Fightin' Irish
by Kaylee
Remarkably few of them are DC's. :) But I still make no money, so don't sue.
This incarnation of Jason "Jays" Todd (AKA "Draco") belongs to me, as does Donal Finnegan.
The Morrioghan was created by Jen Morrioghan, who donated it to the Corner as one of the landmarks named after assorted fanfic writers/readers. :)
Thanks go to Pebblin for being a test-audience.
Story's dedicated to Heatherly. Hope it makes you smile, dearling.
Donal Finnegan liked to say that he was the soul of Ireland fighting for free breath in a land of tyranny and oppression. He said this most vehemently when waving around a mug of stout in one hand and carefully pinching a joint in the other, his youthful freckled face underneath the bright red hair showing nothing but indignation and affront. "You can't keep an Irishman down!" he'd vow ostentatiously. "We've seen enough injoostice t' know when we're bein' fooked, tha's for sure an' certain!"
When he was drunk, stoned, or both, Donal tended to forget that the closest he'd ever actually been to Ireland was swimming at the bottom of a bottle of Irish Malt Cream at the Morrioghan. When he was that far in his cups, of course, he waxed political/philosophical about everything, from the plaque on the bar's wall--
May those who Love us, Love us,
And those that don't Love us,
May God turn their hearts;
And if He doesn't turn their hearts
May He turn their ankles
So that we'll know them by their Limping.--which he found deeply insightful and heartily endorsed, to an issue which he took far more personally, and with which he was being confronted at this very moment.
"Jaysus fookin' Christ, man! Do ye jus' stand out here an' wait for me now?" He waved his Guinness in wild exasperation. "There's people committin' real crimes out there!"
The shadow beside the Morrioghan didn't seem particularly moved by his argument. "You're not getting in that car, Finnegan. End of story."
Donal waved his Guinness more enthusiastically, though it took him a minute to put words to the gesture. "I'll have you know," he said, emphasizing every syllable, "that I happen t' be a verra, verra good driver." He stalked -- well, staggered -- forward a few grand steps, pointing a finger like a weapon and jabbing it incessantly in the vague direction of a muscled chest. "I've never been more'n bruised!"
"You're not getting in that car," the grating voice said again, just as firmly. "End. Of. Story."
Donal scowled, thin face not bearing the expression well. He'd been told once or twice by his friends that he invariably ended up looking like a whipped dog when he scowled, rather than the Irish scrapper he knew himself to be. That didn't stop him from using the expression often. "You're innerferin' with my God-given rights! It's not bloody fair, ye bein' out here every time I have a couple fookin' drinks! Do I tell you that ye can't run around witcher girlie li'l cape an' your freaky li'l mask an' yourself all on display in that tight-arse li'l suit o' yours? Like you're in a bloody skin magazine? No!" He punctuated the negative with another hard jab against the motionless chest. "I bloody well don't! 'Cause it's all about freedom, man! Saoirse, tha's the Gaelic word!" Donal generally ignored the fact that he wasn't sure how to pronounce said word. "Ye think my people came draggin' across the ocean, kissin' the feet o' Lady Liberty herself, just t' get terrorized by Yanks in green long johns?! We wanna get terrorized, we can just go home!"
Said Yank didn't move by so much as an inch, though Donal was in serious danger of bruising his finger. "The last time you exercised your 'liberty,' Finnegan, you took out three mailboxes and four garbage cans."
"I paid for 'em, didn't I?" He jabbed harder. "Don't see you payin' for none o' them windows you keep breakin'! But wait!" Donal drew back, wavering, then straightened to his full 5'6" and intoned grimly, "You're bloody Draco, ain't ye? Sure'n if you ain't just the biggest slap in the face o' my people in alla Gotham. Back home we'd have some words for you, we would..."
"You've never been to Ireland, Finnegan," Draco pointed out with something close to a sigh. "You've never even been to Little Ireland at Epcot. I checked."
The shorter man bristled into full fury, face going almost as red as his hair, Guinness-waving hand making short, imperative gestures, mostly toward the dumpster a little deeper into the alley. "Blood will tell, ye... ye... salamander! I got the soul of Ireland breathin' in with my lungs! I got a warrior's heritage! Ain't you ever seen 'Highlander'? You dunno whatcher messin' with!"
Draco was unmoved by the passionate spiel. "Do I have to handcuff you again, Finnegan?"
