A/N: Sorry for the unplanned hiatus. We hit the busy season at work, so I haven't had time to write while at work anymore, and when I get home I just want to unwind and not do anything strenuous. This status is likely to continue through January and possibly into February and March. (The busy season at my job is a special kind of hell.) I may have also burned myself out a little writing 50k words over the course of November.

Also, I put off writing this chapter for a while because I knew it was going to be emotionally draining. And it was. Jason's thoughts and feelings here very closely mirror some of my own experiences with childhood sexual abuse.

In particular, I have a very vivid memory of walking behind my best friend and her father, seeing them holding hands and longing to catch up and hold his hand, too, but I was afraid because of what had been done to me by a man. I've never forgotten that moment, though it's now twenty-eight years in the past and I've done a LOT of healing since then. Putting myself back in that mindset to write Jason's POV for this chapter was quite exhausting.

Worth it, though, I think. Enjoy the chapter.

Jason woke up slowly and reluctantly, on some level aware that it was going to be unpleasant. There was a pain and fuzziness at the edge of his sleeping consciousness, and the more awake he became, the more he felt it. He was too hot, too heavy, too achy, and he just wanted to go back to sleep and forget about it, but his body was having none of it. Too soon, he was awake, blinking blearily at the winter sunlight streaming in the window.

He smacked his lips and immediately winced. There was an ache and a thickness down in his throat. He tried to swallow and groaned at the sharp, biting pain in his throat. He resolved never to swallow again.

"Jason? You okay?"

Jason rolled over and blinked at his little brother. Tim was sitting up on the bed, looking a little droopy, but infinitely more awake and ready to face the day than Jason was. It was a strange feeling. Usually Tim was the one to drag around in the mornings, while Jason was much more likely to be bright-eyed and ready to go. Conversely, Tim was more likely to stay awake late into the night while Jason preferred to drop off at a reasonable hour.

Jason opened his mouth to speak, then remembered his sore throat and changed his mind. It was probably going to hurt to talk. He didn't want to find out. He shook his head, morose and sluggish.

Tim frowned and leaned forward to place his small hand on Jason's forehead. It felt cool and nice, and Jason closed his eyes and tried to breathe. His nose was stuffy, too, which was probably why his throat was sore. Drainage. It took way too much effort to push air through his clogged nose, but breathing through his mouth kind of burned his throat, too.

There was just no winning. Jason ended up sort of panting like a dog, his mouth hanging open. He could feel his own hot breath flowing over his face like a fetid breeze.

Tim winced. "I think you're sick."

Jason nodded in the smallest motion he could manage. Moving felt akin to talking in the realm of bad ideas.

"I'm gonna go get Alfred to get some medicine for you." Tim hopped off the bed, then balanced next to it looking at Jason. "Do you want me to bring you a cup of water from the bathroom first?"

Jason nodded. Tim made his way to the bathroom, using a rolly desk chair like Dick had taught them. (His actual, official, professionally made knee scooter still sat in his own room, unused.) Jason slowly and laboriously pushed himself up to slump against the headboard, half a dozen pillows propping him up in a messy pile. By the time he finished, he was breathing hard and feeling incredibly sorry for himself.

Tim came back with the water and put it in Jason's hand, then waiting, frowning as Jason just held it in his hands and did not attempt to drink. Jason had remembered that he didn't want to swallow. But his head ached and his eyes felt gritty, so he knew he should drink the water. He usually felt a little dehydrated in the morning, but this was much worse than usual.

"You should drink," Tim said softly. Jason rolled his eyes and made a shooing motion toward the door. Tim laughed shortly and finally moved. "Okay, okay. I'll go get that medicine for you."

He left the rolly chair at the door, and Jason had no idea how he was going to get down the hall, but somehow Tim always managed. He usually found someone to carry him within seconds, but Dick and Kori had both gone back to New York after the holiday weekend, so Jason didn't know how Tim was going to deal with it this time. Maybe he would just hop. Or, more likely, Bruce would find him and take him to Alfred.

Jason lifted the cup to his mouth and let water flow into it, then sat there rolling the water around over his tongue and gums. It was cool and felt nice, at least. Eventually he couldn't resist the temptation and tried to swallow, just a tiny bit. He almost cried at how much it hurt, lips pursing and cheeks sucking in, and only barely stopped himself from spilling the rest of the water in his mouth down his front like a baby with no mouth control.

