prodigaljaybird: (PB - Wrecked.)
It's taken so long to find him that for the short moment Jason pauses to look, he doesn't trust his own eyes. There's sweat in his eyes, exacerbating an already present sting, perspiration running down his arms to fight Jason for his grip on the batline, but it doesn't falter, aim desperately sure and grip too tight to let him fall, but now.

But now he's found him, Bruce's back to him in the jungle as he gathers wood for purposes Jason's wired too tight to understand. In all the hours he's spent searching, Jason hasn't figured out a damn thing to say, crawling out of his skin ever since he left Cass's side, the depth of it, the weight of it too much to untangle and put into anything like words.

He could die here. In the shape he's in, Jason doesn't have a prayer if Damian's lurking close by, but he doesn't give a fuck. Of all the things he's decided he can live with, live through, he's not sure this is one of them.

Leaving the trees at last, Jason hits the ground on legs almost too tired to hold him, but he stays upright, a croaked sound all that escapes him but for his labored breaths.
prodigaljaybird: (PB - Surly teen.)
He thinks it might be the only non-woolen blanket in all of London, and Jason is in love with it.

He's in love with the wide couch he's found in the basement of the Compound building, too. It's not much softer than his bed at home, but it's new, showing him a view beyond the bedroom he's been cooped up in, and that makes all the difference. It's only been a few days, and yet Jason feels like he's been sick for weeks, his supposedly mild flu an exercise in seeing what can hurt the most: his throat, his head, or his entire aching body. It's misery, all the moreso when all his light cotton blankets at home have transformed into wool. Their itchy fibers are a torment to his overheated skin, but this...

Jason groans aloud, wrapping the soft blanket more firmly around himself. It's cashmere, he thinks, expensive and fine and calling his fevered thoughts immediately to Talia. He's glad she can't see him in it now, his breath too warm and humid against the silken threads, cheeks an ugly red where they protrude above the folds. He'd been watching something, a movie made of tiny negatives moved across candlelight by clockwork, but they must have run out, because the wall they'd been projected on is empty now.

Jason sighs and lays his head against the armrest of the couch. He'll muster the will to get up and start the film over in a moment. Just one moment more.

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Jason Todd

September 2014

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