Fit in with the Misfits
Apr. 17th, 2015 09:10 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ubi_es_caelumTitle: Red Hood
Characters: Jason Todd, Ma Kent, Pa Kent
Rating: G
Genre: High School AU
Summary: Jason Todd likes fighting, fast cars, and pie. [Character Study]
6.
Jason Todd had blown into Smallville three years before, set fire to a trashcan, promptly decked the deputy sheriff, spent the night in jail, and opened the only worthwhile mechanic's shop: Under the Hood. He lived above the shop in what was basically a studio apartment with a gas stove he'd scrounged out of the junkyard, a fridge that should have been retired in the late fifties - complete with the pistachio color and bottle opener on the front next to the age spotted chrome. He slept on a mattress that he could wheel around the cement floor lazily, lifted on wood pallets he'd installed rollers on. He had a wicked smile, a wicked right hook, and a wicked kiss.
He liked the life he'd built here. He liked that there was beer in the fridge, a carton of cigarettes in the ice box next to the vodka. He liked the work he did. The pneumatics on the tire wrench zipped and screamed happily and there wasn't a prettier sound in the world than when an engine on a car that seemed doomed purred to life under his touch. The garage was a simple two story building with a vaulted ceiling to handle the car lifts, a small cement block office with venetian blinds that shaded the simple logo that he'd had screened into the glass. The bay doors rolled up and he enjoyed the quick bounce he'd give to jump and catch the edge to pull them back down. The cement parking lot had a few cracks, but he viciously weeded them and put his cigarettes out in a bucket of gas that had seeded, fumed gone cold. He shopped at the local grocery store, made an entrance to the farmer's markets, and winked at pretty girls.
Jason was tall and lean, muscled like a cat with forearms that corded and flickered when he worked. His white undershirts were always stained, pulled loose at the collar and just a shade tight. He wore jeans like he'd been poured into them, hitching them higher around knife blade hips with absent thumbs. He had blue eyes and a crooked nose that matched his sly grin. He liked that the women stared and the men glared. He liked that the kids weren't sure whether they wanted to follow him around, so simply settled for watching him with wide eyes from the sidewalk outside the ice cream parlor. Jason was used to the city, but he wasn't about to let small town life slow him down. He found an old Triumph rusting in someone's front yard and had haggled them down to three free oil changes and just hauling it away. It rumbled under him three months later and he pulled the mirrored shades over his eyes and roared down the two lane road that served as Main St until it hit the one intersection outside of city limits. Jason would stop there, staring down the cement until it faded into the water glaze of mirage or turned in a slow sway to duck behind corn fields. Jason knew what his boundaries were. If there was a line he couldn't cross, then he'd be damned if he wouldn't cross the rest.
He liked the Sandsmark diner. He liked the loamy feel of the linoleum booth tops and the strange historic pictures framed neatly on the wall complete with little plaques detailing the event and significance. He liked the knock kneed pre-teen who'd stomped on his boot when he'd cracked on her frizzy hair and braces. He liked her fire. He'd settled into Smallville like a tick, dug in deep and annoying. He liked it that way, even if Deputy Grayson didn't. Fuck him anyway.
Smallville stretched around him, shifting to make room. He didn’t finish high school, but he didn’t let that stop him from casually beating the tar out of the football team when they tried to jump him. His blood sang, fists bruised as he panted, eyes glittering and narrowed to pale blue slits. The fights came fast and regular after that, finally mellowing into a ring that he hosted outside the back lot of his garage one Saturday out of the month- seasonally. When it got too cold, they’d break into random barns, the smell of hay hot in his lungs as he preened, back in his element with jaws cracking to the side and the gasps of the crowd. Jason liked an audience and if there was one thing Smallville teens adored it was their sport.
