Work Text:
This was not how Jason wanted to spend his Saturday.
Once again, he should have listened to Alfred and skipped patrol Friday night to go to bed early—instead, he went patrolling until two a.m. with Batman, which did not help in stopping the oncoming ick Jason began feeling Friday morning. When Jason woke up on Saturday morning, the ick had become a full-fledged illness: body aches, head pressure, muscle weakness, hot flashes and stomach pains greeted him. Not that he would admit it; Jason got sick all the time when he lived on the streets, and he learned that if you ignored your body, eventually the feeling would go away.
Most of the time, anyway.
For a short time in the late morning, Jason was able to give the appearance of health. After telling Alfred he would wait for lunch to eat, he went to Bruce’s library and pretended to do his biology homework. He intended to actually finish his assignment, but after thirty minutes of reading the same question over and over, not understanding a single word, he gave up and grabbed a fiction book off the shelf, returning to his room to read until training that evening. Alfred brought lunch up, which Jason ate half of, hoping it would make his stomach settle.
Lying in bed to read was a bad idea, but Jason felt so achy, and sitting upright made him feel woozy, so lying down was his only option. He really did try to focus, but the words of the adventure novel made little sense, and in addition to his skin beginning to perspirate, his stomach was beginning to feel odd, his head pounding like he had been struck by an enemy. Jason couldn’t remember taking any big hits lately, which cancelled out these irritable sensations being caused by his nightly escapades.
I guess if it is a virus, I can skip training today, Jason compromised, setting the book aside and wincing as he moved into a more comfortable position. Bruce won’t be back until evening, anyway…I can just take a nap until patrol. I’ll feel better then.
Although Jason thought his plan wasn’t a bad one, it didn’t go as planned.
He couldn’t fall asleep—everything felt so hot, then everything felt so cold, and when he finally decided on lying under the sheets or over top of them, his body switched things up again. The aches seemed to be growing worse, even though Jason tried really hard to not jostle around too much, spreading from his shoulders, to his back, to his thighs, to his feet. If it was the aches alone, Jason may have been able to handle it, but his head wasn’t working right, either; he seemed caught somewhere between consciousness and a nightmare-like state, unable to think clearly after a while, relying only on his bodily instincts, and at the moment, his bodily instincts were overwhelmed.
Clear thoughts gone, Jason could only try and relieve all the symptoms his body was pointing out: he tried rubbing his stomach to ease its occasional pains and gurgling. He tried massaging his forehead to stop the pounding. He tried lying straight, curled up, tried lying on his back, lying on his side, his other side, but none of those positions eased his discomfort. Jason tried to ignore it, like he used to, tried to trick himself into sleeping, but nothing worked.
The sun went down at around five that evening, but Jason couldn’t tell, so uncomfortable and out of it he didn’t even hear Bruce knock and walk into his room.
“Time to get up, lazy bones. We should head out on patrol soon.”
“Huh? …Whattimeizit?” Jason slurred, unable to speak clearly. His mouth was getting watery, pooling with saliva faster than he could swallow. Never the less, he pulled his stiff body upwards, tiredly rubbing his eyes, which Bruce noticed were glossier than the last time he saw Jason only hours ago.
Frowning, Bruce stepped closer. Jason momentarily forgot about his presence, trying to gather himself enough to look presentable. Shit—did Bruce see that his skin had become clammy, that his limbs were beginning to tremble when he tried to put his weight on them? His cheeks felt hot, too…but that could’ve been anything. Nap marks, even.
“Jason.”
Crap. Guess he’s not buying it—he said my name in that tone.
“I’m up,” Jason tried to play off, but his eyes kept watering, and his head was throbbing, and everything felt like a weird third-person video game. “I’ll, um…I’ll get dre—”
Bruce’s large hand sliding underneath Jason’s bangs and touching his forehead made Jason stop; he sometimes still froze up when he wasn’t expecting to be touched. The boy waited tensely, not because he was afraid of being hit, but because he hoped Bruce didn’t find anything suspicious. Green eyes peered up hesitantly, hopefully, but Bruce’s neutral expression slipped into a frown.
“You’re burning up,” He said, moving his hand to touch Jason’s heated cheek. Then he said what Jason was terrified to hear. “You need to stay home tonight. I don’t want you getting more sick and having to miss school.”
“I’m fine!” Jason croaked back. “Really!”
