"Um. This isn't what it looks like," it is exactly what it looks like. Colette's hands are buried in the satchel of Red fucking Hood's motorcycle. She had waited too long to gain the courage to look, it seems. At least her face was mostly concealed?
“You gotta be kidding me.”
It’s the most obvious thing in the world to say. It’s exactly what Bruce said when he---”For the love of---” It’s like Jason’s subconscious has a sense of cinematic parallels. If not that, the greater universe at large.
“Kid, what do you think you’re doing!” He points to his face, his helmet, the bat symbol, in a big, wild hurricane of pointed spirited fingers. “I’m the Scourge of The Underworld!”
“You wouldn’t do this to the Batmobile, would you? Jeez!” Jason runs his hands over the back of the mask, gripping his head like a pimple to be popped. No, he’s the only idiot whose ever tried that move. “It’s like nobody respects me.”
He picks up the suitcase in his hand, places it on the seat of his bike, and takes out a stack of cash. It’s got to be at least five grand. Five grand made by the scum of the Earth, ruining the planet for everybody else, victims all over Gotham. He hands the stack to the kid, slams the suitcase shut. “Here. Go buy something. Find a place to stay. Somewhere else. Gotham’s a shithole full of literal clowns. Now, hands off my shit, please.”
He has a fondness for kids, if he’s being honest. Especially poor kids. (If he’s being honest, if he and Bruce Wayne had both met at the same age as children, he would’ve tried to beat his ass.) Especially poor brave kids. Everybody has a good reason to steal, just like everybody has a good reason to kill. He won’t blame the kid for that. Just... don’t take his shit, thanks.
