[dc] plays together, stays together



Post-communist industrial towns are all alike; every unhappy village is--

"Oh my fucking god, are we there yet?"

The engine on the the Jag revs ever so slightly when Bruce twitches his foot on the accelerator. They've had seventeen hours of travelling so far, so it's possible that Bruce regards Jason's profanity as an immutable constant.

"Shut up, Jason," Dick says absently, but he does wonder if all Hungarian airports are on the opposite side of the country to the capital. Transatlantic travel nowadays really makes him miss the Concorde. The Bat-jet. Hell, he misses the Pequod.

Dick checks the side mirror to see if Tim's woken up. He's taken to slipping temazepam in Tim's coffee every now and then. It keeps him manageable. Bruce must know of course, but he hasn't raised objections.

One traumatised child at a time, maybe.

Tim's awake, and he's fiddling intently with the tiny piece of technology that he insists is just a cellphone. "I can't get a reception."

Bruce switches on the GPS for--what, satellite tracking? and Jason snickers. "Who're you calling? Everyone's either in this car or dead."

"Or both," says Tim, viciously.

"Don't make me come back there," Bruce says lightly, like his protégé are not trading unforgiveable barbs in an enclosed space. He frowns at Dick. "This is why I asked you to sit in the back."

"I--" Dick gapes. "Now it's my fault there's two psychotic teenagers in the car?"

"I'm twenty," says Jason.

"I'm fine," says Tim.

Dick sighs.

*

Blessed indeed is the man who hears many gentle voices call him father.

*