Ready to prove himself, Jason hurried to stand up, but the moment his legs touched the ground they began to shake like a newborn fawn’s. Bruce immediately grabbed his son before he could stumble, sitting him back down on the mattress firmly; Jason didn’t know he could feel worse, but he did now, dizziness overcoming his brain, causing him to grab onto his head to try and gather his bearings.
“Please lie back down,” Bruce insisted, nudging Jason into a reclining position against his will.
“No, I can—I can go—”
Although Jason was proud of how much more strength his little body had developed since becoming Robin, it was still no match against Bruce, Jason’s head hitting the pillow below with a huff. He wanted to glare at his guardian, but still felt too nauseous to have any other expression except for one of discomfort. Bruce looked on with sympathy, his own expression softening as he pulled the thick duvet back over the boy’s trembling body.
“You’ll be staying right here, Jay. If it makes you feel better, I’ll sit with you for a while until I go on patrol, okay?”
That didn’t make him feel better, but Bruce was stubborn, and if he said Jason was staying home, that was it. Jason could fight all he wanted (which he often did, although reluctantly, because he didn’t want to fight with the people who had generously taken a street kid like him into their home), but Bruce rarely changed his mind, especially when arguing with a twelve year old.
Feeling too crummy to put up one of those childish arguments, Jason gave a hefty sigh of defeat, turning away so Bruce wouldn’t have to see how pathetic he was being. Still…it was nice of him to sit with Jason for a while, even though he had a million things to do as Batman to prepare for tonight’s patrol. It was a very fatherly sacrifice to make. Jason tried, but couldn’t fully ignore how soft it made him feel, safe as he curled in on himself, giving into the warmth of his bed at Bruce’s suggestion.
The warmth didn’t last long, though.
Just like before, Jason couldn’t get comfortable, tossing and squirming for forty minutes; then the sweats started, making Jason feel hot inside, but cold outside. Without realizing it, Jason’s breathing became labored, and he could no longer lie down comfortably, propping himself up on the pillows or leaning against the headboard in a weak attempt to find a position that eased his agony. Bruce actually started wiping Jason’s temple, forehead and neck with a dry rag, quiet as he did so, but looking more concerned with each passing minute.
Suddenly, Jason felt his stomach give a lurch, attempting to push something up into his chest at a slow, taunting pace. He went pale and flush at the same time, eyes beginning to water at an alarming rate, a bad taste forming in his mouth.
Uh oh. It’s too late—I don’t think I can make it all the way to the bathroom in time…what am I gonna do?
When Jason reopened his watering eyes, preparing for the humiliation he was about to experience by puking in his bed, Bruce appeared holding a small garbage can below his chin.
“Right in here, Jay. It’s okay…it’s o—”
Jason prayed he wouldn’t, but he couldn’t stop the next abrupt clenching of his abdomen that sent his stomach contents from the day back up his throat, spewing out of his mouth and into the tin. It had been so long since he threw up, Jason almost forgot how terrible the sensation felt, shaking hands grasping the sheets below in protest. Even though he was the one miserable, his thoughts couldn’t help but stray to his mother, all the times he saw her throwing up and wanted to help, but couldn’t…
Another painful heave distracted his straying thoughts, eyes squeezing shut and leaking tears as Jason heaved violently, stomach clenching, more liquid splattering into the trash can. He couldn’t even be embarrassed anymore, didn’t shake Bruce off when his large hand rubbed the boy’s back in silent support. When Jason’s stomach finally finished convulsing, remnants of vomit dropping from his lips, he wheezed desperately for air, feeling like he had been holding his breath for an hour.
“It’s alright,” Bruce was cooing, actually cooing in his ear, continuously rubbing Jason’s back until he was sure his son had finished his first round of vomiting. “Deep breaths…easy…”
Jason’s first instinct was to apologize to his adopted father—he tried so hard to not get sick, knowing it would only cause more trouble for Bruce and Batman, and he couldn’t even manage that small feat, arms trembling more violently as he struggled to hold himself upright. Bruce waited another minute before setting the garbage can on the ground, quickly grabbing the rag and wiping Jason’s lips off; when he was certain Jason was stable, Bruce slowly eased him back onto his side, whispering quiet reassurances all the while.
Even if Jason could no longer tell what Bruce was saying, he found comfort in his voice, and felt a little less guilty about being sick.
