Ficlet: A Restless Need | DCU | Dick/Jason/Tim | R | 1/1
Title: A Restless Need
Fandom: DCU
Characters/Pairing: Jason (Dick/Jason/Tim)
Rating: R (for Jason's mouth)
Word Count: 737
Prompt: For the dcu_freeforall: need; For 50_darkfics: rain; For bradygirl_12's 2009 DCU Fic/Art Spring Rain Challenge: spring + rain!
Summary: Waking in the middle of the night, Jason fights the urge to run. No particular continuity.
Disclaimer: DC and WB own it all. I own nothing. Darnit!
Author's Notes: Man, do I ever love multitasking my fic! ^_~
A Restless Need
Unable to sleep after spending a good three hours tangled up with his brothers in the large bed, trying and failing to catch some much needed rest while he can, Jason carefully extricates himself from limbs and sheets, throws on a pair of shorts from the dresser, and grabs his pack of cigarettes and lighter from the back of the drawer. If he can't sleep, he figures he might as well get a nice nicotine buzz going.
The French doors to the covered balcony open quietly enough until the sound of a heavy rainstorm meets him, staccato drumming and rhythmic cascading, and he settles against the door jam and pulls out a cig to light, tosses the rest of the pack back through the room to the top of the dresser. As he flicks his Zippo and shuts it with its loud metallic clink, taking a long drag, the air that flows in around him is cool and damp with the late spring rain, and he can't suppress a slight shiver as it hits him, raising goose flesh on his arms and legs. Seems to him like it should be a lot warmer by now, but he hasn't exactly been keeping track of the calendar lately. Maybe it's just a fluke of the weather. Whatever. It feels good.
But there's something missing, he realizes, taking another drag and blowing the smoke out into the night as he turns his lighter over in his hand absently. Here at the Manor, there's none of the same stickiness or sliminess as in the rain-slicked air of Gotham proper. None of the rotting stink from Crime Alley. No exhaust or oil or burnt garbage smell. No, the air here seems almost too clean, smells too fresh. Clear and sweet, like the gardens. Briny, like the ocean that's so close he can just barely see it through a gap in the thick wall of trees surrounding the estate. Disconcerting, in a way that hits all his instincts to run at once, lights that restless itch in his veins to bolt and not look back.
Nights like this, he should be―has been―out on the streets, patrolling, hustling, cold and wet and miserable on general principle, anything but sleeping in a king-sized bed with Egyptian cotton sheets, curled up with people he knows on some level he should hate. A tingle runs up and down his spine, and he feels the need to just go, beat it, find another nest and lay low. The instinct is strong, after doing the same thing for so many years, and a large part of him really doesn't want to fight it. Probably why he hasn't been able to catch any sleep tonight, he figures, with another slow drag off his cigarette.
A glance back at the bed and the two men still sleeping peacefully there in the semi-darkness throttles that desire into submission, though. Not that Jay could ever admit it out loud, but Dick and Tim are just too damned pretty like this, with their inky mops of hair and skin washed pale with the low light, tightly strung muscle finally relaxed as an arm reaches out to find a shoulder and another hand wraps around the nape of a neck, faces free of worry, and a person-sized gap between them. As much as he wants―needs―to run, he needs the love of his brothers a whole hell of a lot more, needs to be a part of this puzzle that they've created. They've been through way too damned much for him to go and fuck it up now.
He could be halfway to New York in an hour. Or he could wake up in the morning to two pairs of arms around him and Alfred's special Sunday breakfast waiting for him downstairs. Rain and running, or a warm, dry bed and a hot breakfast?
Taking a final long draw from his cigarette before letting the rain put it out and dropping it in an ashtray on the balcony, Jason shakes his head, silently cursing himself out.
No fucking contest.
With a more solid sense of surety, he slips back inside and shuts the doors on the spring rain, drops the cigarette pack and lighter back in the drawer, and pads back to the bed to crawl under the warm covers and nestle between Dick and Tim. Maybe now he can get some sleep.
