#morveren's word vomit

[morverenmaybewrites]

Hi babes, long time no see....? (Not realy, not truly. But i'm bored and in need of the weight your words press evenly onto my lungs. And i also want to poke you, maybe)

What would be the prise and/or compliments Jason could be fine with? To you, with our delivery girl. Because anything phisical feels dependent on the day, how Aware and squeezy it'll make him. (Like how you suddenly remember that there's clothes on your skin and that your organs move inside of you. That you're Breathing and that it pulls at your muscles, the tissue that's marbled in tapestried along his ribs.)

What would Not do that? (Less so atleast. See: Like skin growing over a splinter istead of rejecting it.)

Also!

This. Made me feel the sudden ache of my heart durring that time in my life. 'S cool. Thanks. 👍

Always so good to hear from you, @thebluespacecow. First off, The Shape of Water is one of my comfort watches/reads. The book, in particular, encapsulates the feeling of isolation from society and the suffocating loneliness that comes from it so well. The quote (said to the Asset by the scientist studying him) so perfectly portrays their relationship and the tragedy of what could have been. The text often refers to (and eventually confirms) that the Asset is a god. It often calls him beautiful and magical and wondrous. Can you imagine finding god, in all his grace and savage beauty, and being told that you must study him like an insect pinned to a corkboard? Can you imagine finding proof of the divine, only to be told to burn it down so that the charcoal of its bones can help fuel a war? It's so tragic. One day that Bucky Barnes Shape of Water!AU WILL come into existence. ONE DAY. Anyway. Your question. What would be the prise and/or compliments Jason could be fine with?

I actually think that Jason would be fairly receptive to praise, actually! It doesn't immediately put him on the defensive the way physical forms of affection would. And for most of his life, Jason didn't get much of either. He craves it, however unknowingly, like a man dying of thirst would crave rainwater.

I think the first time you praise him, however small, however innocuous, would always come as a surprise. He's just not that used to it. Maybe he opens a jar for you or point out, where, exactly you had put the spices. (He is, at least, somewhat aware of how much he pays attention to you.). "Thanks, Jason, you're always so helpful." The words scatter from you like birdseed, there and gone again. It barely disturbs the still air of the kitchen. But Jason freezes, and slowly turns to look at you. You're not even looking at him anymore. Instead, you are focused on the recipe you're reading, mumbling to yourself. (In his experience, praise does not come so easily. It comes from long hours of training to perfect his aim, from endless nights of study, it comes from a grueling patrol, done perfectly, to Batman's exacting standards.) (In his experience, he barely does anything praise-worthy at all. He is, after all, the Robin who failed.) The moment passes, and he is able to brush it off. But your words linger in his mind like a thorn, only the sensation is not so unpleasant. The next time you do it, Jason is a little more prepared. Maybe he comes up with a clever solution to a problem, taken down a villain in an unconventional way. And you say it in between fits of laughter (and even the sound of that warms him like a fire in winter). "That was smart. I never would have thought of that." Jason pauses, has to catch his breath. And he mumbles out an answer so low that it's unlikely that you heard it. "Thanks." After that, it gets easier. After that, he seeks it out like a cat seeking out a beam of sunlight (or perhaps, more accurately: like a starved dog seeks out scraps). "You never told me you were such a good cook." "It's nice having you around. You make me feel safe." "You look good today." The last one though, hits like a punch to the gut. It knocks the wind out of Jason, and he has to take several seconds before he can answer.

"What?" You look up from the book you are reading. (It is raining the way it always is in Gotham, and you had chosen to spend the afternoon inside. Curled up with a thick blanket on your lap, in a sweater that is big enough for you to drown in—he would not question it if the compliment had been directed at you. He would have taken it as your due.) "Hm? I said you look good today." Again, he does not answer. Instead, he looks down, as if expecting to find himself wearing someone else's skin. But he is wearing his outfit, it is the Red Hood's helmet in his hands. For the first time, you seem to have realized the effect your words have on him. "Well, don't get a stroke," you say with a grin. "I don't want you coming back here and saying you're leaving me for a supermodel or something." He lets out a strangled laugh, and tries to brush it off the way he did in the kitchen, all those months ago. He turns away and tries to pretend like your words don't haunt him like a ghost. You said he looked good. You said he looked good. (And after all, what reason would he have to doubt you? He trusts you more than he trusts himself.) He finds that he has to put on his helmet to hide his grin.