Cud u write something with Terry's jacket being Jason's. Maybe it turns out that his favourite jacket that he bought at a thrift shop used to belong to the red hood or maybe Jason gives it to him or let's him keep it cus he likes the kid
“It’s freezing down here!” Terry rubbed his exposed arms and tried to pull the shelves of his t-shirt down lower. “Why aren’t you cold? old people are always cold!” He whined to Bruce sitting at the Bat Computer in the cave. “Keep it up and you won’t live long enough to find out for yourself” Bruce said. “Go down there, to the locker room there might be a coat or something” Bruce pointed.
“wait there’s a locker room? and you’ve been making me get dressed behind the giant Penny?”
“you never asked”
“unbelievable” Terry stalked off. It took awhile to find, but once he knew which way to go Terry found it. It looked like the locker room at his high school, but bigger, and covered with dust. “Oh you have showers?” he said looking at the shower booths along one wall, and thinking about all the times his hair has been a sweaty matted mess headed back home. There were lockers with names on little brass signs. He avoided the one’s labeled “Stephenie” “Barbara and “Cassandra”.
He pulled open the one with “Tim” on it. There was an oversized long shelve shirt, a few t-shirts with the Superman S on them, a pair of shoes, school books. He tried “Damian” but it was all child sized suits and ties. “Dick” had a lot of open pictures, even a few of Bruce, and a pair of jeans. It was when he opened “Jason” he hit pay dirt, a leather jacket hanging on a hook. He pulled it down and tried it on, it fit, well it was a little large but still.
He wiped down the dusty mirror on the wall and looked at himself, twisting this way and that. “oh totally retro badass”
6 months later
Terry half walked was half carried into the cave, he was fine but the suit not so much. The man with a craggy face and graying hair helping him dumped him into a chair. “Jason” Bruce said “Hey ‘dad’ sorry I don’t write, you know things were a little messy last time we talked”
“It’s been ten years Jason you could have bothered to let me know you were alive”
“Aw B I didn’t know you cared” Jason sneered. “Of course I care” Bruce’s tone was as close to hurt as Terry had ever heard it and Jason froze in place. Terry struggled out of the suit as quickly as he could. “okay so I’m gonna go get dressed” Terry stood in his underwear desperate to escape, in part because it was freeze and in part because this was horribly awkward. He half ran to the locker room.
He spent as long as he could in there, but there’s only so slowly you can tie your shoes. He slowly edged his way back toward the main room of the cave. There wasn’t any shouting or gun shots both good signs. As he rounded the corner his eyes bugged out, Bruce and Jason were hugging. Terry stood there for a moment before clearing his throat. The two older men broke apart and Terry was sure he saw Jason wiping his eye. He turned toward Terry and looked him up and down. “That’s my jacket”
“um, yeah I guess so, sorry uh you want it back?” Jason laughed and waved at his broad chest and wide shoulders. “I don’t think I could fit into that old thing any more kiddo” He smiled a soft smile “keep it”
“hell yeah, I like you kid, you’re good for the old man” Jason clapped him on the shoulder and walked toward the exit of the cave. “see you around Terry”
Terry always wanted to be a writer of hard science fiction, and he used to describe what he did as paddling around in the shallow end while watching writers like Greg Bear and Larry Niven do multiple somersaults off the high board. His early aim was to outsell Niven & Pournelle’s Footfall. But what he wrote instead applied some of the conceptual rigour of the best science fiction to the materials of fantasy, and thereby uncovered a brilliant, unique and apparently inexhaustible wellspring of humour.
When Terry and Neil Gaiman collaborated on Good Omens, it was decided that the jacket photo would feature Neil dressed all in black and Terry all in white. It’s my proud boast that the white jacket Terry is wearing was mine.
I particularly remember a World Fantasy Award banquet in Tucson. When the speeches began to drag (pretty early on!), Terry fired up his laptop and wrote a few thousand words of the latest novel. He could, and would, write anywhere, any time.
Malcolm Edwards (editor), “The Terry Pratchett Diary”