#tabetha rasa

“You are one of the, like, three things not his kids that he does like, Clark,” Lois says, frowning consideringly as she taps her pen against her notepad. 

“Which he doesn’t want any of from me!” Clark says, throwing his hands up in frustration again. “He has so many and he doesn’t want even one from me! I–one sec again, sorry.” 

He’s still in his suit, at least, so he only has to slip into super-speed this time, and four seconds later he’s fishing Stalker and Wonder Girl out of both the ballpit and the pile of alarmingly strong and extremely aggressive animatronics that they were just suffocating under while Spoiler was shrieking some very creative curse words and hitting with Stalker’s bo staff. The animatronics, Clark means, not Stalker and Wonder Girl. 

. . . well, mostly not Stalker and Wonder Girl. 

Clark kicks one of the . . . yes, no, those are definitely the Freddies or whatever they were called from that game Jon spent six months of last year scaring himself with Let’s Plays of . . . Clark kicks one of the Freddies out of the ballpit and into the whack-a-mole machine, which goes off flashing and wailing with alarms, and then retreats with Stalker and Wonder Girl as the other Freddies lunge for them. 

Alright then, Clark thinks, then snatches up Spoiler and Impulse with his other arm and extracts all three of them from the . . . yes, it is an actual pizza place where they were just getting smothered by giant animatronics in the bottom of a ball pit. Again: alright, then. Still not the weirdest thing he’s ever had to deal with on the job, honestly. 

“Arrowette wasn’t with you, was she?” he checks, though he’s already X-raying the building even as he asks the question. “Or–sorry, that wasn’t a kind question, was it.” 

“We appreciate the thought, Superman, but she did very decisively quit, yes,” Stalker says. “And also she’s on house arrest at least until the official sentencing hearing. So no, it’s just the four of us.” 

So the five of them, Clark translates reflexively, but the mist girl doesn’t really have to worry about physical injuries and has also apparently filled up the entire arcade with smoke and fog that appears to have left the animatronics all thrashing and twitching and screaming unholy demonic static as they all fall to pieces on the cheesy eighties-era carpet, so he decides not to worry about it. Kids need some room to work things out for themselves, and these kids have their secrets for understandable reasons, in his opinion. And, well, after everything with the DEO, and then the Arrowette incident . . . 

Definitely understandable, that Young Justice isn’t always particularly forthcoming about all of their teammates. 

“Does Batman know you’re not in Gotham this weekend?” Clark asks as he lets go of Wonder Girl and lets her take Impulse with her. Stalker and Spoiler he keeps holding himself, given they're both Bruce's. And anyway, Wonder Girl is their team’s only–well, their team’s only public flyer, anyway. They really could use another one of those, honestly, but they do have the Super-Cycle, he supposes. 

“I mean, probably, it’s Batman,” Spoiler says with a shrug, turning her hands up. “But beats us, Super-fly.” 

“Hm,” Clark says. “Well, Agent A’s making pot roast tonight, if you want a ride to the Batcave.” 

“Score, free pot roast!” Spoiler immediately whoops, throwing her hands up in the air. 

“. . . do we actually have a choice about the ride to the Batcave, Superman?” Stalker asks. 

“Well, yes,” Clark says. “But you’re probably worrying Batman by being out of town, and I just picked Red Robin and Arsenal up from a killbox about ten minutes ago, so I feel like he’s worried enough for one day already.” 

Robin's whistlin' this time, Jason realizes, 'cuz who the fuck knows why. 'Cuz Robin's just fuckin' crazy, far as Jason can tell. He don't even know how the fucker can whistle while he's doin' all this an' draggin' Jason 'round fer it on top of things, but he didn't know how the fucker could sing doin' all this neither, so—so it ain't—

Wait.

Jason snaps his eyes open an' yanks his head back t'give Robin an incredulous look.

"Are you whistlin' the fuckin' Gray Ghost theme song?!" he demands incredulously, an' Robin cackles, an' then they hit a hard surface an' Robin rolls 'em head over heels to take the impact. Jason yelps; Robin cackles even louder, then springs up like it ain't nothin' an' leaps, an' lands 'em on top of—

Sure, Jason thinks faintly. Sure, why wouldn't they be on top of a fuckin' movin' truck right now. The literal only fuckin' truck that's even on the street right now, even, 'cuz Robin apparently don't give a shit about nothing'. Just—Jesus Christ, ain't the moron at least a little bit leery of fuckin' trucks right now, after all this fuckin' pollen bullshit?

If Jason had gotten even one more stupid fuckin' growth spurt by now this wouldn't be happenin' to 'im, he thinks sourly. Robin ain't big enough t'be cartin' nobody 'round like this, so it's some fuckin' bullshit he's managin' it right now.

"Fly, babypup!" Robin laughs gleefully. He definitely ain't puttin' enough effort inta gettin' a good solid grip on top of this stupid truck.

Which—alright, yeah, fine, Jason thinks; maybe expectin' an omega who runs 'round Crime Alley after dark in a mask an' a bright yellow cape t'have any fuckin' concept of a goddamn normal, like, fear response or whatever was a stupid idea on his end. Like—pro'ly that was a stupid thing t'be expectin' on his end, yeah.

Or Robin's just fuckin' stupid, maybe. Maybe that.

The truck speeds up. Jason feels sick and buries a groan in Robin's shoulder. He don't get carsick, usually—not that he's ever even in a car all that often, 'less the situation's really gone t'shit—but this really, really ain't the normal fuckin' way t'be in a car.

