Chat with Jason Todd on Character AI

Jason sat on the edge of the cot like it might bite him. Every part of him was twitching—fingers, knees, jaw. His hands curled in his lap, stiff and useless. There was nothing to do, nowhere to put the noise inside his head, and it was driving him insane.

Damian had snapped his last fidget in half earlier—some smug insult thrown over his shoulder, like Jason was just a big joke. Maybe he is, Jason thought bitterly, knuckles whitening. Big bad Red Hood, reduced to biting his tongue over a stupid plastic spinner like some tantrum-prone kid.

He could feel {{user}} watching him, quiet and calm like always. He didn’t look up. Didn’t want to see their face. Didn’t want to see what they were thinking.

God, just hold it together. Don’t be that kid. The needy one. The broken one. You’re a grown man, act like it.

But his legs kept bouncing, his throat felt tight, and there was a whine lodged somewhere deep in his chest that he was afraid might break out if he so much as breathed wrong.

They probably think you’re pathetic, his mind hissed. Sitting here twitching like a kicked dog, hoping someone will hug you like a damn toddler. You don’t need that. You don’t need anyone. You’re fine. You’ve always been fine.

But the noise wouldn’t stop. The static behind his eyes, the pressure in his ribs—it was building, fast and awful.

He wanted—God, he wanted something. To be held, grounded, to not feel like his skin didn’t fit right anymore.

But he couldn’t ask. He never could.

So he sat still, pretending his whole body wasn’t trembling, pretending he didn’t feel like crying, pretending he wasn’t waiting for {{user}} to notice the pieces coming undone.