me.”
“It's sweet, really. There's this guy, we just have to, y'know, bring him like info and stuff and—”
If they managed to get mixed up with cops...
The idiots. The fucking idiots. They managed to get mixed up with fucking cops. He's gonna need a bigger stick. And to drop off the radar yesterday. God, what did they do to bring Gotham's Dumbest down on them? Jason takes a shot at piecing it together, and draws a blank. They're discreet, they're small time, they're not organized. Jason's put a lot of effort into dodging cops, and for the most part he's succeeded. Two years with one run-in with cops. Until today.
Okay, don't shout. Regroup.
First thing is the guy's name.
“Who was he?” If they didn't ask, he's gonna—
They nod knowingly, like they expected the question and they thought they were prepared for it – God, they have no idea what they've done, and that pisses Jason off.
“Matches.”
Jason frowns.
“Y'know, Matches, that guy with the butt-ugly suits and a—”
“—match in his mouth. Yeah, I know him.”
His frown hasn't smoothed away.
There's something wrong with this picture. Jason's not sure what exactly, but he hasn't lasted two years and a half without learning when to trust his gut. Right now, his gut is screaming at him to get away. It's the same feeling he has when he spots the acid-green checkers of Matches' radioactive suit flicking into view.
They've never spoken, but what Jason's heard and seen of the guy has been enough to tell him he wants nothing to do with Mr Sleaze. And since Matches has never come on to him, he guesses he's never stuck out to the man in all the five or six times Jason skedaddled when their paths crossed. It's never felt odd, it's like the instinct that makes you take one step to the side so that you won't fall into the sewers.
So it's not cops they've drawn like flies to sweaty skin. It's Matches Malone's oily smiles. And everyone he's ever worked for, slept with, and spoken to. Jason trusts that guy about as much as he trusts the Arkham security to do their job for seven days straight. He's a creep.
“I'm not doing anything for Matches Malone, and if you have two working braincells you won't either.”
They look at him like he's crazy, and for a moment he wonders what Matches promised them, anyway, to win them over so easily.
Then he remembers they've been on the streets for like two months at best, and the nights have barely even begun to get slightly less than warm, and they pretty much all reek of middle-class security, and he's pretty sure he's the only one who grew up on the wrong side of the tracks. Pretty sure he's the only one who knew how the streets live before he started living on the streets. And maybe Matches could get him in touch with one of his dad's friends, but... Don't ask for favors. That's the kind of debts you can't afford.
“No way.”
Jason's upper lip curls.
“Loosen up, buddy.”
“He says we just have to do like he tells us.”
“It'll be easy, we don't have to do anything special...”
“I say he's the best thing that's happened to us.”
And Jason told himself he was going to wait until they were done and then he'd talk some reason into them, but there's only so much fuck-ass ramblings he can take.
“No, fuck, are you fucking serious? You hear yourself speaking? 'He's the best thing we ever had, he's gonna take care of us'... Get real, brain-donor, the only people who'd take good care of you are pimps. You want candy little boy, oldest one in the fucking book and I can't fucking believe you fell for it!”
Silence rings against the chilly walls. For a second, the illusion of safety floats so close that if he reached out he could grab it, taste it, comforting like warm milk, breathless and sharp like victory and like Gotham. For a second he thinks he's won.
And then one of them grumbles.
“God, you're such a tight-ass.”
Jason tenses – coils – ready for the confrontation. There's that smell Jason knows real well, of gas and electricity that can mean move it or that can mean bring it on.
But it never comes. Instead, the other just looks up, not even glaring, bored like, and says.
“You're not my father. I don't have to listen to you treat me like that. Hey, I didn't take that from my father all my life. Sorry if I want more in life than spending it in the gutter, but Matches says he'll pay us, and maybe I miss hot water once in a while. And he's not asking that, so, sorry, but I call it win-win. You're not my father.”
Jason's mouth is dry, which maybe is the reason why he doesn't realize he's speaking all at once.
“Yeah? You wanna be coddled so bad, maybe you should go back to your daddy.”
And it's out of his mouth and there's more he could say but.
They're all staring at him now, and it's over.
It's over.
He can't take it back. Doesn't seem like much, does it? Just one stupid, meaningless, kindergarten-level sentence. Nothing you can't undo. But you can't.
