The Things You Learn In Jail Cells
***DISCLAIMER: The characters depicted in this story do not belong to me.
Sometimes Dick Grayson thought that people were just being way too uptight when they told him that his circus-learned sense of fashion left a lot to be desired.
Sitting in a jail cell in a small suburb outside New York City, Dick reflected that this was definitely not
one of those times. He wouldn’t have been in this mess if he were still Robin, he was sure.
Well…then again…the short pants left a lot bared
to be possibly desired, so maybe not. He was a little old to be running around showing that much skin.
Of course, the guy he was sharing his small, cramped jail cell with didn’t seem to be of the same opinion. Oh, his ‘costume’ – if that was what it was – covered everything, but the blue and red armored bodysuit was so skintight it looked almost painted on. And the brown trenchcoat he’d apparently been wearing over it didn’t really conceal anything.
“I just really can’t believe this,” Dick mumbled, scrubbing a hand back through his hair. He was grateful that the cops had let him keep his mask, but he would have thought that the fact that he was wearing one to begin with would have kept him out of trouble like this.
“I c’n,” his cellmate said, in what sounded like a fake French accent, only not fake. Dick didn’t really understand how that worked. He looked at the guy; he seemed to be perfectly comfortable with the fact that he’d been arrested. He was lounging back on one of the bunks like an Arabian prince reclining on pillows among his harem.
Dick snorted. The guy must have ‘been there, done that’ in regards to getting arrested a lot
, or else he wouldn’t be so blasé. “Oh?” he couldn’t help but ask. He wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon, after all, and conversation would help pass the time.
The man just nodded.
Or maybe not. And it was getting really tiring thinking of him as ‘the man.’ He kept that up, and he’d rival the Question for conspiracy theories. “Who are you, anyway?” Dick demanded.
The man’s grin was like molasses and sex, slow and sticky and sweet. “Call me Remy, cher.”
Dick felt himself flushed and looked away. “Well, Remy, why aren’t you as…upset…about all this–” Dick waved a hand around to illustrate their position, “–as I am?”
“This ain’t like N’awlins, cher.” Remy shrugged. “Even when it ain’t Mardi Gras, you c’n get away with a lot dere. But here? You show dat much of your chest–” He eyed the expanse of skin bared by Dick’s clothes, “–e’en if you’re not a chere, and, well…” He shrugged again, and gestured to their surroundings.
Dick Grayson, dressed as Nightwing, groaned. He seriously needed to rethink the open collar on his costume. It just did not do for vigilantes to get arrested for indecent exposure.