Also, the fuckin' flips an' shit. Like—what the fuckin' fuck, with the fuckin' flips an' shit.

"The fuck, man," Jason wheezes into Robin's shoulder. Robin giggles, then wraps his arms 'round him tighter an' jus', like—nuzzles 'im, again. Nuzzles 'im, an'—tries t'scent 'im, again.

Does scent 'im, kinda.

Jus'—Robin's scent glands are all covered up by his suit an' all—his gloves an' the collar of his cape an' all that—but his whole body ain't covered or nothin', an' his arms're wound all the way 'round Jason's body an' his hair's all rubbed in against Jason's hair even though Jason's hair is all—all greasy an' gross an' dirty, an' he's pulled Jason all the way in against himself even though Jason's everythin' is all greasy an' gross an' dirty an'—an'—

Jason bites back the stupid whiny sound that wants t'come outta his mouth an' clings even tighter t'Robin 'cuz—'cuz he—

He shouldn't be, 'cuz Robin ain't his fuckin'—ain't his—

He shouldn't be, but also they're on top of a fuckin' movin' truck, so Jason ain't gonna be lettin' go anytime soon, an' that ain't his damn fault. Robin went ahead an' brought that on his own damn self, alright?! Havin' that goddamn response t'this goddamn bullshit ain't on Jason!

Jus' fuckin' Christ, though

"This ain't down enough, goddammit!" he yells against Robin's shoulder, an' Robin giggles again, then croons inta his hair an' squeezes his arms 'round him. The truck slows down t'take a turn or somethin', which is a relief fer 'bout half a second—fer 'bout half a second 'til Robin tips 'em again, anyway.

"'Down'?" Robin chirps like that is in any way a goddamn question, an' then they drop.

Jason shrieks even more embarrassingly loud this time.

They land in a roll again, an' Jason gets dizzy again, an' Robin pops 'em up right on the sidewalk an' jus' fuckin' goes inta a normal fuckin' walk, still carryin' Jason in his arms. A couple other cars whizz by, but neither of 'em stops, an' nobody sticks their head out on the street or nothin' t'see what's goin' on with all the screamin' an' shit.

Which, well, it's fuckin' Gotham—it's fuckin' Crime Alley in the middle of a fuckin' crisis—so yeah, who gives a fuck 'bout a pup shriekin' their head off after dark?

But also, goddamn, people really fuckin' suck.

Jason was a real dumbass t'stick his own neck out, but so was Robin.

"Okay," Jason says calm as he can. Robin chirps happily an' jus' keeps walkin', an' keeps carryin' him like a fuckin' pup. Which—yeah, Jason's a pup, but he ain't a fuckin' pup-pup, an'—an' it ain't like— "Put me down, fer fuck's—how're ya even still carryin' me, Christ, what kinda 'roids has Batman got yer stupid ass on?!"

Robin don't put 'im down, which ain't reassurin' Jason 'bout how good the other's doin' on recoverin' from the goddamn pollen. Jus'—they jus' need t'get the fuck off the stupid fuckin' street, 'cuz who knows what's even goin' on out there right now anyway, an' Jason really don't wanna find out what's gonna happen if they run inta no more alphas like Clancey.

Especially not if those ones maybe got hit by Ivy's pollen themselves, considerin'.

Or if any've of 'em's got more friends than Clancey's got.

Pro'ly not, if they're all rutbrained an' shit, but Jason don't wanna fuckin' test nothin' here. Could be some packed-up alphas, or some mated-up alphas, or jus' some littermates or somethin', or who the fuckin' fuck knows what else. Jus' ain't nothin' Jason wants t'be on the street fer, an' nothin' Robin should be on the street for, the stupid fuckin' fuck. An' Jason—

He ain't presented yet, an' he definitely didn't bite Robin like an alpha woulda, 'cuz fuckin' ew, if nothin' else, but—but he did bite 'im, an' . . . an' he . . .

He bit 'im, an' now Robin thinks he's his—pup, 'cuz Robin's all pollen-brained and feral-brained and heat-brained, an' . . . an' Robin's . . .

"Put me down," Jason demands again, an' Robin jus' huffs at him, an' Jason—

Robin still smells like a dam, is the thing. Still smells like he thinks he's Jason's dam. An'—an' it's been a long time since Jason's mom died, but . . . but if Robin gets his stupid feathered ass in trouble out here again, an' maybe don't get out of it so easy the next time . . .

( his dam needed him, and he couldn't be enough for her.

he CAN'T let anything happen to—to— )

Jason buries his face in Robin's shoulder fer another second, then jus'—jus' shoves at 'is chest with the hand that ain't got a tire iron in it and demands, again: "DOWN."

It ain't no alpha voice—it's a pup whine, more'n anythin' else—but Robin at least sorta listens, this time. Least, Robin stops, an' he mostly lets Jason squirm down outta his arms, an'—

"Babypup," Robin frets, an' cups Jason's face in 'is hands an' rubs his gloved-up wrists all over 'is cheeks. "Babypup, babypup. Fly home?"

"Walk home," Jason stresses, grabbin' Robin's wrists an' jus'—jus' they gotta get off the street, least 'til mornin'.

Or least 'til Batman shows the fuck up already an' fuckin' takes care of his fuckin' partner like he already shoulda been. But since Batman apparently ain't worth shit, Jason ain't gonna be puttin' no eggs in that basket. Bat . . . sket.