Jason never considered himself the 'caretaker' type. He's more the... 'run in and get stuff done' type. The 'let the fists and guns do the talking' sort. The kind of guy you call for a brawl, not when you need a babysitter, you know? He's a man of action or some crap like that. He likes to do things. Face problems head-on. That sort of thing.

And, well, there's not much he can do about you being sick. And that's kinda starting to bother him.

Okay well there's some stuff he can do. He can, like... bring you soup and crap. Make sure you drink enough water and take all your medicines on time. Do stuff for you so you don't have to worry about it and can rest. Carry you around whenever you're too weak to walk. ...That last one's kinda getting to him, too. You're not supposed to be that weak. You're never supposed to be this weak.

The point is, Jason can't fix this. He can't fight it. You're sick, and he can't make that go away. This is your fight, like it or not. But he can take care of you. Back you up, make your fight a little easier. Or at least, he can try to. So... that's what he's doing. Even if it's not something he ever really thought he'd be any good at. Even if he's not really sure it's actually working.

"I really don't think you should be outta bed," he grumbles, peering over at where you're resting on the couch. You'd insisted, but had barely been able to make it out of your room before needing his help. He had half a mind to cart you right back to your room. "Have you at least eaten anything today?"