"I wouldn't do that."

"What?"  I look around the room, but no one is there.  I resume typing. 

"No," the voice continues, growing angrier.  "I mean, I wouldn't do that.  I'd never cry in front of Princess.  You know me better than that.  Give me a break."

"Jason?" I ask.  This is not happening.  I must be losing my mind.

"At your service."  Jason hops down from my shoulder to stand on my keyboard, a miniature version of his on-screen persona.

"What are you doing here?"  I stare at him first, then at my mug of coffee.  What kind of coffee is this?  I really should cut back. 

He shrugs.  "You tell me."

"I was writing about you.  And, by the way," I say, giving him a stern look, "This is my fanfic.  I can make you do whatever I want."

"Yeah, right."  Jason leans against my computer with his arms crossed, a lazy grin spreading across his face.

"I can!" I insist. 

"Try to get it past your beta-readers."  He laughs.  "Never happen."

"But ..."  I stumble over my words.  "You're not real."

Jason shrugs.  "More people believe in me than you." 

How frustrating.  He's right.  "I'm the author here.  You ... get back on the page.  You're just a figment of my imagination."

"I wouldn't be too sure about that."  Jason peers at my computer screen.  "See right there?  Where you've written 'Battle of the Planets is the property of Sandy Frank'?"

I sniff.  "So what?  I can still make you cry if I want to."

"Do you *really* think that's a good idea?"

I note the feather shuriken between his lips and hastily delete my previous paragraph.  Gone is the tender moment with Jason crying on Princess' shoulder. 

It must have been my imagination, but I think Jason just smiled.