He's only broken the first rule of the streets. No biggie. Whatever you do, you don't tell someone they should go back where they come from. Once you do... well, it's funny, once you do there's no going back. You'd have more luck trying to get back to whatever there was before you hit the streets, really. You're not going to hang together anymore. You're not going to talk to each other. You're not even going to fight it out. You just... dissolve. Cease to exist.
It's over, and they all know it.
It's only the first rule of the streets because you don't need anyone's help to learn it. Call it instinct.
Jason's mouth is still dry.
“I'm outta here,” he says.
The silence rebounds his words back at him. He grabs his things with jerky hands, shoves them in the shabby sports bag he got at some point.
No-one says a word as he leaves; there's not a sound in the old building, not even the noise of his own footsteps; it's been so long he's known how to walk quietly he's not sure how to stop. Once he's outside he takes a deep breath. The air burns into his lungs. He breathes out slowly, and takes a cigarette from the pack – he's almost out, gotta find more soon – and lights it up.
The lighter works on the first try, and his hand doesn't shake.
Well, it's okay. He ditched them easier and faster than he expected. He wasn't going to stick with them if they were gonna get involved with creeps like Matches Malone. He's still gonna try and come up with a way to help them out, though.
The streets of Gotham are dark and empty, but Jason's not scared.
Here, he can't lose. Gotham is home.
Fandom: DC
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Even before Bruce took him in, Jason's job was to protect.
His friends only return long after night has fallen.
Jason hears their giggles from the moment they start climbing the stairs, and that makes it a little better, makes his shoulders unlock, but his position doesn't change – sitting against the wall, his arms crossed tightly against his chest.
He's kinda mad, and having to fight against the almost-cold isn't helping. He wouldn't feel it as much if he was asleep in his sleeping bag but the sleeping bag is rolled up and is going to stay that way until he's had a few words with them all.
The door gives a screech when they push it open; even if he'd let himself doze off he'd be wide awake now. The noise of people entering his turf should be enough to pull anyone straight from one's cozy dreams if they were going to make it. Jason's very good at it. It's probably helped that even when he was a kid he'd learned to snap out of bed whenever; Mom didn't always realize what she was doing in the kitchen. It was Jason's job to make sure she didn't hurt herself.
“Hey, I think the light's still on—” the whisper carries loudly into the room.
“That's weird, it's not like him – oh, hi, Jason.”
“How come you're still up?”
They sound surprised.
“Waiting for you, assholes.”
They ignore the cuss. Jason's got the dirtiest mouth. Sometimes they dare him about that – they pick something, anything, and they listen to him spout chains of swearwords until he runs out breath or patience. Jason doesn't think that much about of it, there's nothing that creative about dropping f-bombs every other word, but it makes them laugh. They're young, much younger than Jason has been since a long, long time, even though he's not the oldest among them.
They're kids, and that means a lot of things, but mostly that means it's also Jason's job to look out for them and help them into looking for themselves.
It's Jason's job to do a lot of things.
Usually it's not that much trouble, 'cause most of the things he does for them he'd do even if he were on his own – like the from-asleep-to-awake-in-a-blink trick – but other times it's a pain to look out for dumb things he knows much better than to mess with.
Like tonight.
“Aren't you going to kill the battery?”
Yeah, yeah he will. He's had to leave the flashlight on to be sure he wouldn't fall asleep before they came back.
But he's got a more important point to make, so he ignores the question. It's not meant to be a jab, anyway; it's just thoughtless mind-to-mouth little kid stuff. Or else it's a real question, and that's good, because they're getting they can't take things for granted anymore, and that includes the obvious stuff, like food and roofs that don't leak, and also everything else.
“What were you guys doing?”
He doesn't uncross his arms.
They're so wired they don't even realize. Or they don't care.
“We got a job!” one of them blurts out.
“At that hour? What kinda job is that?”
They've gotta hear the disbelief. The turning wheels of potential 'oh shit' anger, on the other hand...
Jason feels fast, thinks fast. His bad feeling is only mild because he doesn't think whoever they said yes to – he knows they've said yes – will bother hurting them when they don't follow through. Whatever it was, tonight it was only an offer. The real work would've started later. Easier to back down from an offer.