The farmland sun lightened his hair, gone dark brown in the city smog, but now a paler tipped mess of cowlicks and insouciant bed head. He sauntered through the farmer's market, making sure to toss a wink at Deputy Grayson as he passed by. He touched his thumb to his own jaw, tilting his head curiously and pouting slightly before laughing and moving to where Ma Kent sold her pies. She was the only woman who simply blushed and batted at him when he flirted, shoving food in his general direction as she clucked over him. He hadn't been sure what to do with her, but she'd been determined, wearing him down like the wind smoothing rough wood. Every Friday he went home with a pie and the knowledge that there were at least two people in Smallville that he didn't need to pretend with.
"Jason," Ma Kent said, narrowing her eyes at him as she looked him over, batting his hand away from the sample tray by rote.
"Ma," he grinned, flexing his fingers and leaning against the booth to reach behind him and snag with the opposite hand as she dimpled sweetly at him under her iron gray hair and rockwellian cheeks.
"We're goin' to bring that old Ford down to see you at some point," she replied, ignoring the way he ducked his head and shoved the bit in his mouth, chewing quickly. She did reach over, dusting the crumbs from the front of his shirt absently. "You think you can get the alternator working, or are we going to have to take her out back and shoot her?"
"Who're you talking to?"
"Well, it doesn't hurt to ask." She sniffed, straightening up and bustling to the back of the booth, moving some of the crates aside to unearth the box of pies she brought to hand out to her favorites. "Conner's going to be getting his farm license soon enough and the last thing we need is for him to break down Lord knows where."
"I'll get him sorted, don't you fret," Jason replied, slipping into the closest approximation of a drawl he could manage. He wasn’t a fan of Conner Kent. The boy was loud, hot tempered, and the sort of morally superior that was just screaming for a beat down. He wouldn’t tell Ma that, though. He’d settle that score, but only when the boy came looking. They always came looking. They walked into the ring expecting Smallville, they tapped out to Gotham. He'd worked diligently to rid himself of the particular accent. He'd been coached and took to the dramatics with a natural flair, settling into a muddled Midwestern drawl like he'd been born to it instead of the back streets and crime riddled alleys.
Jason had gotten really good at adroitly steering the conversation away from his past. "Where're you from?" "Around." "You're not from around here." "Am now."
To him it felt like an eternal fugue state, the kind he'd learned about from the local AM station that played classical music on Sunday mornings. The kind where the violin sang into nothing, answered back by a similar melody, and finally they sang together, mocked and taunted by the third until they blended seamlessly into something that sounded just not quite right, off kilter and intriguing. He took the pie, feeling the weight of it and cocking his head slightly, ducking to sniff it curiously. Ma Kent put her fists on her hips, daring him with an eyebrow. "Two guesses."
"Blueberry."
"Close, but no cigar."
Jason's brows furrowed, taking another whiff. "It's not cherry, you don't do metaphors like that. You blend something special?"
"Oh you, that isn't a guess and I won't fall for your simple charms. I like my men solid and reliable." She wiggled just slightly, though. "Go on, now."
"I have no idea."
"Gooseberry." She nodded once in punctuation, perfectly pleased. "Blue ribbon. Nothing but the best for my boys."
"Alfred would've liked you."
"That your friend back from..." She trailed off, ever hopeful that he'd slip up. It was an old dance they moved to.
"He was the head server and he took care of me." Jason nodded. "Thanks again, Ma." He cleared his throat, hefting the plate and dimpling at her.
"Don't you be a stranger. I'll get some of that ointment for your knuckles. You keep up that mischief and you're not going to be able to hold a wrench by the time you're fifty, darlin'."
"Live fast, die young, leave a damn pretty corpse."
"Don't you even joke on that, Jason Todd." She frowned deeply at him, smacking him on the arm and shooing him off. "Gonna get you hitched so you can give me some pretty rowdy grandbabies."
Jason swooned, slapping a hand over his heart and tossed her a soppy eyed look. "Breakin' my heart, Ma."
"Oh go on, you." Ma blushed slightly, nose wrinkling as she turned to the next customer who walked up. She greeted everyone with that same simple honesty. Jason wandered the market. He didn't tell anyone, but he kept his shop to the outskirts of town, kept his flirting a loose fitting
Jason was running. He just wasn't sure when he'd get to stop.
