(no subject)

[prodigaljaybird]

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?"

Comments

[illuxinated]

Lux hasn't been installed in the tree house very long, but already she's used to this. She likes to give Jason shit about not using the perfectly adequate ladder Baze had provided, but in truth she'd never really expected him to. Using that ladder, adequate or otherwise, would be completely out of character.

The bed is big, bigger than she'd expected to get even after her discussion about it with her oblivious father, and she stretches sleep-heavy limbs across the broad expanse of cool sheets. The top sheet was lost to the floor long ago, and when she rolls over, the moonlight spills across the image of her bare legs, skimpy panties, and one of Jason's t-shirts, rucked halfway up her ribcage.

"C'mere," she drowsily beckons with a half-hearted flop of one hand, eyes still closed.