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Tweak says, "loser say what?...WHAT!"

BLAIR STOOKEY IS NOT BATMAN'S BITCH (dedrobin) wrote in crossover,
@ 2009-06-19 22:05:00

Who: Chelsea (Tim Drake) & Blair (Jason Todd)
Where: Leo's kitchen! HOLY FREELOADERS, BATMAN
When: Forward-dated slightly to Sunday evening.
What: Chelsea reads her own comic. Blair attempts to get high with a whipped cream canister that is still full of whipped cream. Things end messily, and not just in the literal sense.
Rating: We'll say PG-13 for now. There will probably be more than two F-words, but w/e. Suck it down, I ain't changing it for that.

It was raining on a Sunday evening in June. It had also been raining Sunday afternoon and Sunday morning, and it felt to Blair that Sunday had lasted ten years. He was bored, and, tired from a combination of oversleeping and the lousy weather, hadn't had the energy to find a single thing to do all day. Which, when you were Blair, wasn't a good thing. It was dangerous.

You could probably concoct an equation that directly correlates the amount of time Blair spends in restless boredom to the magnitude of trouble he gets into shortly thereafter. It had been a good eight hours since he'd woken up, which meant -- the next item in his path was about to get Blaired.

"Hey, faggot," he said by way of greeting as he passed Chelsea in the kitchen. He hadn't realized he was even heading for the refrigerator until he was staring, eyes glazed, into its fluorescent depths. He briefly considered the beer cans, but the idea of getting drunk somehow seemed so-so. Mundane, really. And then his eyes landed on the whipped cream.

He didn't take a Moment to Think. He didn't stop and Count to Ten. He just -- did. Fssssshttt. Snort. And up it went. And out it came.

"Augh," he cried, laughing and coughing all at once, "Oh my God. Why did I do that." (It didn't stop him from trying it again.)

"Chelsea," he said, and all of a sudden he was standing behind her chair, his arms in her face, the whipped cream dripping off his fingers and onto the table. "Try it try it try it."

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redrobin
2009-06-19 10:38 pm UTC (link)

Chelsea hated Damian Wayne. Really, truly hated him. She had purchased the first issue of Red Robin on a whim, and was starting to regret it. Tim Drake -- Wayne was fuming; she could feel him just below her surface, threatening to break free. And when Damian -- that little overly-muscled runt -- went too far, she wanted to hurt him just as badly as Tim did. And then the little bastard got what was coming to him, and she couldn’t help but smile.

Her grin vanished when Blair walked in. As much as she liked him, Tim didn’t like Jason, and he was grating on her nerves like she couldn’t believe. She turned the page, then dug her fingernails into the table, trying to ignore him. Then he was waving a can of whipped cream in her face and dripping onto the table, just as Tim was repeating, insisting to himself that this was not happening. When the cream dripped onto the pages, she just lost it. She yanked the can from his hands, shoving into him as she stood up from her chair. She went over to the fridge, opening it up and tossing the can back in haphazardly. When she came back, she smacked the back of his head, picking her comic up.

"What the fuck is your problem, Jason?" There was something wrong with that sentence. She chewed on her bottom lip for a second, scratching the back of her head. Right. She just called him by his comic's name. She really needed to get a hold of herself. "Blair," she corrected herself. "You look like a retard, asshole. And you ruined my comic book."

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dedrobin
2009-06-19 11:25 pm UTC (link)

Jason Todd flickered through Blair's consciousness like a ghost, most days. Probably because Jason was, in fact, dead. Some of the time he chose to lie dormant -- resting in peace, Blair supposed, like he'd never got to do in the comics -- but he was too conflicted to just stay there. A dead man with unfinished business. And Chelsea -- Tim -- had just cracked the briefcase open. Come on out and play, Jason.

Blair felt his alter-ego's mutual distaste rise in his throat, like bile, and he tried to swallow it back down. His battle for self-control was short lived, however, as he found himself opening his mouth and words spilled out that he never thought he'd say --

"Your comic book," he sneered. "Your big debut, huh?" And there was a strange look in his eyes, focused and intent, exactly they way they hadn't been just a moment ago. Sudden, inexplicable rage washed over him. Just who did Tim think he was that he could step all over Jason like he was nothing? The better, smarter, richer Robin? A sense of rivalry like he'd never felt before -- and yet, was all too familiar -- came with an almost palpable sting, making his eyes water and his hands clench. He wanted to make that little shit in the blonde's body just feel as humiliated as he did. "I hear you got replaced, baby brother," he said, with a forced nonchalance Blair could never manage on his own. "How does that feel?"