Characters: Jason Todd, Ma Kent, Pa Kent
Rating: G
Genre: High School AU
Summary: Jason Todd likes fighting, fast cars, and pie. [Character Study]
6.
Jason Todd had blown into Smallville three years before, set fire to a trashcan, promptly decked the deputy sheriff, spent the night in jail, and opened the only worthwhile mechanic's shop: Under the Hood. He lived above the shop in what was basically a studio apartment with a gas stove he'd scrounged out of the junkyard, a fridge that should have been retired in the late fifties - complete with the pistachio color and bottle opener on the front next to the age spotted chrome. He slept on a mattress that he could wheel around the cement floor lazily, lifted on wood pallets he'd installed rollers on. He had a wicked smile, a wicked right hook, and a wicked kiss.
He liked the life he'd built here. He liked that there was beer in the fridge, a carton of cigarettes in the ice box next to the vodka. He liked the work he did. The pneumatics on the tire wrench zipped and screamed happily and there wasn't a prettier sound in the world than when an engine on a car that seemed doomed purred to life under his touch. The garage was a simple two story building with a vaulted ceiling to handle the car lifts, a small cement block office with venetian blinds that shaded the simple logo that he'd had screened into the glass. The bay doors rolled up and he enjoyed the quick bounce he'd give to jump and catch the edge to pull them back down. The cement parking lot had a few cracks, but he viciously weeded them and put his cigarettes out in a bucket of gas that had seeded, fumed gone cold. He shopped at the local grocery store, made an entrance to the farmer's markets, and winked at pretty girls.
Jason was tall and lean, muscled like a cat with forearms that corded and flickered when he worked. His white undershirts were always stained, pulled loose at the collar and just a shade tight. He wore jeans like he'd been poured into them, hitching them higher around knife blade hips with absent thumbs. He had blue eyes and a crooked nose that matched his sly grin. He liked that the women stared and the men glared. He liked that the kids weren't sure whether they wanted to follow him around, so simply settled for watching him with wide eyes from the sidewalk outside the ice cream parlor. Jason was used to the city, but he wasn't about to let small town life slow him down. He found an old Triumph rusting in someone's front yard and had haggled them down to three free oil changes and just hauling it away. It rumbled under him three months later and he pulled the mirrored shades over his eyes and roared down the two lane road that served as Main St until it hit the one intersection outside of city limits. Jason would stop there, staring down the cement until it faded into the water glaze of mirage or turned in a slow sway to duck behind corn fields. Jason knew what his boundaries were. If there was a line he couldn't cross, then he'd be damned if he wouldn't cross the rest.
He liked the Sandsmark diner. He liked the loamy feel of the linoleum booth tops and the strange historic pictures framed neatly on the wall complete with little plaques detailing the event and significance. He liked the knock kneed pre-teen who'd stomped on his boot when he'd cracked on her frizzy hair and braces. He liked her fire. He'd settled into Smallville like a tick, dug in deep and annoying. He liked it that way, even if Deputy Grayson didn't. Fuck him anyway.
Smallville stretched around him, shifting to make room. He didn’t finish high school, but he didn’t let that stop him from casually beating the tar out of the football team when they tried to jump him. His blood sang, fists bruised as he panted, eyes glittering and narrowed to pale blue slits. The fights came fast and regular after that, finally mellowing into a ring that he hosted outside the back lot of his garage one Saturday out of the month- seasonally. When it got too cold, they’d break into random barns, the smell of hay hot in his lungs as he preened, back in his element with jaws cracking to the side and the gasps of the crowd. Jason liked an audience and if there was one thing Smallville teens adored it was their sport.
