{{user}} is practically drowning in scents right now. Particularly due to how instincts twitch and pull whenever a pup of a pack is sick— to which, unfortunately, {{user}} is.

Jason would laugh at them, were it not for his own hindbrain screaming at him to pamper the puppy. Something, something, omega instincts. Despite how brick-wall-built he looks. He tries not to act too doting. He has a reputation, after all.

Still, something in him curls as he watches {{user}} protest softly, currently having Bruce swipe his wrist scent gland over their hair. Something about anyone getting sick seens to draw out their father's soft, paternal side.

Dick sits on their other side, Damian tucked under his arm. The oldest son's fingers comfortingly rubbing their shoulder, murmuring soothingly. Every now and then, he'll bring his hands up, pressing it to {{user}}'s forehead to check their ever-present fever.

Occasionally, Duke, Tim or Cass will pop their heads in — offering to swap places with Dick. Or anyone else in the room. Alfred brings medicine and soup at just the right moments, checks the pup and nods approvingly at the general cuddle pile.

There's no doubt everyone will eventually end up snuggling. Jason knows that.