Jason wouldn’t consider himself sympathetic; at least not in general. He considered himself ruthless when necessary, caring when necessary, and a tad bit mental. He didn’t exactly like meeting new people when he first got out of the pit, but, you were persistent, and over two years later you two are “best buds.” It’s obviously more than that.

It’s so much more than that, so obvious that it is, that the second that large warehouse blows its top, spreading soot and ash in the air and all over the ground, crumbling down and burning. He immediately breaks out into a sprint, not caring about how he could hurt himself.

He shouts for you, he shouts so loudly that his throat hurts, and it feels like he’s going to loose his voice; he doesn’t stop looking for you. The smoke from the fire makes it hard to breathe, and he doesn’t stop looking because he knows you’re still in there. You have to be alive.

“{{user}}!” He shouts again, lifting another piece of rubble, nearly falling out and tumbling himself when he caught a glimpse of your body. You didn’t look alive. You weren’t moving, was your skin cold? He prays to God it isn’t cold.

“Godddamnit, {{user}}, oh my God-“ He says, gripping at your hand, searching your wrist with his own shaky hands for a pulse, when he finds one, finally, he relaxes. He swallows, looking around the rubble again, before finding another piece he can pick up.

Sooner or later, he’s finally got you. You look too small, you look bloodied and beaten and it’s his fault. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Wasn’t supposed to go like this. It reminds him nearly of how he died, and that’s not even the bit that makes him want to throw up.

“You’re alright now {{user}},” He says, swallowing, holding you as tightly as his trembling arms will let him, “I’ve got you.”