His guardian must have left for a few minutes, but Jason felt himself becoming increasingly out of touch with reality, not really noticing Bruce’s voice disappeared until the man returned with a glass of water. He watched blearily as Bruce dumped a packet of electrolyte powder into the water and motioned for his son to try and sit up.
“Can’t,” Jason groaned painfully. “Too…weak.”
“Nonsense,” Bruce replied, even as he put an arm underneath Jason’s upper body and held all of his weight upright. “Drink a little, okay?”
Jason did his best, like always, drinking a tiny bit of water like Bruce asked of him, but it was just so hard—everything hurt, everything bothered him, nothing was right. Jason ached like he had never ached before, not an athletic, energizing ache like during training or being Robin; it was pure agony, misery, like he was back on the streets of Gotham during wintertime, a starving, shivering child. The weakness spread to every single muscle and limb he had, rendering them useless, but still able to tremble from perceived cold, contributing to his suffering even further.
On Bruce’s side, his mind immediately went to medication upon seeing the state Jason was in, but worries began to form about not having child strength medication on hand. He wondered if it really was safe to give Jason adult medication, since he was twelve, now, and the adult bottles usually said ‘ages twelve and up.’ After some quick pondering, seeing that Jason was struggling the longer it took his guardian to make a decision, Bruce decided he would go get some baby Tylenol that Batman had in his emergency kid pack. With the pills, he also found a liquid stomach relief medicine in bubblegum flavor, holding the bottle tensely as he hurried back to Jason.
The boy was right where he left him, shivering underneath his blankets as Alfred stood close by; just as Bruce feared, his son somehow looked worse than minutes before. Dark bags had formed under his eyes, his cheeks looked horrifically sunken, and a layer of sweat had made its home over the entirety of Jason’s skin. Fortunately the garbage can wasn’t filled again yet, but that was the only silver lining Bruce could see at the moment.
“Jason,” Bruce said with worry as he approached, sitting on the edge of the boy’s bed. “I brought medicine. It should make you feel—”
“No.”
Bruce was startled by Jason’s harsh reply, not knowing he still had enough energy to talk back—green eyes tried their best to blaze, almost able to accomplish a dark glare before the flame quickly died out, exhaustion already taking a toll. No—Jason wasn’t that sick. He wasn’t sick like his mom was, how sick she became because of pills. He was fine. He didn’t need any medication. He didn’t. He wouldn’t.
“No medicine,” Jason croaked, throat raspy from the vile acid that had damaged its lining.
“It’ll make you feel better, Jay,” Bruce tried to reason, opening the Tylenol pack and unscrewing the cap of the pink medicine. “This will help your stomach, and the pill helps with the aches.”
Survival instincts kicking in, Jason grabbed Bruce’s hand as it came towards him, using Robin skills to pinch a nerve and force Bruce’s hand release its hold on pill, sending it flying on the carpet somewhere. His swinging arm next aimed for the open bottle of pink medicine, missing narrowly thanks to Bruce’s quick reflexes.
As if he didn’t feel crappy enough already, now Jason felt even more guilty and ashamed, slowly scurrying back against his headboard and covering half of his face with the nearest pillow, trying to hide from his immature action. His heart was racing now, he could feel it in his eardrums, an anxious thump thump thump thump thump that only riled him up even more.
“Master Jason, please be reasonable,” Alfred tried compassionately. “If you don’t want to miss patrol and school, you must get better: medicine can help you recover more quickly.”
“So…so I can become dependent on them? So you can dope me up whenever I misbehave, or when Robin screws up?” Jason weakly snapped into his pillow, wincing when his exertion further triggered his body aches and tremors. “No! You can’t—You can’t make me!”
Bruce knew Jason could be as stubborn and proud as him, but he thought with a little more insistence, Jason would understand and take the medicine. When Bruce went to pour the pink bubblegum liquid into the dosage cup, however, Jason made an attempt to flee from his bed; it wasn’t a great attempt, as he was weak and groggy, Bruce able to easily hold his other arm out and prevent him from leaving—that was when the real fight began.
Jason gave a desperate noise when he realized he was being held back, desperately trying to slither from Bruce’s grip as Alfred stood by, shocked by the boy’s dramatic reaction. Bruce stood from his chair to get a better stance, trying to gently wrestle Jason back into a sitting position before he overexerted or injured himself—but Jason kept fighting. He had to. He wailed and yelped as if he were being attacked, swatting and thrashing around in the older man’s grip, too hot, too cold, too afraid, and when Jason was unable to break away from Bruce, from the inescapable and relentlessly powerful Batman, tears began to fall.
