Author's Note: Jason's life has been rough. At least, that is the way I have always seen it. Subsequently, selling his body on the streets for a warm bed to sleep in sounds about right for my interpretation of rough. Following on from Respite, Jason has a very lucid dream about his past, followed by an open conversation with Alfred. Depending on response to this, I may add further installments. Enjoy

Burnt

I'm on my knees in some decrepit bathroom. A faceless shadow in front of me demands satisfaction. I'm cold and hungry and desperate; I need money. So I do what's expected of me, and force it into my mouth. It nearly chokes me, but I just resist the urge to gag. And I go on for minutes, long, slow, agonising minutes, wondering if it'll ever end. My knees hurt from digging into the scum-covered tile on the floor and my back is sore from constantly leaning back and forth. I'm tired and want to sleep, really badly. So, as soon as lukewarm, bitter fluid fills my mouth, and I manage to swallow it with vomiting, I pop the question:

"Wanna take this back to a motel room?"

The shadow does, putting a big hand on my shoulder and steering me out into the cold, night air. I don't want to do this, but the streets are so freaking cold at the moment. I think if I went to sleep outside, I wouldn't wake up again. The guy at the front desk knows what's going to happen when he hands over the room key, but he won't call the cops; the shadow pays extra not to be disturbed. It's amazing what we'll all do for a little money. The room's in the corner of the building, top floor, away from nearly everybody else in the place; I don't want people to hear me scream.

When we get inside the door, the place is as decrepit as the subway bathroom. The carpet's balding and has a few weird stains that could be blood or shit. The wallpaper is peeling at the corners, some horrible floral pattern from a few decades back. The light bar above us buzzes incessantly, giving me a slight headache. The TV's one of those coin-operated jobs and will definitely only have ABC and the porn channels working. But I don't care about any of this stuff; because it's warm in here and the bed has a proper mattress to sleep on. The shadow beckons me over to the bed and I go, knowing exactly what I'm about to endure.

It goes on for hours.

I have to bite down as hard as I can on the pillow to shut myself up. Tears sting my eyes as the shadow's rhythm never wavers, big hands running wild over my naked, sweat-soaked body. I feel nothing except intense, prolonged pain as the shadow fucks away whatever innocence I have left to take. I know I'm bleeding too; I can feel it sliding down the back of my leg, the warmth lost in more sweat. The shadow presses their torso on my back and coils steel arms round my stomach as the strokes finally pick up speed. I try to brace myself, but the weight on my back and the strain on my arms mean I collapse under all the pressure. I shiver violently when the shadow shoots up inside me, signalling the end of things. I lie limp on the damp, blood-spattered mattress, trying to get my breathing under control. The shadow, long since recovered from their exertions, has already dressed. They throw a handful of crumpled twenties beside me, give meagre thanks and tell me to keep the room. Then the shadow leaves and I am alone.

I count the money immediately. Sixty dollars and twenty-three cents. My innocence is for sale for sixty dollars and twenty-three cents. It's more than I got off the last shadow, almost twenty bucks more; maybe I'm getting better at this. I feel dirty, but not sorry for myself. In Gotham city, the price of survival is high, especially for an orphaned, twelve-year-old kid. Do I really think for the sake of my dignity I'm going to let myself croak in a rat-infested alleyway, cowering under a few layers of piss-soaked cardboard? Fuck dignity, I want to live. Even though I've been kept awake for almost twenty-four hours, I manage to roll off the bed.

The burning sensation is still there as I hobble like a cripple to the bathroom. The sweat's dried and I feel cold again. Everything below my waist hurts like hell, but I have to shower. The water coming out the showerhead is brown for a few moments before finally turning clear. I try not to think about how many prostitutes and crack-heads have overdosed in this tub I'm standing in. I wash myself using the soap I bought at the Seven-Eleven, gritting my teeth when I reach behind. The sting is constant, finding harmony with the burning to make even standing up as close to unbearable as it can manage. The blood and juices are gone soon enough, even if the stinging and burn go on tormenting me long after I leave the shower. I feel no better than before, but the smell is at least less obvious.

I don't bother drying myself. I just flip the sheets over, pull my jacket over my shoulders and close my eyes. Sleep comes so easily it's almost criminal.

"Master Jason? Master Jason, are you alright?"

I open my eyes and find Al looming over me. I put my hand in front of my face to block him out.

"Don't come any closer, I'm naked." I tell him, turning over and pulling the sheets up over my head. I still feel like shit.

"Yes, I am more than familiar with your sleeping habits, young man. I have only come to check-up on you and to give you the first round of medication." Al replies in that professional manner I like so much. I roll onto my back again and pull the sheets down to my shoulders. The old man looks weirdly patient with me this morning.