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redrobin
2009-06-20 02:40 am UTC (link)

"My big debut -- come off it, Todd. We both know which one of us was the more popular Robin." Chelsea crossed her arms, scowling at Blair. No, not at Blair. At Jason fucking Todd. "Still, you're right. I got replaced by a repulsive little kid. But I'm not the first Robin to be replaced by a sleazy jerk. Dick had that same problem, didn't he?" She dropped her arms to the side, taking a few steps toward him.

"Wait. Didn't you replace Dick, brother?" she asked, feigning sweetness. She tried to smile at him, but it felt more like she was baring her teeth. After a beat, she spoke again. "You know, at least they didn't kill me off. God, how would it feel to know that people hated you enough to vote to kill you off?"

Chelsea knew what she had said was not going to go over well, and part of her -- the sane, Chelsea part -- wanted to take it back and make him a grilled cheese sandwich or something. But the other part -- the volatile and currently emotionally unstable Tim -- hoped that it would push him over the edge, wanted to get the opportunity to beat the shit out of Jason Todd.

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dedrobin
2009-06-21 03:30 pm UTC (link)

She was only saying these things. It didn't mean he had to do anything. It was the same old shit, regurgitated fast and cheap like too much beer; the same old insecurities he's been lugging around with him for years, like a tattered suitcase bound to his ankle. He could cut it free if he wanted to. He could walk away if he wanted to -- take a deep breath, count to ten, and just turn away. This was childish. Shouldn't it have been beneath him, by now?

But it wasn't beneath him. The anger that came -- the rage that soared through his bloodstream like a drug, pumping and pounding in his ears -- it was too comfortable, too familiar of a feeling. He felt like a former smoker with a cigarette dangled in front of him -- and unabashedly, he wanted it. He wanted a fight.

As Chelsea moved in closer to him, he edged around behind her, circling her like a predator does its prey. She looked temptingly easy to him -- not strictly because she was a girl, though it should have made him hesitate. Though Tim was undeniably smarter than himself, he knew Tim wasn't as good a fighter as he was, or at least -- not as brutal. And Chelsea might've inherited whatever skills he had, but she didn't have the body of a marine, slim and deceptive as it was.

And Blair's body was used to this. Hell, even before Jason had manifested in his conscious, he'd been like this, overly physical and full of rage at the drop of a hat. But what Jason had that Blair didn't was a range of weapons to choose from. When Blair would curl up a fist, Jason would pull a trigger. Where Blair would hurt, Jason would scar. Jason had the kind of malice where he could get someone hurting more than skin deep, more than physical. He'd use anything -- his words, in particular, which Blair could never master the skill -- to make a lasting impression.

Quicker than lightning, he grabbed Chelsea's wrists with one hand and wrapped his other arm around her neck, pulling her head in tight against his shoulder. "Is that what this is to you," he growled into her ear. "Some kind of fucking popularity contest? Because lemme tell you something, dipshit," he continued, rocking her body forward and back, once, so that her head slams back -- undoubtedly painfully -- "It's all fun and fucking games when you're sitting here, reading your little comic through the eyes of some spoiled little princess. But in there, it's fucking real. You ever been beat to death, you little shit?"

On those last three words, his voice rose with uncontrollable emotion and he spun her around and shoved her away, sending her skidding backwards towards the kitchen table.

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redrobin
2009-06-22 11:52 pm UTC (link)

Chelsea knew that she had went too far when he grabbed her wrist, and almost regretted the whole thing when he had her in a chokehold. Almost being the key word: Tim was satisfied with the fact that he had proved that Jason was nothing but a pathetic animal. Chelsea, on the other hand, was scared shitless. She let out a sharp cry when Blair snapped her head back, and was immensely relieved when he let her go. The relief only lasted momentarily, however. She flew back, knocking over a chair and hitting her head against the edge of the table. She ended up on her knees, feeling the back of her head to asses the damage. When she looked at her fingers, her eyes widened when she saw blood. She was frozen for a single moment, then looked up at Blair, fury burning in her eyes. She stood up, bracing herself against the chair that was still standing. Then, she heard a sickening snap, and for a moment she had a horrifying worry that one of her bones had broken. A quick look down, however, told her that she didn’t have to worry about any of her bones. The heel of her left shoe, however, had snapped off.