Jason really couldn’t help crying…it was all a little too much for what should have been a fun Saturday night. He didn’t want to take the pills—he didn’t want to be that person, who turned to medication when they were hurting, who quickly grew dependent on them, who physically could not start their day until they had their fix, who sometimes, seemed to love drugs more than their family, than their own child…
“Stop, Jason!” Bruce exclaimed, finally capturing the slippery boy against his chest and pinning Jason’s dangerous arms between them. “Just—stop. Please.”
“I don’t care!” Jason cried hoarsely, trembling body still fighting as hot tears worked their way onto his flaming cheeks. He continued squirming, trying to escape as his rationality blurred entirely, only raw emotion remaining; even the shock of hearing Bruce’s fearful voice couldn’t get through to him. “I d-don’t—I don’t care if I hurt! I don’t care!”
“I know. I know you’re a brave kid, and you put everyone else’s pain above your own, and you push aside your own pain to help them, but, Jason…I do care. So please, stop.”
Jason wanted more than anything to stop. He wanted to crawl back into bed and let Bruce tuck him in, to obey Alfred’s directions about eating warm broth and drinking lots of water, but the fever and pain made him too weak to fight against the memories. The hurt started as physical, and continued into emotional, and Jason was helpless against both—even though it was a losing battle, Jason Todd was nothing if not a fighter, but he was so, so tired…
No! I have to keep fighting! I…can’t give in. I can’t…be like them. I won’t. I won’t!
As determined as Jason’s instincts were to protect him from a future of narcotics and rehab, his body knew he couldn’t fight for much longer. He tried clawing at Bruce’s stomach and chest in hopes that the sting would distract Bruce (as if something as simple as a scratch would deter Batman from a mission), but his fingernails were too short, and his guardian was just too strong. If he kept moving this fast, he was going to throw up again, but in Jason’s muddled, irrational mind, he thought that was a better alternative than getting hooked on medicine.
“I care if you’re hurting. I’ve told you before, Jason…I’ll do anything in my power to stop your pain, and if I have medicine that can help, even a little, I want you to have it, so you’ll feel better,” Bruce explained, lips speaking quietly against Jason’s damp hair. The boy’s arms pushed against his broad chest, but more weakly than before. “The last thing I want is for you to be hurting, Jay. Please—let me help you. I just want to help.”
A few tense seconds went by, Alfred holding his breath and finally releasing it when Jason went limp in Bruce’s grip, collapsing into him like a robot whose switch was suddenly turned off. All the fight abandoned his body, only his chest moving as he heaved and coughed, choking on his tears and words, shaking in Bruce’s arms, which he now realized were more comforting than restricting. Jason let his cries out freely, skipping breaths, hiccupping on air, head a hazy mess as he made a mess of Bruce’s nice white shirt—he knew he couldn’t win against Batman. Maybe that’s why he was so scared.
“D-on’t w-want it,” Jason blabbered, heaving heavily, stomach aching and constantly threatening to force what little remained of his stomach contents back up. “I d-don’t…w-want it…”
Bruce hushed him gently, glad he could move his arms into a less forceful hold, rubbing up and down Jason’s back and stroking the damp hairs at the nape of his heated neck. Jason let himself cuddle further into his adopted father’s torso, sobbing and suffocating as his body failed him, mind even more so. Nobody spoke for several minutes, only Jason’s heaving cries heard throughout the bedroom, quieting only when Bruce began talking again, keeping his tone low and calm.
“Jay…listen to me, okay? Listen…we’re not giving you opioids. It’s nothing that strong—not even antibiotics. It’s just a mild painkiller and some nausea medicine, to help settle your stomach.”
Jason continued sniffling, unable to stop himself—he wanted to be strong, like Robin was, like Bruce was, like the Batman was. Batman, who rarely ever used numbing sprays when he got stitches, or any other medical procedure that was incredibly painful. Batman, who never used anesthesia when he could help it. Why couldn’t Jason be strong like him? He didn’t want to be like his mother. He loved her, but that ending wasn’t going to be his.
All it took was one pill. One, and he wouldn’t be Robin anymore. He wouldn’t even be Jason Todd, tough street kid. He would be his dad, his mom, her friends. He wouldn’t be anyone. Jason would go back to being a nobody.
