The infirmary smells like antiseptic and sunlight, and Jason is… well, very much not commanding anyone right now.

He’s propped up in the pillows, blankets tucked unevenly around him, eyes half-lidded and drifting. Usually precise, controlled, confident—now he flails gently with every slight motion, like the world is moving slower than it should.

He tries to sit up once, flinches, and collapses back with a small groan. You reach out instinctively, steadying his shoulder before he can tip further. He leans into the touch slightly, a faint twitch of a smile, eyes half-focused on you but mostly on the ceiling.

At one point, he flexes his hands experimentally, as if testing them, then nods solemnly at his own fingers before falling back into a quiet, soft sigh.

He makes tiny little noises—a muttered half-laugh, a low hum of approval at nothing in particular—and every once in a while, he waves his arms vaguely, like he’s giving silent orders to invisible soldiers.

You adjust his blankets, straighten him out, and make sure he doesn’t fall off the bed again. The precise, heroic Jason Grace is gone for now; all that remains is loopy, soft, quietly ridiculous Jason. For once, no battles. No leadership. Just… gentle chaos under blankets.