#peppie

Jason learns to make dumplings. He wonders if this is what Roy meant when he said his therapist told him to work with his hands more, to use them for something that wasn't violent. Roy had gotten really into whittling, like some sort of geezer. He hadn't been very good at it, and it had driven Jason a little crazy; the spring-warm smell of wood clinging to him, the dozens of tiny cuts on his hands, the tannic, metallic taste of his fingers in Jason's mouth when he couldn't stand it any longer. He's not sure if this is better. The filling is cold in his palms, even through the wrappers, and his teeth ache at the smell of the meat. He can't stop thinking about Tim eating his food, about his body breaking it down and using it to rebuild itself, until everything he's made of has passed through Jason's hands. His replacement had looked… better, at the last team meeting. He'd given Jason a moderately more friendly nod than usual, and graciously refrained from mentioning the rooftop or the food. Jason had checked his report, after. Tim had dutifully described the explosion and what injuries he could identify, with an accuracy that had made Jason shift in his seat, but hadn't included the bite there either. All it said was that he had administered preliminary medical care and blood to RH, with additional treatment received at a licensed donor clinic the following morning and that he predicted no postponement or removal from duty.