#stagedtricks

St. Tropez, France. The beach. Six days, seven nights was the plan. Who knew how long they'd actually stay? He'd bought a safe house-on the ocean, with thirteen acres of beachfront to himself-there, mostly because fuck it, why not? He was newly free of the cowl, with money to spend and a girl he'd dedicated the rest of his life to. So he'd arranged his plane to be ready for takeoff the day after the house was finished, (supposedly) giving them plenty of time to get ready. The plane was fueled, the manifest filed. All that it needed was the happy couple.

"Babe, have you finished packing yet?" Jason called out in the general direction of their room. He himself had finished the night before, and was now perched atop his modest pile of bags. She didn't respond; all he heard was a muffled whunk as something heavy fell off of, he assumed, the bed. He sighed. "Zat, do you need help?" Still nothing. With a restrained grunt of annoyance, he hopped off the stack of bags, grabbing a Corona before crossing the floor to the doorway to the room they shared. 

Once there, he laid eyes on a sight not unlike an explosion of color. There were clothes literally covering the floor, with more draped over the shelves, bed, furniture, and lamps (Lamps? What the ever loving fuck, Zatanna?). As he watched, she held up a shirt (Questionable, at best. Pale orange was not her color), a pair of pants (Better, in Jason's humble opinion.), and a scarf (They were going to the beach! Why the fuck did she need a scarf?).