In the time he'd spent here, Jason had little control over himself. His body didn't belong to himself anymore; he could hardly force it into following his mental commands. The only things it seemed to want to do was train and keep him barely living. So it surprised him that his body had let him do what he was doing now.
He was lying on his back on the highest point of the place the Al Ghul's were keeping him. His clothes were torn and piled beside him; he couldn't stand them no matter how loosely they fit on his body. There was something about the garments that made him feel trapped, made him feel like he couldn't breathe. Or maybe he was just afraid he'd forget how.
With his body exposed to the heavens he waited, not moving a muscle, with his eyes closed. It wasn't long before a drop of water fell on his cheek, then his chest, his arms, until he lost concentration on where the raindrops were falling. He could feel small streams of water running over his skin. It caused his hair to cling to his forehead. It also gave him a feeling of satisfaction. Of being cleansed. Of life.
He'd heard them call him a vegetable. They were the doctors in the psych ward. They were the people observing him day in and day out here. He wondered for a moment if plants felt the way he did now in the rain. He wondered if they were content and if they resented humans for believing them to be incompetent too.
Time didn't mean much to him anymore, just numbers calculating where the sun should be in the sky, so its not unusual that he didn't know how long it had been when Talia found him.
"Jason." He opened his eyes, the only response he could manage at hearing his own name. When she spoke it he could hear a mixture of relief, disappointment, and pity in her voice. It interested him that so much could be put into a single word. She knelt down beside him, a hooded cloak protecting her from the elements. "What are you doing out here?" She lifted him so that he was sitting up, pulling him towards her chest in a crumpled form beneath her cloak.
She was saying something to him, probably scolding him for ruining his clothes or risking his health. He couldn't hear her over his own mind screaming at his body to cling to her, to show her that he appreciated that she cared enough to come find him again. Instead his body remained limp and unresponsive. He blinked a few times, trying to communicate in any tiny way he could.
Nothing.
Instead he found himself being led by her to his quarters, hardly covered by her shawl. He felt confined again, his legs moving now instead of when he wanted frustrated him; his body was a cage.
He could only assume it was night time, as she was helping him through the process his body went through every night. She laid him on the bed, leaving him uncovered by blankets. Though it would be best to cover him to protect his body, it did no good for his mind. Like his clothes sometimes did, the blankets sent him into a state of panic. His fear became apparent to others the first few nights here; one of the very few reasons he was thankful for the close observation.
The room was shrouded in darkness now, it was the part of his life he hated the most that was to come; sleep. The thought made him yearn for the ability to struggle, to move his limbs, anything but surrendering to the overpowering feeling of slumber. He would try to anticipate what he might meet during his rest. He never quite got the hang of it though. He contemplated if he would find memories he wished to bury, fears he wanted to hide from, or if he'd even wake again at all. The thoughts seemed to grip his throat and put pressure on his chest, making him forget what breathing was for a few moments. He'd fight to control his body, to make it his again. Once he regained this ability that seemed so easily taken from him he would surrender. Anything in sleep could be better than this.