prodigaljaybird: (Comics - Overshoulder.)
Jason's tired.

It's been a while since he saw a cape on his tail, but that doesn't mean they're not there. It just means they're getting better, which is so much worse, and if he thinks about it any harder he might actually explode.

"Fucking...birds," he says, drained enough that even that takes an effort. He's secured the perimeter around Lux's treehouse, but who knows how long that will hold. Steph is probably still out there somewhere, and Damian definitely is. He's probably scowling at them from a safe distance even now, biding his time, waiting for Jason's guard to drop before winging closer, and Jason can't - he can't take much more of this.

"Are you sure?" he asks, sprawled on the bed and twisting his head towards Lux. "It'd only be a few explosives. I could rig this place and only the people we don't want creeping in would know about it."
prodigaljaybird: (PB - Love me anyway.)
Sometimes, Jason thinks he feels too much.

He doesn't notice it often, but sometimes, he'll feel eyes on him. Gazes lingering too long after an outburst, mouths hanging open when it's Jason who's done the shouting. He feels too much, and he can't help it. Not even when he's asleep.

Nightmares are old hat. He had them before Bruce, before the desert and the Joker and his crowbar. He had them before he was propelled into a Soviet bunker to be stabbed to death by his best friend, and before he ever went back to Gotham and saw his memorial case. He's had them for so long that to sleep a night through is the exception, so Jason doesn't know why they're getting to him so much of late, why they're getting worse.

He's done so much in his life that others want him to apologize for, things that Jason knows in his bones were necessary and right. He's stubbornly fought every accusation of wrongdoing ever made to him, and so, it's with surprise that he finally comes to recognize the weight pressing down on him, interrupting his dreams, is guilt.

Jason wakes up in the dead of night. The hut is silent but for the breeze pressing in against it, and Jason is just as silent as he sits up, puts his bare feet to the floor and stands. He doesn't pull on more than a shirt to go with the shorts he'd gone to bed in, and when Jason slips out the door, he's foregone shoes, too.

It's a few miles to Lux's treehouse, but Jason walks.

It's not until he finally reaches it that he curses not bringing a gauntlet, but with or without his tools, Jason's still a skilled gymnast. He makes it through her window with ease, quietly calling almost instantly, "Lux?"

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Jason Todd

September 2014

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