Author's Note: I have been extremely busy at both work and with my social life. Subsequently any updates on my story threads currently running will be delayed by at least a couple of days. This story is somewhat fluff, but has elements of angst and family in it also. Jason is ill and Bruce is forced to look after him. Not conventional setting. Jason is pretty much delirious from fever so anything he says can be interpreted multiple ways. Enjoy.

Respite

I feel lousy. No, wait, that's what Bruce would want me to say…let me put it another way…

I feel like absolute shit. I mean, I've never felt so shit in my entire life. My head is spinning. My sinuses are sown up shut. My whole body feels like it's made out of lead and then packed-out with industrial-grade cement. I should be in bed, asleep. Al said it first. Then Bruce said it. My 'decision' if you can call it that, to yell my head off until I'd convinced both of them I was too crazy to be told 'no' to patrol, was not a smart one. Pretty sure somewhere nearby there's a stupidly-high ledge with a city screaming below it, but it's hard to concentrate. When I get hit in the face, again, I know I should've parked my fever-ridden ass in bed. Ah well, too late for should'ves, Jay-Jay; you're in it for the long haul now. Even though I'm virtually comatose, I still find enough to deal with the two or four guys in front of me, depending on how much I strain my eyes. Their screams of pain do enough to jolt me to a more lucid state of mind and I spot the big guy grappling with what looks like a bear on the far side of the roof we're both apparently standing on.

Thinking is for intellectuals and pansies. Since I'm clearly neither, I charge head-first into the situation, literally. The bear roars with pain as my head-butt to the base of its skull forces it on its knees. Somehow I notice Bruce is still catching his wind from what looks like a frenzied jam attack on his chest and finish the job. The bear gets a heavy foot to the face and I hear a loud crunch in the aftermath. I can't tell if he's out cold; my eyes are streaming. I swing around to look at Bruce.

"Did you steal the Teddy bear's jam?" I ask in a voice so detached and different from usual that I wonder if I spoke at all.

"Where are we, Robin?"

"Teddy bear's picnic, right?"

"We should get you home."

"What about the bear?"

"I'm sure Gordon can handle matters here."

I wake up, I think. I'm sat on the couch in the lounge, my cape wrapped around me like a blanket. I still feel like shit, really hot, uncomfortable, lethargic shit. In front of me, the TV's blaring some crap about the Vietnam War. I try to move my head, but find it won't go anywhere I tell it to. It's resting on something; my cheek feels sore. It feels hard, like bone or something.

"Head hurts." I say to no-one in particular, now amazed at how whiny and pathetic I sound. Suddenly whatever my head's resting on shifts and I hit something soft instead. I hear a heartbeat and have a mini-freak-out. Bruce is touching me. I can feel his massive hand pressing against my forehead.

"You do seem a little warmer than earlier." I hear the man remark before the hand disappears briefly. When the cold touches my head and water runs down my face, I want to get away. I can't physically find the strength or energy to move though. So I endure the cold. After a while, it feels nice. The big guy's heartbeat is rhythmic and soothing. I kind of relax. I don't think I should, but I do.

"Am I dying?" I ask sometime later. My eyes aren't staying open anymore. Bruce's hand ruffles my hair.

"No, just ill."

"Do I have pneumonia?"

"No, just a fever. You would know if you had pneumonia."

"Why aren't I dying in bed?"

"You refused to be moved."

"Why?"

"Because you're a bad-tempered, resentful teenage brat."

"Yeah, sounds like me. So why are you here with me now?"

"Alfred is tired of playing nursemaid for the both of us."

"He was pissed at you for taking me, wasn't he?"

"Yes. Go to sleep."

Short, to the point, but sweet? Not our conversations. It's like everyone in this house went on sugar-strike; there's no sweetness in this place. But his hand is still in my hair, stroking it. I don't want him touching me like this, but…it feels nice. My mom used to do this kind of stuff with me when I was ill. I feel like I should apologize to the big guy for being a total asshole.

"Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned…" I begin, ruining any sincerity I could possibly generate for what is to follow. "I've been such a pain in the ass lately; Bruce thinks I'm not worth the effort. Al wishes I was dead…"

"Try counting sheep, quietly in your head, Jay-Jay. Apologies are unnecessary." I really don't think I could count past five at the moment, so I ignore the advice.

"You know how many guys I slept with on the streets?" I ask, not even waiting for Bruce to voice his disgust before answering, "Seven. Crazy, right? I was so hungry back then…would've done anything for a cheeseburger; even swallow some guy's special sauce…"

"No more, Jason, please." The big man interrupts in a tired voice, the kind that says I've been keeping him up for hours now. I don't even know where I'm going with this or what it's supposed to achieve, but I carry on pushing.

"I've never felt more alone than on my knees in a public bathroom, in the dead of winter, letting myself get raped for a hand-out. I think I was barely twelve…" I stop when I realize Bruce is pulling me closer to him instead of further away; am I really that important to him?

"You are not alone anymore, Jason." He tells me. I feel his arm coiling round my shoulder and across my chest. I don't think I've let him get this close to me ever. I'm starting to feel really vulnerable, like I need to get away before all my defences cave and I start telling him actual private things. But I'm not going anywhere, so I semi-cave.

"Would you hug me if I got really graphic about it all?"

"No. Just tell me that's what you want and I'll do it. You don't need to swap horrible stories for my affections." He says it like it's obvious. If I had his affections all along I wouldn't be such a head-strong nut-case with a ridiculously short temper. He's never been anything but a critic to me during my time as Robin. He was never a friend. He was certainly never a father or even a father-figure, just the ominous disapprover of what seems like my entire existence; he looks at me in a way that says I wish you had never been born. Or maybe it's the fever making me crazy…it's hard to tell anymore. Regardless, I'm still talking.

"Nothing's free, Bruce; not even love." Wow, a Jason Todd truism. Should I be proud of articulating such an amazing philosophical idea or just annoyed it sounded so pedantic? I hear Bruce sigh.

"I used to believe that too." Oh yeah, like he had the same idea I did, only years before I was born…convenient. Maybe he's trying to pander to me here. Am I really that paranoid about him?

"Yeah? When did you become like everybody else then?"

"When I adopted Dick." Golden boy. That's all I ever hear these days: I wish you were more like your predecessor. I wish you were more like Dick. Dick was far more proficient at this than you…Just go screw him if you freaking love the perfect, little acrobat. I bet he's begging for some loving from his big, strong bat. I should really go to sleep before I say something as lewd or irreprehensible as the images currently floating round my head. But my mouth opens yet again.

"So, do you love me then?" I say it so casually I actually think he might believe I meant to ask something else entirely. His hand is still stroking my hair. His arm is still wrapped round me. My head is still on his chest; nothing I've said tonight has thrown him off-balance at all. I wonder if he's taking me seriously right now. I know I'm not.

"What do you want me to say, Jason?" I bury half-my-face in his chest, essentially snuggling up to him. God, I hate myself right now. He's gonna remember this moment for years, especially with the brilliant response I manage to give him in a coquettish tone of voice of all things.

"I'm ill. Tell me the truth. Love me or not?"

"I think you should go to bed now." He shifts his weight in order to get up, but I shift mine, moving myself until I'm sat in his lap. I open my eyes and put a hand on either one of his shoulders. The game's over. I have to know where I stand with this mountain of stone I call Bruce. I have to know right now.

"Do you fucking love me, Bruce? Yes or no?" I sound like I'm back in the room, that I'm myself again. It's a trick of course, just the last semblance of strength I have left to make him see I'm serious. I concentrate hard to focus my eyes on his face. He looks really, really uncomfortable with the situation; I guess he really doesn't have fifteen-year-old boys in his lap all that often. He nods his head at me.

"Yes. I love you, Jason." He's not just trying to get rid of me. He's not just saying what he thinks I want to hear; he actually loves me. Batman loves me, gotta be a good sign. I don't smile. Neither of us does; I feel as awkward as he looks. I nod my head a couple of times to show him I understand.

"Good. Now I need to sleep." And, just like that, I pass-out.

Goodnight everybody.