Jason leads you back home, and you wonder how he's able to navigate so well through the dark forest. The moon is full but you'd still probably walk into trees or fall in a hole or break your neck tripping over a rock. It must be because he's probably traveled this path hundreds of times. You don't say a word as you reenter your cabin, but you both walk to your living room as is your evening custom now… only this time somehow you find yourself sitting next to him on the loveseat instead of in the armchair.

You think about what he's been through. While you'd faced off against death, he actually experienced it and came back out again on the other side irreparably changed. You can't even begin to imagine what it must be like to feel your lungs and stomach filling up with water, to feel your life draining away as you struggle and flail and cry out for help only to have silent bubbles escape your lips.

"I'm sorry about what happened to you. It shouldn't have happened. They should have been watching you, they should have helped. It must have been so awful." you say softly, the first words spoken since you were on the dock, and he gazes at you with deeply sad eyes. As usual he doesn't reply, but then he surprises you by bringing his hand up to your face and lightly tracing a rough fingertip down the length of the scar running from your forehead to your jaw. It's a startlingly intimate touch and the surprise at how good it feels makes you close your eyes. He instantly jerks his hand away as if he fears he's hurt you, but before you can think you take hold of it and bring it back to your cheek.

"It's okay, it doesn't hurt anymore," you reassure him, so he gently touches the scar again with his cool, calloused fingers. Your own fingers feel so small wrapped around his hand and you slide your thumb down against the inside of his wrist, curious to see if you'll find a pulse there. You're a bit surprised when you do - what exactly are the rules governing his existence? If you were more of a scientist he would be fascinating to study, but you think that perhaps science has no explanation for what Jason is. He looks back into your eyes, and his own hold a questioning expression.

"A man did it," you answer. "With a broken bottle, because I wouldn't have sex with him."

Jason's questioning expression is wiped out by a flash of rage and you see his other hand ball into a fist. You're touched by his fury on your behalf, though you remember his issues with all things sex-related. Alarmingly, before you can stop yourself you wonder about his sexuality - if he has one at all, what it's like, and what it would be like to be with him that way. You've never slept with a man before, but that doesn't mean you're completely devoid of biological drives and desire - it's just that no man has ever gained your trust enough to even begin to want to explore that. You take care of yourself just fine when the need arises, and you are content with it. It feels good and there is no risk, no power struggles or imbalance to navigate. It's safe and it is satisfying enough for you. Fortunately before you can dwell any longer on wondering if Jason has those urges - and if so, how he takes care of them - his fingers trail down your neck to your sternum, just below your clavicle. This touch is even lighter as he strokes your damaged skin at the very top of the surgery scars.

"Cancer." you answer his unspoken question, and his rage is replaced by confusion. He's not familiar with the term, apparently, so you clarify: "I got sick and the doctors had to cut me open to take out the sickness, then sew me back up. You can see they didn't do a great job of it," you chuckle wryly, then pull the collar of your shirt down lower so he can see more of the scarring. Even though there isn't much of a breast left there anymore, he jerks his hand back again and his gaze darts away so you quickly pull your shirt back up. Hang-ups, you remind yourself. Possibly even more hang-ups than you. You quickly turn the discussion around to focus on him again. "I'm also sorry about what they did to your Mother. She was only trying to help you, and keep other kids from getting hurt, too. She must have really, really loved you to do all that. So much."

He sighs and you look down at your hands in your lap for a bit, not knowing what else to say. After a moment you look up at him again and he's staring at you intensely now, like there's something he wants to ask but just can't find the words. Not for the first time you wish you knew if his muteness was by choice or not, but unless he suddenly starts speaking you're going to have to work with what he's giving you for now. You take a wild guess based on what you were just discussing. "My parents are dead, too. My Dad had a heart attack and my Mom got cancer, just like me. Only the doctors couldn't save her. They were pretty young when it happened, but not nearly as young as you were so it wasn't quite as sad. Plus I don't think they really loved me as much as your Mom loved you. Or if they did, they didn't really show it too well." You try to say it with a bit of wry humor, but instead it just makes you feel sad about it for the first time in a long time. Why had it been so hard for them to let people in? And why did they have to pass that trait on to you? Was this dysfunction in your DNA as well as in your upbringing? Jason's eyes are absolutely brimming with sympathy now and you realize that he's the first person you've ever confessed this secret fear to. Without meaning to, you're actually letting him in. Ironically, considering the mass-murderer thing, you can't really think of anyone safer to confess your fears and dysfunctions to. Clearly he has issues of his own, and it's not like he's going to run off and tell anyone else your problems. It suddenly feels like a pivotal moment - you're already sitting physically closer together than you ever have before, and the conversation you just had has you feeling closer to him emotionally as well. Judging by the look in those expressive eyes of his, you guess that he might be feeling similarly so you decide to take a chance.

"It's hard not having them here anymore, isn't it?" you ask softly, and when he nods you scoot even closer to him so the sides of your arms are pressed flush against one another. He doesn't move closer, but he doesn't pull away either so you stay where you are as well. "Wanna watch a movie?" you ask, exhausted from digging down so far into the past. He nods again, so you pick up the remote and select a spooky, atmospheric old horror movie from the 1930's. You tuck your legs beneath yourself to keep your feet warm, and just as you put the remote down and pull the throw blanket across your lap Jason scoots a tiny bit closer to you himself, so that your bent knees are pressing firmly into the side of his thigh. He's not looking at you but you can sense the tension in his body, as if he's just done something crazy and he's not sure how you're going to react. You feel a little anxious yourself, but being this close to him is exciting and feels so good that you power through your nerves and scoot in closer still, then lightly rest your head against his massive shoulder.

His new sweater is soft and he smells like the forest after it rains. It's a comforting, pleasant sort of smell… but when you inhale a little deeper you detect something else. Something a bit more human: the faint scent of sweat and a masculine sort of muskiness. It smells good. Attractive even, and you're glad that he doesn't smell like rotting flesh or something like that because while you're not squeamish, that isn't the sort of scent you'd prefer to cuddle up with on a regular basis. And considering the way he sighs and relaxes against you now, it seems that cuddling up with Jason might be something that happens on a regular basis from here on out… and to your surprise, that thought brings you joy.