The farmland sun lightened his hair, gone dark brown in the city smog, but now a paler tipped mess of cowlicks and insouciant bed head. He sauntered through the farmer's market, making sure to toss a wink at Deputy Grayson as he passed by. He touched his thumb to his own jaw, tilting his head curiously and pouting slightly before laughing and moving to where Ma Kent sold her pies. She was the only woman who simply blushed and batted at him when he flirted, shoving food in his general direction as she clucked over him. He hadn't been sure what to do with her, but she'd been determined, wearing him down like the wind smoothing rough wood. Every Friday he went home with a pie and the knowledge that there were at least two people in Smallville that he didn't need to pretend with.
"Jason," Ma Kent said, narrowing her eyes at him as she looked him over, batting his hand away from the sample tray by rote.
"Ma," he grinned, flexing his fingers and leaning against the booth to reach behind him and snag with the opposite hand as she dimpled sweetly at him under her iron gray hair and rockwellian cheeks.
"We're goin' to bring that old Ford down to see you at some point," she replied, ignoring the way he ducked his head and shoved the bit in his mouth, chewing quickly. She did reach over, dusting the crumbs from the front of his shirt absently. "You think you can get the alternator working, or are we going to have to take her out back and shoot her?"
"Who're you talking to?"
"Well, it doesn't hurt to ask." She sniffed, straightening up and bustling to the back of the booth, moving some of the crates aside to unearth the box of pies she brought to hand out to her favorites. "Conner's going to be getting his farm license soon enough and the last thing we need is for him to break down Lord knows where."
"I'll get him sorted, don't you fret," Jason replied, slipping into the closest approximation of a drawl he could manage. He wasn’t a fan of Conner Kent. The boy was loud, hot tempered, and the sort of morally superior that was just screaming for a beat down. He wouldn’t tell Ma that, though. He’d settle that score, but only when the boy came looking. They always came looking. They walked into the ring expecting Smallville, they tapped out to Gotham. He'd worked diligently to rid himself of the particular accent. He'd been coached and took to the dramatics with a natural flair, settling into a muddled Midwestern drawl like he'd been born to it instead of the back streets and crime riddled alleys.
Jason had gotten really good at adroitly steering the conversation away from his past. "Where're you from?" "Around." "You're not from around here." "Am now."
To him it felt like an eternal fugue state, the kind he'd learned about from the local AM station that played classical music on Sunday mornings. The kind where the violin sang into nothing, answered back by a similar melody, and finally they sang together, mocked and taunted by the third until they blended seamlessly into something that sounded just not quite right, off kilter and intriguing. He took the pie, feeling the weight of it and cocking his head slightly, ducking to sniff it curiously. Ma Kent put her fists on her hips, daring him with an eyebrow. "Two guesses."
"Blueberry."
"Close, but no cigar."
Jason's brows furrowed, taking another whiff. "It's not cherry, you don't do metaphors like that. You blend something special?"
"Oh you, that isn't a guess and I won't fall for your simple charms. I like my men solid and reliable." She wiggled just slightly, though. "Go on, now."
"I have no idea."
"Gooseberry." She nodded once in punctuation, perfectly pleased. "Blue ribbon. Nothing but the best for my boys."
"Alfred would've liked you."
"That your friend back from..." She trailed off, ever hopeful that he'd slip up. It was an old dance they moved to.
"He was the head server and he took care of me." Jason nodded. "Thanks again, Ma." He cleared his throat, hefting the plate and dimpling at her.
"Don't you be a stranger. I'll get some of that ointment for your knuckles. You keep up that mischief and you're not going to be able to hold a wrench by the time you're fifty, darlin'."
"Live fast, die young, leave a damn pretty corpse."
"Don't you even joke on that, Jason Todd." She frowned deeply at him, smacking him on the arm and shooing him off. "Gonna get you hitched so you can give me some pretty rowdy grandbabies."
Jason swooned, slapping a hand over his heart and tossed her a soppy eyed look. "Breakin' my heart, Ma."
"Oh go on, you." Ma blushed slightly, nose wrinkling as she turned to the next customer who walked up. She greeted everyone with that same simple honesty. Jason wandered the market. He didn't tell anyone, but he kept his shop to the outskirts of town, kept his flirting a loose fitting
Jason was running. He just wasn't sure when he'd get to stop.