“Jason?” Bruce’s voice brought him back.
Two shaking hands latched onto Bruce’s shirt collar, bleary green eyes all red and swollen from relentless tears peering up at him; Jason was trembling with chills and aches, sweating from illness and exertion, and he knew he probably looked pathetic, pleading, begging for Bruce to tell the truth, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. He needed the truth.
“Y-You swear!” Jason choked out. “You swear!”
Bruce’s blue eyes didn’t waver, looking directly back into Jason’s—his seemed to be filled with just as much pain, but he nodded certainly, no glimmer of a lie or deception in his steady gaze.
“I swear.”
Jason was still reluctant when Bruce placed him back in bed and brought out the pill and pink medicine again, but remembering the way Bruce had looked into his eyes and swore that it wasn’t anything dangerous or addictive led Jason to cooperate. Not that he really had a choice—his physical strength had been completely obliterated by his fit, hardly able to lift or reposition himself without Bruce’s assistance.
Bruce promised. And Jason trusted him. He swallowed the pill and drank the pink medicine, always keeping a hand on his guardian at all times, to keep himself grounded. Bruce let him, just like Batman let Robin sleep in the Batmobile on the way back home after patrol, like Batman carried Robin when he was injured. Jason couldn’t fight anymore—he had to let Bruce help, and he would.
Jason knew he would.
Once the medicine hit his tongue, Jason allowed himself to stop fighting, letting himself sink further into Bruce’s side where he sat on the bed against his son’s shivering body; he didn’t notice Alfred leave and return to the room several times, bringing a heated blanket, one damp washcloth, a humidifier and unflavored mouthwash. Jason felt like he could sleep forever—he didn’t think the medication had anything to do with that, giving most of the credit to his exhaustion and the way Bruce gently, slowly wiped his sweaty face with the cold rag.
Jason used Bruce like a pillow, feeling the most comfortable he had felt all day as he distantly listened to and felt the older man’s heart beat under his cheek. It was a comforting sound, not at all like his own heart had been earlier, but a level, calm, smooth rhythm. Even so, it took another hour of Bruce running a soothing hand up and down Jason’s quivering back before the boy was finally able to stop sniffling.
Jason didn’t feel Bruce move when he wiggled out of bed to go downstairs—it felt like he was still there, still quietly murmuring reassurances to his son as he mercifully drifted into a brief state of sleep.
Downstairs, Bruce was having a delayed meltdown of his own, stopping in the main hall and forcing himself to take a few deep breaths. Generally speaking, Jason was a well behaved boy, cooperative and sincere, always willing to help out—maybe that was why when Jason’s anger and troubled past did take a hold of him, the wild outcome always took Bruce by surprise. Unless they were training or battling against thugs and enemies, he had never seen Jason use violence as a first reaction.
Except that time he hit me with a tire iron…
Bruce shook that thought away, annoyed that he was looking in the past instead of focusing on the present, on what he could do to help Jason now. It seemed like whenever the boy needed the man, not the Batman, Bruce Wayne was a deer in the headlights, brain emptying all its knowledge on children and relationships. Should he really have forced Jason to take the medicine? Should he have checked his temperature again before leaving the room? Should he get an ice pack, maybe, to help with the fever? Had it been wrong, pinning Jason against him when he was obviously panicking, in distress? He had no idea.
Bruce didn’t realize his eyes had closed, and when he opened them, Alfred was standing there holding a tray with a bowl of steaming something in it.
“I’m glad you know how to be a good dad, Alfred,” He sighed. The butler simply smiled at his exasperation.
“You’re doing your best, Master Bruce.”
“Really? Because I’m pretty sure I just made my son cry. If that’s my best, I can’t call myself a father—not a good one, anyway. My father was incredible with kids…wish I got some of that from him. I could use it right now.”
“Master Jason is emotional because he isn’t feeling well. He cannot control his emotions and reactions while ill and confused,” Alfred reasoned. “You comforted him, as you’re doing now, sir, and you got him to take some medicine, which he absolutely needed. Now go, before the broth gets cold; it has ginger, garlic, turmeric, all spices needed to help cleanse the immune system. Run along!”
Bruce sighed again, but accepted the tray and made his way back upstairs to Jason’s room.