The water felt warm now, no longer cool and soothing, and Jason forced himself to swallow it rather than spit it back in the cup. It hurt. It hurt. God, he just wanted to go back to sleep. He let the cup rest in his lap and leaned his head back against the headboard, desperately trying not to cry. His eyes got teary despite his best efforts, and he was irrationally angry at his body for wasting water when he was in too much pain to drink more.

A few minutes later, Tim returned, not with Alfred but with Bruce. The man stopped in the doorway as Tim hopped down from his arm into the rolly chair and went straight to the bed. He climbed up next to Jason again and reached out to lay a hand on his arm. Bruce winced when he saw how miserable Jason looked.

"Hey, kiddo," he said softly. "Tim told me you're not feeling so hot. Is it okay if I come in?"

Jason stared at him wearily. For a moment, he couldn't understand why Bruce didn't just come right in, why he was asking for permission. Then he remembered, and his cheeks felt even hotter. "Yeah," he managed to get out, voice rough and phlegmy. "You can come in."

Bruce smiled gratefully and stepped inside. His footsteps were quiet and gentle, like he didn't want to disturb anything. Tim scooted over to make room for him, and Bruce sat on the edge of the bed, facing Jason.

"Where's Alfred?" Jason asked, trying not to feel nervous about Bruce being this close to him. It really wasn't Bruce's fault. He had never done anything to make Jason distrust him. Jason's brain was just kind of broken.

"Monday is Alfred's day to do errands," Bruce explained gently. "He has a long list this time, since you and Tim finally picked out what phones and computers you want and consented to accept some new clothes, too. Don't worry, I can make porridge. Alfred coached me extensively."

Jason wrinkled his nose. "I'm not really hungry."

Bruce raised his eyebrows. "You must really be feeling sick, huh?"

Jason nodded. He was vaguely aware that Tim had taken the cup from his shaking hands before it could spill. Then he snuggled up against Jason's side, propping him up. Jason felt ridiculously weak and vulnerable, but having Tim jammed up against him helped. He suspected that Tim had another knife hidden somewhere, probably on his person, and as much as Tim trusted and admired Bruce, he would not hesitate to cut him if he did anything bad.

Not that Bruce would do that. Probably. He was still keeping a careful distance from Jason, his hands folded in his lap. "Is it okay if I touch you? Nothing invasive, I promise."

Jason blinked at him. His throat was thick, and a panicky pulse beat in his chest. He jerked out a nod.

Bruce reached forward with one hand, letting Jason see exactly what he was doing. He laid the back of his hand on Jason's forehead. It felt so nice, Jason couldn't help closing his eyes and relaxing into the pillows propped behind him. Bruce hummed thoughtfully, then the cool hand went away, and Jason opened his eyes to watch him.

"You definitely have a fever," Bruce said. "Your breathing is labored, too. Stuffed up?"

Jason nodded. "Throat...hurts," he managed. "A lot."

Bruce nodded. "Coughing? Sneezing?"

Jason shook his head. "Not yet." He couldn't help feeling a thrill of terror at the idea of coughing with his throat like this. Fuck, that would hurt like hell. He hoped his body wasn't going to do that to him.

"You need some hot tea with lemon," Bruce said, like he knew what he was talking about. "And a salt water gargle."

Jason made a face.

Bruce laughed. "I know it sounds awful, but it really does help, and you'll feel better afterward. Do you feel up to getting out of bed, or would you rather just stay here, and I can bring you a tray?"

Jason manfully suppressed a groan. "I can get up. We're just going to the kitchen?"

Bruce nodded sympathetically. "Do you want me to help you, or back off?"

"Back off." The words came out a little too ferociously, and Jason blinked. "Please," he added belatedly.

"Of course. Whatever you need, Jaylad."

Bruce stood up from the bed, and Tim scooted over, following him with his arms outstretched. He didn't even say anything. He just expected now that Bruce would carry him. And of course Bruce did, scooping Tim up in his arms as if he weighed nothing (which was almost literally true) and cradling him like a baby. Tim leaned into his chest with complete nonchalance, utterly relaxed and utterly trusting. Bruce stepped back several paces, giving Jason plenty of space to get out of bed.