"Why--! You--!" A moment of spluttering, then the non-Guinness-bearing hand balled into a fist. Donal drew the punch back to China and let it fly straight for the waiting jaw. Draco leaned his head to the side almost casually, raising a hand to catch and turn the wrist just before the fist would have met the wall. "OW! Leggo o' me, ye fascist--"
But now Draco was behind him, holding his arm firmly against his back so that every wrong move sent a stab of pain through the trapped elbow. "Stop struggling, you idiot."
"Not 'til I'm cold in me grave!" Donal lifted a leg, then slammed his heel down hard on a booted instep. Draco hissed, swore, and shoved him up against the wall while jerking the abused appendage back to safety.
"That's it," he growled. "Cuffs."
"Fookin' Rucker!"
"Would you shut up?"
Donal hollered louder, but the sole pedestrian that walked out of the Morrioghan and happened to glance their way didn't do anything more helpful than hurrying his steps for the opposite side of the street. "Coward! Run from a brother in need! Run, ye fookin' rat! Jes' you keep on runnin'!" He winced as Draco pulled the slipcuffs snugly around his wrists. "OW! I'm gonna report you, you see if I don't! Never mess with the Irish! Never mess with the Irish!"
Finally Donal found himself seated up against the wall deep into the alley, wrists and ankles ignobly bound. He sat in stony silence now, under threat of gagging, though he hadn't been able to resist another taunting shout to the next unhelpful Morrioghan patron who took one look and suddenly found something very vital that needed doing elsewhere, immediately. Now the 'Irishman' glared glumly as his oppressor walked down the few spaces to his some-the-worse-for-wear Geo, opened it with the keys he'd helped himself to -- along with the wallet -- from Donal's pocket, and went unerringly for the small bag of crushed green leaves secreted beneath the front passenger seat.
"Aw, man," Donal couldn't quite keep from lamenting. "Not my stash, man... c'mon, that ain't fookin' fair..."
Draco slipped the bag into a pouch on that thick green-black belt he wore and tucked the wallet into the glove compartment, ignoring the alternately plaintive and insulting calls from the alley. He locked the door behind him and strode back, slipping the keys into Donal's jacket pocket and double-checking the restraints briefly. "The cops will be here soon. Don't get into any trouble."
"Fook you," Donal pronounced sullenly. The Morrioghan was located in pretty much the only area in the Corner in which the cops actually would arrive in good time. The dive had no atmosphere, really, but the rude little Irish bastard bartender -- or damned Protestant carpetbagger, as Donal's proudly Catholic self preferred to think of him -- had a friend or two on the force. Good for dealing with rowdy, rude drunks, Donal believed. Not particularly fair for good Irish boys just wanting to get home who got waylaid by green PJs with muscles and handcuffs. "Rat-bastard. Quit wearin' green. You're insultin' my heritage."
Draco gave another of those not-quite-sighs, stepped away and vanished into the darkest corner of the alley. A moment later Donal thought he saw a hint of a dark shape topping the roof of the neighboring building, then a flicker of moving cape, then nothing.
Maybe some nice fellow would pass by the alley's mouth and hear him before the cops got there. It'd happened last time. No... time before last? Right, that was it. And the time before the time before that, the nice lass with the glasses. And that had turned out to be a right good night. And now that Draco had started taking his wallet and securing it in the car -- after the time after that fourth time, when that random teenager had helped himself to Donal's money while he was incapacitated -- there wasn't much danger of petty theft. So things weren't all bad... might be looking up any moment now...
Jason reached for the phone for no reason other than to shut it up when it jangled merrily by his ear at five fifty-five AM. His alarm wouldn't be calling him from bed for another five minutes, and damnit, those were five desired minutes. After not crawling into bed until four twenty-two this morning, he lusted after those minutes.
And it didn't help that this was a call he could've predicted."What."
"Hey, man... it's Donal. You awake?"
"No."
"Aw, don't be like that. You gotta go to work, like, soon, right? Man, I ever tell you how much I respect you for that? Talk about noble, Jays... that's what that is. Noble as hell. Does me proud to be your friend."
Jason buried his face in the pillow and thought seriously about leaving it there. No trace of that horrible Irish accent, which meant that Donal had sobered up, which meant that Donal was taking stock of his situation, which meant... "Whaddaya want, Donal?" he muttered just loudly enough to be heard over the muffling cotton.
"Well, see, it's like this... I'm kinda in jail again, y'know? It's a bitch, man. That green freak's out to get me, I swear."
"Ummhm," Jays grunted, drifting back toward sleep.
"Anyways... so I'm here, right, and I don't get to see the judge before fuckin' eight, man. You believe that shit? They lock a guy up and keep him waiting for bail like that? Isn't right. So if they don't set bail before then, I can't feed Beowulf his breakfast. You know how he gets if he doesn't get his breakfast."
