Have Yourself A Merry Little Xmas | Jason Todd drabble
“You don’t celebrate Christmas?” Dick was incredulous. “But it’s-I mean-CHRISTMAS!” He threw his hands up in the air, collapsing dramatically into my couch.
“Nope. Not many happy memories there, Richard.” I leaned against the mantle, arms crossed. Remembering.
Holidays weren’t exactly a time for celebration at the Todd residence growing up; most of the time, I was hiding from dearest Father, hoping that Sparky and I would escape his drunken ire. The fire escape, while frigid in the Gotham City winters, worked well; Willis was too uncoordinated to climb the few flights it took to get the the adjacent rooftop, and there was a nice little bodega up there, from a time when people gave a damn about this neighborhood. Before Arkham Asylum moved in across the river, decades ago. Before the Narrows was a slum, full of broken people in broken homes, desperate to hold on to the little they could scrounge up.Â
My father had emigrated from Russia in the late 80′s, a would-be KGB informant that had burned all his bridges in the criminal underworld in Moscow. He’d met my mother when she was seventeen; she’d fallen in love instantly with the thickly-accented Willis, chest tattoo and all. He’d developed into a low-tier Heroin dealer at the strip club Mom sang at, only coming home after dawn, ready to raise hell at any perceived slight.
When I was five, he’d been particularly nasty to Sparky, the mutt I’d begged Mom to keep; he’d peed on the floor, not being able to hold it for the eighteen hours he and I had been locked inside. I vowed that day that I’d grow up and stop men like him, bullies with anger that flowed through every nerve in their bodies. That was the last Christmas I saw my father. He got picked up on possession with intent not long after that. He died in Blackgate Prison sometime in the mid 2000′s. Mom did the best she could after he went away, but the lounge singer gig turned into dancing for tips, and Heroin to forget. She died when I was seven, OD’d in a bathtub in the apartment that was three months behind on rent. I lived on the streets after that, until the League.
I took a deep breath, realizing I’d zoned out. Dick was tapping on my forehead, eyebrow raised.Â
“Well, I got you something anyway. I didn’t wrap it, but for some reason I doubt you care.” He handed me a leather collar, with a bronze bone on the clasp. I stared at him.Â
“Did you get me a puppy? I do not have time for a puppy, Grayson.”
“Too bad. She’s a Newfoundland. I haven’t named her yet.” He jogged out to the hallway, coming back in with a fluffy black furball, barely old enough to walk properly.
I sighed, rubbing my temple. “Richard. Why. Why? Goddammit, why?” He said nothing, just picked up the puppy and handed her to me. I looked into her brown eyes, innocent and hopeful. She had a small white tuft on her chest, just like the one on my forehead. I turned around, still cradling her to my chest.
“Have a happy Christmas, Dick.”Â
I didn’t turn around, but I swear I could hear him smiling as he walked out of my flat.