With relief, he saw that Jason hadn’t moved from his spot in the middle of the bed, though he stirred a little when his guardian returned. It pained Bruce to still see the remnants of tear streaks on his rosy cheeks, the puffiness of his eyes that had sobbed into Bruce’s shirt until they were raw; the boy’s mouth was opened as he breathed shallowly, brows furrowed, making him look troubled even while sleeping.
Quietly setting the tray on the nightstand, Bruce sat on the edge of the mattress and leaned over, unable to resist placing a hand on Jason’s head, trying to comfort his son by softly running his thumb up and down the boy’s temple. He wished he had stumbled upon Jason before he developed such terrible memories, memories that never failed to assault him whenever he was most vulnerable…Bruce wished Jason was his biological son, wished he grew up in the manor and never had to witness drug abuse firsthand. He also wished he was less stubborn about taking medication himself, knowing Batman didn’t set the best example when it came to taking care of yourself…
But, no matter how much he wished, Bruce knew he couldn’t change Jason’s past—and maybe that was for the best. The memories they made right here, right now could heal or further injure Jason, and Bruce wanted to be sure they healed, which was why he didn’t immediately wake Jason up, just kept running a calming finger over the boy’s clammy skin.
Jason felt it, even in his semi-unconscious state, wishing it would never stop.
“Jason,” Bruce murmured lowly after a few minutes. “Jason…are you awake?”
A tired groan escaped his lips, sounding much like an angry cat being woken from a nap. Jason tried to peel his eyes open, wanting to see if what he felt against his head was real, but his eyelids had crusted over and grown swollen from all the tears. He blurrily saw Bruce hovering over him, and actually felt relieved beyond measure.
“Alfred made you broth. Can you sit up and have some?”
Warm broth made by Alfred…Jason thought that might be good. Anything sounded good right now to his aching body, worming himself up against the headboard, Bruce quickly adjusting the pillows and blankets so he wouldn’t be cold. Jason shivered still, trying hard to focus on where the broth sat on the nightstand; when he reached his trembling arms out to grab the bowl, Bruce stopped him, grabbing the bowl and spoon himself.
“I’ll do that.”
“No…” Jason mumbled in protest. He was so sick, so tired, yet he still tried to argue, tried to be independent, like he was usually so good at. Bruce started wishing again, wishing he wasn’t so independent, wishing he could allow himself to be the child he was. “I…can…”
“It’s okay,” Bruce assured the boy (and himself). “Open up.”
Jason did. He let Bruce help, sipping down the broth one spoonful at a time, feeling momentary relief whenever the warm liquid drifted over his tongue and into his stomach. He thought Bruce’s concentrated expression was funny, resembling Batman working on an important case when he was only just spoon feeding his ward. Maybe other kids were too proud to let their parents help them this way, but…Bruce said it was okay. Jason trusted him, not just on this matter, but on almost everything.
They got through half the bowl before Jason tapped out, feeling full and warm, which eased his ragged emotions a little; he almost wanted to force his body into accepting the rest of the broth, if only because he liked having Bruce nearby, comforting him, taking care of him—but his stomach wasn’t having it, warning him not to push his limits. Jason felt more needy than ever, and even though Bruce had just been feeding him for half an hour, when he saw the man get off the bed and put the bowl back on the tray, he had to stifle a pleading whimper into his pillow.
It was probably time to patrol Gotham. Jason knew that. Bruce loved this city, and never took a night off from keeping it safe—that didn’t really change tonight, as he didn’t need Robin to fight crime. He had done it for years without a Robin, and for a few years after Dick went to lead the Teen Titans. Jason knew Bruce had to leave, and there would be no stopping him, because Gotham needed him.
But…if I need him, too, maybe he’ll…
“Can you…stay?” Jason whispered weakly, not looking up, but Bruce heard him loud and clear. “Just…for a while? Before patrol?”
The room was silent, anxiety in the air as Jason waited to be gently rejected by Bruce. He told himself he wouldn’t let it hurt him too much, because really, he did understand that Gotham needed Batman, but in the current state Jason was in, deep down he knew the rejection, no matter how gentle and regretful, would still probably make him cry.
Feeling Bruce sit down beside him, Jason forced himself to open his eyes and face the rejection head on, surprised when he saw Bruce taking off his shoes and tossing them onto the floor; he extended his legs out on the mattress and pulled Jason’s curled body closer, so he was half resting on Bruce’s hip, a strong arm holding him there. Jason made a noise in his throat, confused, but subtly elated.
