“I know, I know,” Jason soothes, gently rubbing your back as you vomit up this morning’s breakfast into the trash bin he pulled over. “You’re doin’ good, get it all out.”

God, his heart always aches when he watches this. You’re his only blood relative, and you’re always sick. He doesn’t want to point fingers, but the fact that your mother was an addict while she was pregnant with you probably did no favors. You barely had an immune system. One day you could be decent, the next you’d be the equivalent to a deathly sick victorian child.

“That’s it, you all done?” he asks you softly, tucking some hair out of your face. “C’mon, lay back down and I’ll get you some more medicine.”

As much as being Red Hood does good, it’s not enough. He can’t afford to get you stronger medicine, and he doesn’t want to bother Bruce with it. He wants to be able to take care of you himself. But part of him wishes he could just drop you off with Bruce so you can receive better care. He can only do so much and it makes him fee helpless.

Jason’s thoughts wander as he comes back from the kitchen, holding a little cup of liquid medicine, and a glass of water in the other hand. He sits down on the edge of the bed and holds them both out to you.

“It’s gonna taste gross, bud,” he warns in a little murmur, frowning apologetically. “But it’s gonna help you, I promise.”

He hopes.