|Jason Todd is (thelazarus) wrote in doorslogs,|
@ 2014-02-19 21:47:00
|Entry tags:||red hood, rose red|
Who: Jack and Max (Dual Narrative)
What: Max discovers unconscious Jack under he stupidly drinks the thing he was not supposed to.
Where: Jack's room at the Dead CIA house.
Jack shouldn’t have tasted the scotch.
He knew better. He definitely knew better. He’d even told Luke how suspect it seemed, these fabulously expensive presents and a bottle that might as well have been labeled ‘drink me’. Perhaps it was the lack of specificity. The guitar was specific to him, to his love of music and the old pawn shop guitar he’d carried with him everywhere he’d been, through all his travels and itinerant living. The book was specific too - his own copy of La Fleurs du Mal had gone to Luke, the one he’d gotten as a teenager, and this insanely valuable first edition was a more than worthy replacement.
He liked scotch fine, but he had never been much of a drinker and that made it seem strange between the other two gifts. Specific, specific, and then equally expensive but more vague.
It was obviously an expensive brand, you didn’t need to know much about scotch to know that.Maybe it was just a symptom of brushing close to (and sometimes through) death, but he was suspicious.
Late in the evening a few days after Valentine’s, he leaned back and dropped his book to the desk, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. All this waiting for something to happen was starting to get to him. Jason spent all his time through the door running away from Damian’s death, but when Jack was out there wasn’t much to do but wait for catastrophe or marching orders.
The bottle of scotch was on top of the dresser, the glass decanter glittering in the low light. He looked at it for a moment, then pushed back, standing up. He could smell it, at least. Just to see.
He carefully removed the top and sniffed at the contents of the bottle. The odor of alcohol peaty and whip sharp, hit his nose immediately. It was pleasant, though, and warm, rich and complex. He tilted the decanter away, looking at the label again. A small batch place. He’d looked them up as soon as his gifts arrived.
He stood looking at the bottle. It was beyond suspect, really. The bottle might as well have had ‘drink me’ tied to it by a ribbon, or been sitting in the center of a rope snare. All the same, though, looking at the of brassy, glittering liquid under the light, he made a decision.
He set the bottle down and fetched a glass from beside his bed, setting the top of the decanter on the desk. What good was living if he didn’t do something foolish every once in a while? How much harm could a taste do? He ignored the rather loud protests of his better sense, possessed of a sudden determination. Deciding to try it was at least a decision, one not made out of apathy or fear but of curiosity and desire in the face of risk. There was a vague thrill to it.
He didn’t have much, anymore. Old outlets were now denied to him, and the rush of battle and righteous fury were behind him in the distant past. Taking a risk in the face of all the death that had surrounded him once seemed so very small and silly in comparison. It was just a taste of scotch. Against those memories, how could it possibly measure in threat?
He poured just a half an inch and took a small sip before he could think again about it. It was heady, floral and herbal and intense, and it burned a little in his throat. It reminded him what he liked about scotch.
He began to check himself for effects. Anything? Any foaming at the mouth, any seizing? But he only just got through that last thought, only just began to feel the rush of satisfied surety that nothing was wrong, when his legs gave out from under him. He blacked out almost immediately as the toxin hit his system, and was unconscious in a few seconds more. Out like a light, and down with a heavy hit to the floor, and the shattering of glass.