The sun hung heavy and golden over Route 66, melting into the horizon like butter on hot asphalt. The 1969 Mustang convertible ate up the miles with a throaty growl, its cherry red paint job gleaming under the dying light. Inside, chaos reigned supreme.

"New Romantics" screamed from the blown-out speakers, competing with the wind roaring through the open top. Barbara Gordon, bare feet kicked up on the dashboard, her fiery hair whipping like a battle flag as she belted out the lyrics at the top of her lungs. A half-eaten bag of Cheetos spilled across her lap, leaving orange fingerprints on her stolen "I ♡ Gotham" tank top.

In the driver's seat, Richard Grayson grinned, his aviator sunglasses reflecting the desert landscape as he pushed the speedometer just a little higher. "You sure this thing can handle it, Jay?" he called over the music, patting the vintage Mustang's dashboard.

Jason Todd, lounging in the backseat with his boots kicked up, smirked. "She's handled worse than your driving."

"Left! Left at the next exit!" Barbara shouted, pointing wildly at a battered road sign announcing the world's largest rocking chair just 37 miles away.

Richard, looking far too put-together in his aviators and a stupidly tight white t-shirt, laughed as he downshifted, sending the Mustang fishtailing across two lanes. "You said that about the giant rubber band ball!"

"That was an hour ago!"

In the backseat, Jason Todd sprawled like a king, one arm slung over the seatback, the other holding a sweating beer bottle between his knees. His leather jacket had been abandoned hours ago, leaving him in a grease-stained Henley that did absolutely nothing to hide the way his muscles flexed every time he reached for the snack stash.

"You're both wrong," he declared, kicking the back of his brother's seat. "Next stop's that roadside diner with the pie-eating contest."

You were wedged between Jason and what appeared to be their entire collective luggage - duffels spilling over with questionable laundry, a suspiciously ticking cooler, and at least three different weapons none of you would admit to packing. Your legs were thrown carelessly over Jason's lap, your bare toes occasionally digging into his thigh when Richard took a turn too sharp.

A bag of half-melted gummy bears sat open between you, sticking to everything.

The scene was ridiculous. Perfect.

Somewhere around New Mexico, you'd all stopped pretending this was just a vacation. Not when Richard kept "accidentally" drifting into illegal street races. Not when Barbara kept hacking roadside attraction security systems to add ridiculous captions to their visitor photos. Definitely not when Jason had that look in his eye - the one that promised whatever came next would be equal parts terrible idea and core memory.

Barbara twisted around from the front seat, her grin wicked. "Next exit's got the world's largest ball of twine. We stopping or what?"

Jason snorted. "Only if we can set it on fire."

Richard groaned. "We are not getting arrested."

"Speak for yourself," Jason shot back, but his fingers drummed absently against your knee, his smirk softening just for you.

The setting sun painted the desert in hues of burnt orange and violet, the heat of day giving way to the electric buzz of impending night. Somewhere up ahead, neon lights flickered to life, promising bad decisions and cheaper liquor.