And they don't have what it takes to get the only night-time offers Jason receives and sometimes takes. Not the desperation and not the anger. And none of the not-giving-a-damn, cocksure disdain for anything but the ten bucks at the end.
Probably the guy who talked to them was stupid and acting on his own.
Jason's been cautious to keep them mostly off the radar – except for smokes and pot, but those don't count, and some shop-lifting, tire-jacking stuff, but that's just because they've got to eat. He's even going easy on the purse-snatching. Seriously, he can't do much more than that.
Bah, the offer isn't much to worry about anyway. They'll drop the offer. He can take one bruiser.
“A real sweet one.”
The emphasis leaves Jason thoroughly unimpressed.
“Wow, a sweet job offer at fucking one a.m? You gotta tell me about that.” Moron.
The idiots' shell is so thick they don't even lose the shiny bright happy unconscious smiles.
“Don't be jealous, buddy, you're welcome to join!”
This time, Jason doesn't even pretend to swallow his snort.
“Fat. Chance.” He raises his eyebrows. “Well, you were gonna tell me. So tell me.”
“It's sweet, really. There's this guy, we just have to, y'know, bring him like info and stuff and—”
If they managed to get mixed up with cops...
The idiots. The fucking idiots. They managed to get mixed up with fucking cops. He's gonna need a bigger stick. And to drop off the radar yesterday. God, what did they do to bring Gotham's Dumbest down on them? Jason takes a shot at piecing it together, and draws a blank. They're discreet, they're small time, they're not organized. Jason's put a lot of effort into dodging cops, and for the most part he's succeeded. Two years with one run-in with cops. Until today.
Okay, don't shout. Regroup.
First thing is the guy's name.
“Who was he?” If they didn't ask, he's gonna—
They nod knowingly, like they expected the question and they thought they were prepared for it – God, they have no idea what they've done, and that pisses Jason off.
“Matches.”
Jason frowns.
“Y'know, Matches, that guy with the butt-ugly suits and a—”
“—match in his mouth. Yeah, I know him.”
His frown hasn't smoothed away.
There's something wrong with this picture. Jason's not sure what exactly, but he hasn't lasted two years and a half without learning when to trust his gut. Right now, his gut is screaming at him to get away. It's the same feeling he has when he spots the acid-green checkers of Matches' radioactive suit flicking into view.
They've never spoken, but what Jason's heard and seen of the guy has been enough to tell him he wants nothing to do with Mr Sleaze. And since Matches has never come on to him, he guesses he's never stuck out to the man in all the five or six times Jason skedaddled when their paths crossed. It's never felt odd, it's like the instinct that makes you take one step to the side so that you won't fall into the sewers.
So it's not cops they've drawn like flies to sweaty skin. It's Matches Malone's oily smiles. And everyone he's ever worked for, slept with, and spoken to. Jason trusts that guy about as much as he trusts the Arkham security to do their job for seven days straight. He's a creep.
“I'm not doing anything for Matches Malone, and if you have two working braincells you won't either.”
They look at him like he's crazy, and for a moment he wonders what Matches promised them, anyway, to win them over so easily.
Then he remembers they've been on the streets for like two months at best, and the nights have barely even begun to get slightly less than warm, and they pretty much all reek of middle-class security, and he's pretty sure he's the only one who grew up on the wrong side of the tracks. Pretty sure he's the only one who knew how the streets live before he started living on the streets. And maybe Matches could get him in touch with one of his dad's friends, but... Don't ask for favors. That's the kind of debts you can't afford.
“No way.”
Jason's upper lip curls.
“Loosen up, buddy.”
“He says we just have to do like he tells us.”
“It'll be easy, we don't have to do anything special...”
“I say he's the best thing that's happened to us.”
And Jason told himself he was going to wait until they were done and then he'd talk some reason into them, but there's only so much fuck-ass ramblings he can take.
“No, fuck, are you fucking serious? You hear yourself speaking? 'He's the best thing we ever had, he's gonna take care of us'... Get real, brain-donor, the only people who'd take good care of you are pimps. You want candy little boy, oldest one in the fucking book and I can't fucking believe you fell for it!”
