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“Tell Bruce –“ Jason gasped. “Tell him that I meant it,”
Marinette squeezed his hand.
“I meant it when I said that he’s an asshole,”
She brushed his hair back from where it was plastered against his forehead.
“You can tell him that yourself.”
Jason blinked away tears. “I’m not gonna make it. Tell him that he was a shitty dad.”
Marinette shook her head and wiped away the water at the corner of his eyes.
“Not as bad as Adrien’s,” he conceded, “but still pretty crap.”
“Jason, could you please stop talking like that. You’re going to be fine.”
He coughed and fell back down against the couch cushions.
“I’m dying, Marinette. Again.”
“You have a cold,” she deadpanned.
He shook his head vehemtly. “No! I’m taking my last breaths here, woman!” he whined with far more strength than people typically have on their death beds.
“It’s a common cold. Emphasis on the word common. You don’t even have the flu and your Corona-test was negative.”
“I’m telling you, it’s something else! It was Poison Ivy! She’s trying to kill me!” he gasped out nasally.
“Pamela was actually here earlier. She says hi. She left you some herbal tea.”
“Oh. Well. Tell her thanks.”
Marinette chuckled. “I will, but right now, I need to go heat up that soup Alfred brought and after you eat that, it’s time for NyQuil and then I’ll tuck you in for a nap.”
Jason sniffled pathetically. “Okay,” he whimpered.
Marinette gave him a fond and exasperated smile and kissed his forehead.
Jason looked after her as she left for the kitchen. He wasn’t so far gone that he couldn’t appreciate that ass.
He burrowed himself farther into the cushions of the comfortable couch and turned on the tv. If he was going to die, it might as well be with The Walking Dead in the background.