“The only patrol I have tonight is right here, in this room, watching over you.”
Jason repeated what Bruce said many times until finally surrendering to the warmth he felt coming off of Bruce. He slept in that position for an hour before throwing up again, but Bruce was there for that, too, ready with the bucket and soft words of encouragement. After that, exhaustion seemed to overcome illness, and Jason curled up over Bruce’s legs, stuck between that uncomfortable place between sickness and peaceful slumber until the soothing rubbing of his back and ice pack against his heated forehead lured Jason into deep unconsciousness.
***
Jason had a strange dream, probably on account of his fever and the medicine he took: it was a sad dream, underneath all the oddness, but dream Jason was too tired to cry or be upset. Batman and Robin were on a mission in a desert where the sand was purple, the sky red; there were no trees, then suddenly there was a lot, and a villain Jason didn’t know trapped them in a burning circle and put twelve glasses of a bubbling pink liquid in front of Batman. The villain said one of them had to drink all twelve before he let them go, but he didn’t tell them what the drink contained.
Batman volunteered immediately.
“Batman! Don’t drink it!” Robin urged him from where he was glued to a tree with sap, purple sand covering his Robin outfit head to toe.
“It’s okay, Jason,” He replied somberly, looking at the boy with tired, but steadfast eyes and apparently not noticing he didn’t call Jason by his vigilante name. “I’ll drink them—don’t worry. You’ll be safe if I drink them.”
Before Robin could blink, Batman ripped off his mask, tossing it behind him as he grabbed the first glass and began chugging the pink liquid. Robin was so shocked he couldn’t speak, feeling hot as he watched Bruce finish three glasses, beginning to breathe very quickly; as he drank, the fire burning around them began to slowly diminish in strength. The villain laughed somewhere within the trees, then didn’t even stick around to see the finale, running out of the tree cluster and disappearing into the desert.
“Stop drinking them, Bruce!” Robin insisted. “He left! You can stop drinking them!”
Bruce didn’t listen. He kept drinking and drinking, pink running down his chin as he got to the eighth glass, where he finally paused to look over at Robin. Dream Jason wasn’t as shocked as real Jason would be when tears started falling from Bruce’s eyes, looking like it was the last time he would ever see his Robin, his son, remaining flames reflecting in their drops.
“As long as it keeps you safe, I’ll drink every last one.”
Bruce went back to drinking the pink drink, crying as he did so, and a strange metal sound kept echoing in the sky. Robin kept trying to convince Bruce to stop, but he didn’t, not until he finished all twelve glasses. He gasped for air when he swallowed the last drop, stumbling onto his feet and going towards a weird plant that had huge thistle leaves growing from it, revealed after the rings of fire faded. Robin watched as Bruce ripped a leaf off, then walked to him on shaky legs and began rubbing the plant on the sap keeping Jason trapped against the tree.
Miraculously, the sap burned away, and Robin hopped down from his perch, immediately being handed the large thistle leaf. The clinking noise was getting louder and louder, like an intense musical number signaling that the final video game boss was nearby. Batman didn’t seem at all worried, now that Robin was back on his feet.
“There,” Bruce nodded, swallowing down the rest of his tears, pink staining his mouth. “Now you’re safe.”
Thinking quickly, Jason took the thistle and began wiping Bruce’s face with it—after a minute of scrubbing, he was overjoyed to see that Bruce was no longer crying, and he could stand up straight without shaking. His expression turned to one of pride and wonder as he realized what Jason did for him, Robin exclaiming triumphantly.
“It cures tears, too!”
Jason woke up after that, feeling too groggy to move just yet; when he remembered that he wasn’t dead, he unclenched his body and straightened out on the bed, blearily checking his surroundings with heavy, weary eyes. There weren’t any bright lights on, just the hallway light streaming in, and the thick shades over his windows had been drawn. Just as Jason recognized the same clinking noise from his dream, Bruce walked in wearing his pajamas and carrying a silver tea tray, the culprit of the clinking noise, even though Bruce tried to keep it steady.
He didn’t notice Jason was awake, expression Batman-serious as he took out a spoon to stir the warm tea, like he could somehow mess it up. Once he was satisfied, Bruce glanced over at his son, and seeing that his eyes were open, set down his spoon and quickly leaned on the bed to lay a hand on Jason’s head. Jason still felt warm, but not as bad as it had been.