Jason took a moment to make sure his pajamas hadn't gotten twisted around his body while he was sleeping and no bare skin was showing, then slowly, gingerly slid out of bed. He felt a little unsteady when his feet set down on the floor, but after a moment he was able to control it. Bruce and Tim both watched him with undisguised concern, and he gave them a shaky smile. "I'm good. It's fine."

Bruce nodded and turned to walk toward the door, leading the way down to the kitchen and trusting Jason to follow. Jason did, though he felt sluggish and sore. He recognized that Bruce was walking slower than usual, keeping pace with him. He was too tired and ill to be annoyed about being babied.

He stared at the back of Tim and Bruce's heads in a bit of a daze. Tim was resting his head in the crook of Bruce's neck, leaning on him without a care in the world. He said something, too soft for Jason to make out, and Bruce leaned his head over so the side of his head rested against Tim's. It was soft and tender and incredibly intimate.

Tim felt so safe. So protected. So loved. He wasn't even a tiny bit afraid of Bruce. Exactly the opposite.

Jason's chest ached, and he folded his hands into fists and held them against his sides as they walked along. He wished, suddenly. He longed. He yearned.

He wanted to quicken his step and catch up with them and walk at Bruce's side instead of five feet behind. He wanted to reach up and take Bruce's hand and feel his huge palm encompassing his. He wanted to experience that warmth, that safety. He wanted to know what it was like to have a man in his life that he could trust and depend on instead of fearing and avoiding.

But Bruce's hands were full, and Jason was too afraid.

Today was supposed to be his first therapy appointment. Until a few seconds ago, the only good thing he could see about being sick was that Bruce wouldn't make him go, not today. He was going to get out of it, at least for now, and it was almost worth feeling like ten different kinds of crap.

For the first time, though, he wondered if therapy really would help, like everyone kept saying it would. Well, everyone except Tim. He was skeptical, too, though not as skeptical as Jason. He was more willing to try it than Jason was, just because Bruce and Dick and Alfred all said he should. It was also probably a little easier for him to envision going since he'd been insisting for months that he would do all the talking and Jason wouldn't have to.

Alfred had told Jason that he wouldn't have to talk if he didn't want to, not even in therapy, not about the stuff that really hurt. It was okay to just learn some coping methods without digging into the details about why he needed them. It would help to talk about what had happened to him when he was ready, but he was allowed to wait.

So that had been his plan, after Alfred told him that. He was just going to listen to the therapist and not talk. He didn't really believe that anything the therapist had to say would be useful, but he had taken Alfred's explanation as permission not to participate, and that was good enough for now.

Suddenly, though, that didn't seem like such a good idea. He didn't want to be stuck where he was, feeling like this. He didn't like being afraid of the man who had charge of him, his foster father, the goddamn freaking Batman, especially when it kept getting shown right to his face that his little brother wasn't afraid at all. He knew his fear wasn't rational, because if it was, Tim would be afraid, too. Jason didn't like being irrational and stupid and...and stuck.

He felt cursed. He knew his life hadn't been the easiest, but before his mom died, things had at least been okay. Yeah, his dad had beaten him a few times, and they were poor and didn't have a lot of things they needed, but they got along okay. Jason had never been optimistic, exactly, but he'd always believed that he would be able to survive whatever life threw at him.

Ever since the bastard had kidnapped him and Tim off the street and locked him up like a toy and...and used him... Jason had lost that childlike naivete. That belief that he would be okay. He wasn't okay. He was never going to be okay again. That was just the facts. And he hated it, but he couldn't change it.

He knew he was going to die young. He wasn't going to make it to twenty-five, and probably not to twenty. He'd been absolutely certain that the bastard was going to kill him, and Tim had helped him cheat that fate, but death was going to catch up eventually. He'd stolen back a few years, maybe, but that was all.

So none of this really mattered in the long run. He just had to get through the next few years, and then maybe he would find something better than this crappy shithole of a world. Or if not, at least he would be able to rest and stop feeling so awful all the time.

Now, that didn't seem like enough. Just getting through the next few years until death finally found him. He wanted more than that. He wanted to be able to sit next to his foster father and lean on him the way Tim did. He wanted to stop flinching when an adult male reached out to touch his shoulder or ruffle his hair. He wanted to be a little more normal, a little more sane, a little less cursed and broken and ruined.