"So, you've forgiven him then?" I ask taking the assortment of colourful pills from his perfectly manicured hand. I don't swallow them, just hold them. Al watches me intently.

"Take your medicine, Sir. Here is a tumbler of water." He hands me the glass from the tray on my bedside table. I do as he says and swallow the stupid things. He extends a hand out to receive the glass. I stare at him before leaning over to my left and placing the glass back on the tray myself. Al inclines his head. "Thank you. Now, how are you feeling this morning?"

"Like I want a hug." I offer sarcastically, not particularly wanting to be cooperative today. Al adopts a tired expression; guess I need some new tricks. I remember last night and talking to Bruce in snatches. He wasn't very interested in my career as a rent-boy, but maybe the old man will be different. "I had a dream about the shadows." I say. Al looks intrigued, but wary; I've played with him too many times to be totally trustworthy.

"And what are the shadows, Sir?" He inquires drawing closer to me.

"They're what I call the guys I slept with on the streets. You know, for money." Al frowns, but does not move away. He perches himself like a hawk on the edge of my bed.

"And what happens in these dreams?"

"Everything just happens again. The blowjob, the motel room, the burning sensation afterwards…really lucid memories." My voice is calm and relaxed. The old man is not surprised by what I'm telling him at all; he's always suspected I suffered as much. He nods in understanding.

"And how do you feel when you wake up?"

"I don't feel anything at all."

"Not upset, angry or scared?" I shake my head in reply. "You just feel…"

"Empty." As soon as I finish speaking, Al's hand is on my cheek. He can be so comforting when he chooses. His thumb strokes my skin gently.

"I am sorry for whatever has befallen you. I know such a statement means little coming from—"

"It means something coming from you, Al, honest." The old man smiles at me, his hand still on my face. I smile too. "See? I'm not such a bad kid." Al takes his hand away.

"There is no such thing as a bad child, only bad parenting or a lack of the practice altogether. You are just feeling neglected, yes?" I force myself to sit up in bed. Al's right on the money. Bruce telling me he loved me didn't really change things in my head. I still feel like an outsider.

"Go on." I say, drawing my knees up to my chest and leaning my elbows on them. Al pulls a generous amount of sheets towards me and continues. "Both Master Bruce and I are not used to teenage rebellion. Master Dick was not a typical teenager in his attitude and Master Bruce's childhood obsession with obtaining revenge left little scope for mood swings or defiance. His…decision to bring you into this world of ours, was done out of pity. Now, he wants to try and 'fix' you in the same way he repairs machinery or broken dreams, with a logical approach. I did not think it a wise venture to attempt to control you. My advice was to respect and understand your attitude to life. He…ignored my suggestion and went with a harsh, disciplinary approach."

"So, he screwed me up?" I say bluntly. Al regards me wistfully.

"Is that how you feel?"

"I just want to belong, Al. I'm Robin; I'm supposed to feel at home next to Batman, but I feel like a wannabe. I feel like he sees me as a wannabe, not the real deal." Suddenly, Al and I are having the most open conversation I've ever had in this house. It's amazing to be able to talk with someone about my feelings like this, and not be judged. Bruce always judges me. He voiced his disappointments so much; I put Al in the same boat as him. The old man's never said a bad word about me to my face; he didn't deserve to get blown-off by me because of my relationship, if you can call it that anymore, with Bruce.

"You are worthy of the mantle. Despite Master Bruce's reservations about your suitability for this life, Robin's legacy is in good hands with you. You have proven yourself so many times now. I have every faith in you." Al pats my knee. I smile at him.

"You're one in a million, Al. Thanks for being around. If it was just him and me, there wouldn't be a Batman and Robin."

"Perhaps not, but without your presence, there would not be a dawn for Master Bruce and myself…just the darkness."

"Do you get these quotes out of Shakespeare?"

"Only when the Baud is appropriate, young sir."

"I feel like shit, Al, in response to your earlier question." I tell him. The old man places a hand across my forehead briefly.

"Refrain from further expletives, Master Jason, if you please. Your temperature is still elevated, but to a far lesser extent than last night. The antibiotics should lower the fever further and, with any luck, you'll be fine in a couple of days." He informs me before giving up yet another smile. "Now, what would you like for breakfast?" I shrug my shoulders.

"What does the doctor recommend?"

"Something cold."

"Breakfast smoothie?"

"Of the blueberry variety, Sir?"

"Yes, please."

"Very good, Sir." Al gets up and exits the room. I lie back down, throw the sheets over my head and go back to sleep. At least someone in this place is on my side.