[yeah well. What have the fans ever done for him, huh. (Don’t tell him, he really doesn’t want to know.)
It’s noonish, which is basically what counts as breakfast time for the night crowd, and it’s what passes for a nice enough day in Gotham. None of the thick moody fog or dramatic miserable rain it tends to be known for. Sunny, the crisp kind of cool that comes at the start of spring. Perfect kind of weather for going about your day to day like a productive member of society.
Instead, Jason’s slouched his way out of bed and toward the light of day in slightly more of a state than usual. Mussed hair and circles under the eyes, the whole nine yards. He’s in loose civvies—sweats and a faded hoodie that’s starting to get ratty at the sleeves, and he’s busy leaning out a fifth-floor window with his forearms braced against the frame and his head and shoulders on the outside. Phone in one hand, a lit cigarette perched between the unbroken fingers left on the other.
Which is kind of like breakfast, if you squint.
Since he’s, y’know, Superman, Prime gets there before Jason even has the chance to finagle his grip around his phone for another suitably cranky sounding response. Assuming Prime has made good on his promise to approach from the front this time instead of sneaking up: his head lifts at the first flash of color at the edge of his vision.
He mostly just looks…extremely unimpressed about it. The Gotham City ambiance hangs in the air for a solid handful of seconds. Honking horns and distant sirens. Until, bone dry—]
no subject
It’s noonish, which is basically what counts as breakfast time for the night crowd, and it’s what passes for a nice enough day in Gotham. None of the thick moody fog or dramatic miserable rain it tends to be known for. Sunny, the crisp kind of cool that comes at the start of spring. Perfect kind of weather for going about your day to day like a productive member of society.
Instead, Jason’s slouched his way out of bed and toward the light of day in slightly more of a state than usual. Mussed hair and circles under the eyes, the whole nine yards. He’s in loose civvies—sweats and a faded hoodie that’s starting to get ratty at the sleeves, and he’s busy leaning out a fifth-floor window with his forearms braced against the frame and his head and shoulders on the outside. Phone in one hand, a lit cigarette perched between the unbroken fingers left on the other.
Which is kind of like breakfast, if you squint.
Since he’s, y’know, Superman, Prime gets there before Jason even has the chance to finagle his grip around his phone for another suitably cranky sounding response. Assuming Prime has made good on his promise to approach from the front this time instead of sneaking up: his head lifts at the first flash of color at the edge of his vision.
He mostly just looks…extremely unimpressed about it. The Gotham City ambiance hangs in the air for a solid handful of seconds. Honking horns and distant sirens. Until, bone dry—]
That wasn’t actually an invitation, y’know.
[And yet!]