"Fine. Food. Mutt. Will do." It would've been very nice to hang up right then, he thought, but Donal was a friend, and he knew more was coming.
"Thanks, man, you're a prince. I'm talking, like, a goddamned king-to-be. Means a lot to me, you taking the time to help handle my business. Dunno how long I'm gonna be in here, y'know..."
And the required question: "What'd they get you on?"
"Aw, just 'under the influence'... no biggie... wasn't possession or anything..."
Nope, not possession. Draco'd tossed the weed to fuel a barrel-fire this morning for a couple of drifters down off Belew Cox Lane. "Uh huh."
"I don't think bail's gonna be too much... but it's kinda rough, since I can't really get to my money from in here, y'know..."
Jason buried his face deeper in the pillow and sighed. "How much?"
"Well... y'know, I'm pretty sure it's gonna be less'n four hundred... probably not more'n two or three..."
"You gotta stop doing this, Donal."
"I know, man, I know... it's such a bitch... and I feel like such a bastard calling you like this, but if Beowulf doesn't get his breakfast..."
"I'll get up there at lunchtime and bail you out." And there went his afternoon nap, which meant that he'd be a moody Draco tonight. Moodier still if Donal pulled the fightin' Irish routine again.
"Aw, damn, you'd do that?" Donal seemed perfectly ready to ignore the fact that Jason had done exactly that more times than either of them wanted to count. "You're a pal, Jays, a real pal. Dunno what I'd do without you. You know I'm good for it, right? I'm not asking for handouts here..."
"Damn straight you're good for it. That's Barry's paycheck I'm using to bail your ass out. You don't pay me back, I'll sic him on you."
Donal swallowed audibly. Barry was thirty-something, built like a bulldog, and the dedicated father of two little girls with a third rugrat on the way. No one liked to get between Barry and a paycheck. "Right, right, I gotcha. You'll have the money back tonight, swear to God."
The alarm blared to loud, musical life, with what might've been the Beach Boys yelling into his ear. Jason flailed a hand and crushed the music right out of them with a vicious 'click.'
"Was that your alarm, Jays?"
"No, Donal, I keep a band in my apartment. That's why I won't let you move in here. We go on tour every couple of months. We're playing the Rainbow Room in LA next week. You should go. I'll get you backstage passes."
"... you serious, man...?"
"Jeezus, Donal, you're stupid after a binge." Very regretfully, he bade his pillow adieu. "I'll be there later. Guard your virtue, man."
"Already wearing my No Trespassing sign. I tell ya man, this thing works. Glad you suggested it." His voice dropped down to a bewildered mutter: "But damn, I gotta figure out how that green bastard always knows how to find me..."
Jason grunted an inaudible response and fumbled the phone back into its cradle, then sat up with a lingering groan and rubbed at grainy eyes. Good lord, what he wouldn't give for two more hours of sleep... even one hour... half an hour... He sighed deeply enough to make ribs protest and patted at the bedside stand until his fingers chanced upon the eyepatch. Fixing it into place over his left eye with a practiced motion, he continued the sweep of his fingers on to tug irritably at disordered dark red hair. Quick shower to tame the mane, then tug on clothes, go next-door and feed that mammoth mutt, grab coffee and breakfast on the way to the shop. Morning planned, he scratched an armpit, yawned, and started to stand.
And sat, cursing and glaring at his right foot. An impressively purple bruise spread over the top, stretching down toward his toes in a graceless blotch. He cocked the foot sideways and scowled at the slight swelling the position revealed. "Goddamnit. Stupid Irish-talking-wannabe loud-mouthed hemphead..." If it weren't for the old loyalty from early days on the street when Donal cheerfully ran interference while Jays dabbled his little toes in streetcrime... or that jovial greeting a few years ago when Jason moved in here after not having seen his old friend since childhood-- "Holy fookin' God, Jays, ye gone an' got ugly! It's like I got the brother I always wanted! ... So... have a drink?"
Swearing once more for good measure, he got to his feet with a wince and limped his way toward the bathroom. Bust 'em by night, bail 'em out by day. And now he'd have to BS an excuse about old injuries acting up to explain why he was limping, and Donal would spend an hour apologizing to and thanking him simultaneously, and he just knew Beowulf would knock him over with an overly enthusiastic bound the second he opened the gate and leave Big Dog paw prints all over his shirt...
This sorta thing never happened to Nightwing, damnit.
~end~