“Hey, bud,” Bruce whispered, trying not to disturb him too much. “You okay? Do you need the bucket?”
Jason was able to shake his head without any pounding or dizziness, keeping himself burrowed underneath quilts and blankets, Bruce adjusting them around his frame just to make sure he was snug as a bug.
“Di…didyasleep?” Jason slurred. He distantly noticed the love seat near the door had a blanket and pillow on it.
“I got a few hours in. It’s about five, now.” Jason looked back to Bruce, who was staring at him intently, a sad frown on his face. “You should rest more. I made black tea, if you want a sip before you fall asleep again.”
Jason hoped Bruce would help him again, because now that he had been coddled, he couldn’t get enough—not that he would admit it. Jason leaned up onto his elbows, still feeling weak and achy, but not as nauseous anymore. Bruce poured a cup of black tea and put one of Jason’s hands around the porcelain cup, his hand around the other side to guide. The tea was pretty good for not being made by Alfred, Jason sipping at first, then drinking more as he realized how dehydrated he was; the warm liquid soothed his throat, getting rid of the gross acidic taste that had been haunting him all night.
Bruce may have smiled when Jason finished the entire cup, but the boy was too sleepy to distinguish if it was real, or just another dream. He hoped it was real, though. He had caused enough trouble for his guardian tonight…speaking of trouble, Jason saw Bruce reach for the nausea pills and pink medicine again, pouring some of the pink liquid out and speaking before his son could.
“Alfred said we should give you a dose every six hours, or until your symptoms lessen,” Bruce explained calmly, waiting for a punch or two. Instead, after a moment’s hesitation, Jason held his hand out, small compared to Bruce’s large, calloused one, taking the tiny cup from his grip and drinking it down. Instinctively, Bruce then handed him the pill and the glass of water, which also went down without a fuss. He knew he was giving the boy a look, but couldn’t really contain his amazement at the change from earlier.
“You…You said it was okay,” Jason reminded him in an uncertain whisper.
It was strange—for all the things they had been through together, as Jason Todd and Bruce Wayne, and especially as Batman and Robin, Bruce thought the trust between them was obvious. It was strange because, looking at Jason now, seeing such a profound display of trust be further developed within a span of hours, Bruce realized that all those nights spent patrolling together wasn’t really what made them trust each other, what made Jason Todd trust Bruce Wayne—
It was quiet moments like this, at Wayne Manor on a sickly Sunday morning, that made Jason look at Bruce with all the trust in the world. Because Bruce wasn’t protecting Robin, his sidekick, his partner: he was protecting Jason, the boy, his son. And wasn’t that more important than fighting crime in Gotham? Keeping his son safe from the scum of Gotham? Even if he never admitted it, or didn’t know it himself, Bruce knew that meant more to Jason.
Of course Bruce knew that trust was fragile, able to be broken with a fleeting moment, with one break of a promise, but trust was also very strong, and could always get stronger. Bruce hoped that, with what little he was able to do tonight for his son, it had at least been enough to make Jason see just how much that trust meant to him.
“Yeah…it is,” Bruce nodded in agreement, reaching out to ruffle Jason’s damp hair. “Good job, kiddo.”
Jason had another half cup of black tea before feeling fatigue overwhelm him again, feeling much better than he did last night, though he didn’t credit that to the medicine. As Bruce was fluffing up his pillow and tucking in the blankets around his figure, Jason suddenly remembered his weird dream.
“I dreamt about us,” He murmured. “Robin and Batman…in a desert, and I was stuck to a tree. You drank this pink stuff to save me, but I told you not to.” Jason paused, remembering how the dream went from crime fighting in a desert to Batman crying, forcing himself into drinking poison for the sake of Robin. “I guess…it was actually a nightmare.”
“I see,” Bruce hummed. “Unfortunately, I have no cure for nightmares.”
Jason let his eyes flutter closed when he felt Bruce’s fingers push his sweaty hair strands off his forehead. Fingertips that usually punched, threw, grabbed and clawed, fingers that corrected Jason’s fighting stance now glided over his head softly, like a parent, like a father, like someone afraid to break what they held. While the entire night had been a long, exhausting, painful nightmare, Jason now felt like he was in a real life dream, one final whisper sneaking from his lips before he let Bruce’s soothing touch lull him back into a deep, reviving sleep.
“I think I found it.”