* * * * *
Fandom: DCU
Characters/Pairing: Jason (Dick/Jason/Tim)
Rating: R (for Jason's mouth)
Word Count: 737
Prompt: For the dcu_freeforall: need; For 50_darkfics: rain; For bradygirl_12's 2009 DCU Fic/Art Spring Rain Challenge: spring + rain!
Summary: Waking in the middle of the night, Jason fights the urge to run. No particular continuity.
Disclaimer: DC and WB own it all. I own nothing. Darnit!
Author's Notes: Man, do I ever love multitasking my fic! ^_~
A Restless Need
Unable to sleep after spending a good three hours tangled up with his brothers in the large bed, trying and failing to catch some much needed rest while he can, Jason carefully extricates himself from limbs and sheets, throws on a pair of shorts from the dresser, and grabs his pack of cigarettes and lighter from the back of the drawer. If he can't sleep, he figures he might as well get a nice nicotine buzz going.
The French doors to the covered balcony open quietly enough until the sound of a heavy rainstorm meets him, staccato drumming and rhythmic cascading, and he settles against the door jam and pulls out a cig to light, tosses the rest of the pack back through the room to the top of the dresser. As he flicks his Zippo and shuts it with its loud metallic clink, taking a long drag, the air that flows in around him is cool and damp with the late spring rain, and he can't suppress a slight shiver as it hits him, raising goose flesh on his arms and legs. Seems to him like it should be a lot warmer by now, but he hasn't exactly been keeping track of the calendar lately. Maybe it's just a fluke of the weather. Whatever. It feels good.
But there's something missing, he realizes, taking another drag and blowing the smoke out into the night as he turns his lighter over in his hand absently. Here at the Manor, there's none of the same stickiness or sliminess as in the rain-slicked air of Gotham proper. None of the rotting stink from Crime Alley. No exhaust or oil or burnt garbage smell. No, the air here seems almost too clean, smells too fresh. Clear and sweet, like the gardens. Briny, like the ocean that's so close he can just barely see it through a gap in the thick wall of trees surrounding the estate. Disconcerting, in a way that hits all his instincts to run at once, lights that restless itch in his veins to bolt and not look back.
Nights like this, he should be―has been―out on the streets, patrolling, hustling, cold and wet and miserable on general principle, anything but sleeping in a king-sized bed with Egyptian cotton sheets, curled up with people he knows on some level he should hate. A tingle runs up and down his spine, and he feels the need to just go, beat it, find another nest and lay low. The instinct is strong, after doing the same thing for so many years, and a large part of him really doesn't want to fight it. Probably why he hasn't been able to catch any sleep tonight, he figures, with another slow drag off his cigarette.
A glance back at the bed and the two men still sleeping peacefully there in the semi-darkness throttles that desire into submission, though. Not that Jay could ever admit it out loud, but Dick and Tim are just too damned pretty like this, with their inky mops of hair and skin washed pale with the low light, tightly strung muscle finally relaxed as an arm reaches out to find a shoulder and another hand wraps around the nape of a neck, faces free of worry, and a person-sized gap between them. As much as he wants―needs―to run, he needs the love of his brothers a whole hell of a lot more, needs to be a part of this puzzle that they've created. They've been through way too damned much for him to go and fuck it up now.
He could be halfway to New York in an hour. Or he could wake up in the morning to two pairs of arms around him and Alfred's special Sunday breakfast waiting for him downstairs. Rain and running, or a warm, dry bed and a hot breakfast?
Taking a final long draw from his cigarette before letting the rain put it out and dropping it in an ashtray on the balcony, Jason shakes his head, silently cursing himself out.
No fucking contest.
With a more solid sense of surety, he slips back inside and shuts the doors on the spring rain, drops the cigarette pack and lighter back in the drawer, and pads back to the bed to crawl under the warm covers and nestle between Dick and Tim. Maybe now he can get some sleep.
* * * * *