She stepped out of her heels, bending down to pick up the ruined shoe. She stared at Blair, chest heaving. “Yeah, you have it so bad, Jason,” she hissed, “but have you forgotten that I was recently left for dead, myself?” She tightened her grip on the shoe, and for a moment she thought about just dropping everything - including the mangled high heel - and leaving it be, but she just couldn’t. “I mean, you really should recall. Since, you know, you’re the one who stabbed me through the heart.” A pause. “And I am NOT a spoiled little princess!” she shrieked, throwing the shoe at Blair’s head. Okay, so it wasn’t the best way to disprove her princess status, but she hoped it would be enough to distract him while she prepared her next move.

About a half second after the shoe left her hand, she barreled at him, slamming into his chest with her shoulder and knocking them both against the counter. She brought back her fist, preparing to slam it into his stomach, but something told her to stop. She looked up at Blair, her eyes wide. There was no more raw anger. Just mild terror, and deep confusion - what the hell was she doing? She took a step away from him, backing into the chair she hadn’t knocked over, and dropped into it. She covered her head with her arms - both to shield from any further attacks, and to hide the tears that had started rolling down her cheeks.

Of course, the defensive move didn’t exactly muzzle her sobs, and it was probably more than obvious to Blair that she was, in fact, bawling her eyes out.

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dedrobin
2009-07-01 04:23 pm UTC (link)

He ducked to avoid the shoe, and it flew wide over his head to knock a glass into the sink behind them. It was Leo's stuff they were breaking -- blood dribbled on the floor, now shards in the sink -- but Blair could really care less. Wasn't this all Batman's fault, anyway? Taking in boys and expecting them to do men's work? -- no, a superhuman's work. Had them wear the same fucking costume. Called them by the same fucking name. No wonder they wanted to kill each other.

The ruse worked. He never saw her coming, and in a split second he was pinned to the counter, Chelsea's blonde head obscuring his line of sight. He braced himself for her next attack and then -- it didn't come.

She was crying. Blair felt like he'd just been plunged into an icy Antarctic lake -- frozen, with no will or even capability to move or speak. He was surprised his heart was still beating, but there it was, pounding so violently he thought it might rip through the bone and escape.

"Chelsea," he finally managed to croak. A sudden, unpleasant combination of realization and guilt weighed his body down like prison shackles. He couldn't move. Even though Chelsea wasn't trying to hurt him anymore, the worst pain of it all was starting now. His conscience was beating him with an invisible switch -- you idiot. you idiot. you idiot. "I'm -- I didn't mean to."

As soon as he said it, however, he realized it wasn't true. He had wanted to hurt her. Scare her. Maybe even kill her, he wasn't sure. He was an absolute monster and this proved it. "I'm sorry," he said, and then his eyes were all red and full of tears because Blair could never control his emotions anyway, and now his jaw was trembling and his nose was starting to run and he wished he could just rewind and never have come downstairs looking for something stupid to do because he was stupid, stupid, stupid and probably never should have been born.

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redrobin
2009-07-06 10:34 pm UTC (link)

She jerked when he said her name, and waited for him to say or do something else to her. She probably deserved whatever he had to give because she was such a bad person. Because she had said things that no person should say to their friend, ever. But was Blair her friend? Of course he was. But -- Jason? No. Tim hated Jason. She hated Jason, and she had said those things to Jason, not to Blair. But did that mean it was excusable?

After a moment, Chelsea realized that Blair wasn't coming for her, and that the words that he was saying? They were apologies. She dropped her arms and looked up at him, but when she saw the look on his face she almost wished she hadn't. She sniffled once, then stopped crying because he looked like he was about to start. She stood up and walked over to him, reaching past him to tear a paper towel off of the roll, moving back and holding it out to him.

"Jesus Christ, Blair. What the hell did we get ourselves into this time? Come on. Clean yourself up, it's going to be okay," she informed him, even though she was just talking to be talking, to fill up the silence. "And I'm sorry. I'm really sorry. Can we just -- let's just."

This was all her fault. She let herself get worked up by a comic book and said all of those awful things. She provoked him, and she had to make it up to him. "Come on, darlin'," she said, giving him a shaky smile, "How about ice cream?" It was a weak offer at best, but it was all she could think of.

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