He wasn't expecting miracles. He knew he was always going to be a fucked-up mess until the day he died, probably just a few years from now, and that was fine. That was just the way things had worked out for him. But was it wrong to want a little more? Just a little?

He was still thinking about that when they finished the trip to the kitchen. Bruce set Tim down at the table, then went into the kitchen and put a kettle on to boil. Jason all but collapsed into the seat next to Tim and flopped over the table, letting his head and upper body rest on the cool wood. It felt really good on his overheated skin, and he closed his eyes.

Tim made a sympathetic noise and rubbed his back. "It'll be okay, Jason. Bruce'll fill you up with medicine, and you can nap or read books or watch movies or whatever. And I'll hang out with you so you won't be alone, and I'll be quiet so your head won't hurt, and any time you need something I'll make sure you get it. Okay?"

Jason nodded his head against the table, not opening his eyes. Tim was being so nice and comforting, and he knew that Bruce wanted to do the same. It was just a stuffy nose and a sore throat. Tim's sickness last week had passed in basically a couple of days, and this one would probably do the same.

"Okay," he murmured. "Thanks, little bro." It hurt to talk, but not as much when he kept his voice very low and quiet.

"I got your back, man. Always. And hey, at least you won't have to go to therapy, right? I'm sure I can persuade Bruce to let me stay home, too, so I can take care of you."

Jason opened one eye to look at him. "I thought you were kind of wanting to go to therapy, though. You thought it actually might help."

Tim shrugged. "Kind of. Taking care of you is more important, though. I don't want you to feel unsafe with only Bruce looking out for you."

Jason shifted his shoulders uncomfortably, then slowly pushed himself up and rested his chin on his folded arms so he could watch Bruce moving around in the kitchen. Despite his disastrous cooking on Thanksgiving day, Bruce did seem to know what he was doing. Granted, making tea and stirring up a glass of salt and water weren't the most complicated kitchen tasks. But Bruce seemed happy to be doing it.

"I...I don't know..." he said slowly. "I think I would be okay."

Tim gave him the side-eye. "Really?"

Jason shrugged. "Well, more like I want to be okay."

Tim's eyes went thoughtful. He mirrored Jason's pose, resting his chin on his folded arms and watching Bruce work. "Bruce really is a good guy," he said softly.

"I know." Jason shivered at the wave of helplessness that crept through him. He did. He knew this, intellectually. He just couldn't seem to make his body stop reacting to the presence of a big, strong man, no matter how careful and respectful he was of Jason's boundaries.

Tim kept glancing between Jason and Bruce, trying to figure it out. "You don't have to push yourself," he said after a long moment. "If you're not ready to be alone in the house with Bruce, you don't have to force it."

Jason clenched his jaw, feeling a spike of ice in his chest at the realization. No Dick, no Kori, no Alfred, no Tim... Just him and Bruce, alone in this huge house. Anything could happen. Anything at all.

But no, he reminded himself. It wouldn't. It wouldn't, because Bruce was a good guy, and he would never hurt him. Jason had to make himself believe that so he could get better. So he could stop feeling so cursed.

"No," he said eventually, firmly, trying to convince himself as much as Tim. "I think I should try it. Really."

"Okay." Tim didn't stop looking at him with that little frown, though. "If you're sure."

"I'm sure."

Bruce brought a teacup over to Jason and set down it in front of him, then sat across the table and watched him with a tentative, hopeful expression. Jason looked down at the clear green-brown liquid with the slice of lemon floating in it. Bruce gave him a smile. "I tested it with my pinky. It's not too hot. I know your throat hurts, but the warmth will feel good, I promise."

Jason squinted at him, but he picked up the teacup and held it in front of his nose. It smelled good, the sharp scent of lemon cutting through the herbal, earthy notes of the tea, and the warm steam already seemed to be opening up his clogged nose. He took a careful sip, held it in his mouth, then swallowed. It hurt, but just a little. It felt much better on his sore throat than the cold water from the bathroom, that was for sure.

He took a longer drink, closing his eyes and letting it soothe him, then looked up and gave Bruce a cautious smile. Bruce beamed back, as pleased as if he had found the cure for cancer. "Better?" he asked.

Jason nodded and set the teacup down. "Better."

Maybe things would keep getting better. For once, Jason allowed himself a tiny sliver of hope.