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Jason runs a hand through his hair, pausing for just a second to tug on it at the roots until it stings and then continue until his hand reaches the nape of his neck. The argument his upstairs neighbors are having ramps up, and Jason's fingers tangle back in his hair to tug at it and shake his head around a few times.
His other hand comes up to scratch at his neck, nails digging into the skin, while he works his tongue over the sharp corners of his chipped teeth until he tastes blood.
His already fragile temper isn't helped by the incessant buzz, buzz, buzz of his phone on the floor nearby.
(He should silence it. Why isn't it silenced?)
Jason focuses everything he has on taking deep, even breaths. His neighbors' argument heats up again— never loud enough for him to make out what they're saying, but always loud enough to hear— and his phone buzzes against the linoleum floor of his kitchen.
The neighbors on the left have a teenage son who's playing games of some kind. His voice gets high and loud, screaming in excitement and rage at every victory or loss or whatever-the-fuck it is he's talking about. It always seems to happen just as he tunes in to the argument happening upstairs enough to understand what they're saying.
"If she—"
"Why would you say that?!"
"I need a healer—"
SLAM.
Jason's whole body jolts at the sound. Neighbor on his right is drunk again. Her bathroom is on the other side of his living room wall. He can hear her giggling on the phone with a friend, barely audible, and turning her shower on. Jason switches from chewing on his tongue to chewing on his lip, scrunching his face up and wiggling his shoulders against the cheap, itchy carpet he's lying on just to feel the burn against his skin.
Another buzz from his phone, and Jason pulls his hands away from his hair and neck to rub them over his face.
(Why does he live in an apartment again? There's a perfectly good mansion on the other side of the city. Sure, Bruce is there, but he has his own room with nice, thick, soundproof walls to hide away in.)
Jason makes himself sit up. His eyes struggle to focus on any one thing, and his body is somehow freezing and overheated all at once. He army crawls his way to the kitchen and winces at the bright light that hits his eyes when he turns on his phone.
Roy - 9:24 PM
man did you hear about the…
He turns his phone to do not disturb, rubbing his free hand over his ear as the yelling in the various adjoining apartments continues.
SLAM.
The phone clatters to the ground, thumping down along with Jason's forehead as he clamps his hands over his ears and takes one deep breath after another.
(It's fine. He's fine.)
Once his breathing is back under control, he forces himself to his feet and stumbles for the bedroom. His neighbors continue to yell and stomp and throw shit around their house.
(He should probably care more. He's a vigilante. This is the kind of thing he's supposed to investigate, right?)
His tongue feels like it's choking him. Jason himself slams into the bedside table, sending a quiet apology to his neighbors, and digs through the busted drawer until he finds a pair of ear plugs. They're old and fucked up. He probably shouldn't be putting them in his ears, but he honestly can't bring himself to care at the moment.
The silence that follows is enough to bring him to his knees.
Jason curls himself up between his bed and the bedside table. His body goes limp now that it's quiet, and his eyes slip shut. One hand comes up to tap, tap, tap against his chest at a steady rhythm until the tense feeling behind his ribs finally starts to fade to something less hot and choking.
A purr starts up in the back of his throat, too. It doesn't sound anything like an actual purr from an animal, but the way it rumbles in his throat feels nice.
Slam.
The purr stutters. His eyes dart to the sound for just a second, but it's quiet enough with the ear plugs in that he doesn't focus on it for long.
(Fine. Fine. It's fine.)
Jason stays tucked between the bed and the bedside table. His cheek rests against the side of his bed where his favorite blanket his hanging over the edge— one of those cut-and-tie ones he made with Roy, with good, soft fabric and knots to tangle his fingers through.
Roy. Jason squints at the blanket, weaving his fingers through the tied seam. Roy texted him. He should probably text him back at some point. Maybe.
He hums.
Not now, though.
Jason gives a huff as he finally gets up off of the floor to crawl into bed— luckily already in his good pajamas with the soft pants and breathable shirt. They can get the whole fucking gang together.
As long as he gets to nap first.