Silence rings against the chilly walls. For a second, the illusion of safety floats so close that if he reached out he could grab it, taste it, comforting like warm milk, breathless and sharp like victory and like Gotham. For a second he thinks he's won.
And then one of them grumbles.
“God, you're such a tight-ass.”
Jason tenses – coils – ready for the confrontation. There's that smell Jason knows real well, of gas and electricity that can mean move it or that can mean bring it on.
But it never comes. Instead, the other just looks up, not even glaring, bored like, and says.
“You're not my father. I don't have to listen to you treat me like that. Hey, I didn't take that from my father all my life. Sorry if I want more in life than spending it in the gutter, but Matches says he'll pay us, and maybe I miss hot water once in a while. And he's not asking that, so, sorry, but I call it win-win. You're not my father.”
Jason's mouth is dry, which maybe is the reason why he doesn't realize he's speaking all at once.
“Yeah? You wanna be coddled so bad, maybe you should go back to your daddy.”
And it's out of his mouth and there's more he could say but.
They're all staring at him now, and it's over.
It's over.
He can't take it back. Doesn't seem like much, does it? Just one stupid, meaningless, kindergarten-level sentence. Nothing you can't undo. But you can't.
He's only broken the first rule of the streets. No biggie. Whatever you do, you don't tell someone they should go back where they come from. Once you do... well, it's funny, once you do there's no going back. You'd have more luck trying to get back to whatever there was before you hit the streets, really. You're not going to hang together anymore. You're not going to talk to each other. You're not even going to fight it out. You just... dissolve. Cease to exist.
It's over, and they all know it.
It's only the first rule of the streets because you don't need anyone's help to learn it. Call it instinct.
Jason's mouth is still dry.
“I'm outta here,” he says.
The silence rebounds his words back at him. He grabs his things with jerky hands, shoves them in the shabby sports bag he got at some point.
No-one says a word as he leaves; there's not a sound in the old building, not even the noise of his own footsteps; it's been so long he's known how to walk quietly he's not sure how to stop. Once he's outside he takes a deep breath. The air burns into his lungs. He breathes out slowly, and takes a cigarette from the pack – he's almost out, gotta find more soon – and lights it up.
The lighter works on the first try, and his hand doesn't shake.
Well, it's okay. He ditched them easier and faster than he expected. He wasn't going to stick with them if they were gonna get involved with creeps like Matches Malone. He's still gonna try and come up with a way to help them out, though.
The streets of Gotham are dark and empty, but Jason's not scared.
Here, he can't lose. Gotham is home.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2009-02-20 04:36 pm (UTC)On another note, your icon fills me with fangirlish glee. I'd pet but I'm afraid he'd bite me.
no subject
Date: 2009-02-19 05:51 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-02-20 04:37 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-02-19 06:00 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-02-20 04:51 pm (UTC)Gotham raises 'em tough and smart. And prone to horrible deaths.
no subject
Date: 2009-02-19 07:29 pm (UTC)I love street-rat dirty-mouthed angry-at-everyone Jason. And with a protective streak. Love him.
Very awesome read.
(And your default icon of Robin Hood? Love it too.)
no subject
Date: 2009-02-20 04:55 pm (UTC)Thank you for letting me know you enjoyed it!
no subject
Date: 2009-02-19 07:37 pm (UTC)Wonderfully written!
no subject
Date: 2009-02-20 04:58 pm (UTC)Thanks!
no subject
Date: 2009-02-19 09:10 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-02-20 05:00 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-02-20 07:35 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-02-20 05:01 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-02-20 09:03 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-02-20 05:03 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-02-20 01:09 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-02-20 05:10 pm (UTC)And then he loses his temper and the situation blows in his face. :(
no subject
Date: 2009-02-20 04:46 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-02-20 05:19 pm (UTC)The end was difficult because Jason needed to get away so he wouldn't meet Matches (who otherwise would've known Jason before Batman met him, and I wasn't touching that can of messed-up) and it wouldn't have made sense for him to up and go if he thought they were really in any danger, so finally his anger left him no choice.
I'll try and give them a hand
he wouldn't be Jason if he didn't mean it.
Plus he totally feels that cops are more of a threat than two-bits creeps.
no subject
Date: 2009-02-20 09:00 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-02-20 10:52 pm (UTC)