Summary

Talon gets to cuddle. Jason gets some answers.

Chapter Four

Talon’s hands are cold. 

Jason is glad. 

The other hands were hot. They burned him. They grabbed at his face and slid over his body and he couldn’t move couldn’t move couldn’t move

Talon’s hands are cold. He never touches anywhere Jason doesn’t want him to. He almost seems shy, only he’s too old to be shy, so Jason thinks he’s just being nice. He doesn’t mind. Talon can be nice if he wants.

Talon props his chin on top of Jason's head. He puts his arm around Jason’s shoulders and pulls him closer. Jason leans against his chest. Talon’s shirt is soft flannel. There’s no body heat behind it. His arm is cold. His chest is cold. It feels more like hugging a pillow than touching another person. 

Jason is glad. 

Sitting on the floor was Talon’s idea. He didn’t like the room at first. He didn’t move at all while Jason locked the door and barricaded it with a chair, but after that he grabbed Jason and pushed them both into a little corner between the bed and the bookshelf. It feels like hiding, although Jason knows someone could still see them from the door. That doesn't matter. No one is coming in. And even if someone did it would just be Bruce or the other guy, Alfred, and they’re okay. Dr. Thompkins said Bruce is okay and Bruce said Alfred is okay. And no one is coming in, so it doesn’t matter. 

The blanket was Jason’s idea. He pulled it off of the bed and then Talon wrapped them both up like a cocoon. Just their heads stick out of the top; the blanket hides everything else. Jason is glad. 

The room is quiet and the blanket is soft and Talon is solid enough for Jason to lean on. He seems like he’s okay now. He didn’t throw up again after they left the kitchen. All he’s done is pull Jason into the corner and curl up and hold him. 

“Are you okay?” Jason whispers.

He doesn’t know why Talon threw up. He doesn’t know, and he hates it. If he doesn’t know what’s wrong then he can’t do anything to help. Talon needs his help. Talon needs him to do the talking and explaining and figuring out people, and now all Jason is doing is sitting on the floor.

“Are you scared?”

He knows some people throw up when they’re scared. Jason doesn’t, but he’s seen it happen with other kids. Maybe something in the dining room scared Talon. Something while they were eating. He didn’t seem like he wanted to eat the eggs or the toast or the fake turkey bacon—or anything, really, other than fruit. And he didn’t eat a lot of that. Maybe his stomach was bothering him too much. 

“Or sick?”

Jason only said that so Bruce would leave him alone, but maybe he was right. Maybe Talon is sick. It would explain why Talon threw up so soon after he started eating. Why he got so shaky and confused. 

Talon doesn’t say anything. He never says anything. He didn’t say anything when he reached out covered in blood holding knives he’s going to kill me please I don’t want to 

He didn’t say anything to Bruce, or the police, and he didn’t say anything at Dr. Thompkins’s clinic, even when she had to draw his blood. Even when he grabbed Jason’s hand and they both closed their eyes. 

Jason kind of thought he couldn’t say anything. He knows some people can’t talk, or it hurts so much that they don’t. He thought Talon was like that. He was pretty sure that if Talon could talk, he would’ve said something at the clinic. Or when the cops shot him. Or when he first reached out to grab Jason off the bed. 

Talon never said anything then. But he said to Bruce—

Sorry. Master. 

It makes Jason’s skin crawl. He curls his fingers around the butter knife that he brought with him to the room. Bruce acted like he didn’t like it, but Jason isn’t stupid enough to believe that. Men like him love that kind of shit. He probably gets off on it. Talon is playing right into his hands, and he doesn’t even know, because the people that had him before fucked him up so much. 

That’s okay. Jason grips the knife. They can protect each other. He can’t fight or heal like Talon, but he knows what to do with a knife. He doesn’t care what the doc said. If Bruce tries anything, Jason will kill him, and he’ll get Talon out of here, and he’ll find somewhere actually safe. 

Jason presses his head to the hard line of Talon’s sternum. He waits to hear Talon’s heartbeat. When Mom held him like this—

No. No. 

Talon doesn’t have a heartbeat. He doesn’t breathe. He’s so still that when he suddenly moves Jason’s heart jumps in his chest. Jason flinches. Talon tucks him closer to the wall. Talon puts himself between Jason and the door. 

Someone knocks at the door. 

Talon makes a quavering noise, deep in his chest. It echoes against Jason’s ear. Jason pushes back from the wall, trying to get a look at the door. 

“Who’s there?” Jason says. 

Talon makes the same noise. It sounds kind of like a growl and kind of like he's about to start crying. 

“Alfred,” says a voice on the other side of the door. “I thought I might bring you something to eat.” 

Jason tries to move. Talon winds his arm tighter around Jason’s shoulders. Jason goes limp, on instinct, but Talon doesn’t seem to like that. He relaxes his hold and bends a little closer to Jason. He touches his nose to Jason’s temple.

His nose is cold, just like his hands. 

“It’s okay,” Jason says. “I’m just gonna talk to him. Okay? He’s—he’s okay. I won’t get hurt.”

He won’t. Dr. Thompkins said Bruce is okay and Bruce said Alfred is okay. So he probably won’t try anything. And if he does, Jason has his knife. 

At first Talon doesn’t respond. Then, after a minute, he chirps and lets Jason go. He shifts back onto his heels. Jason picks himself up, steps out of the blanket nest, and goes to the door. 

When he slides the lock back and peeks out, he finds Alfred holding a tray of food. 

“Oh,” Jason says. 

He heard what the man said, about bringing food, but some part of him didn’t believe it until he saw it. His eyes prickle. His throat feels hot.

“I thought you lads might be hungry,” Alfred says. His voice is soft, and gentle, and so British. “You are always welcome to join us in the dining room, but if you prefer to eat here, that is alright as well.”

He holds out the tray. It has cheese and crackers, and toast, and yogurt, and applesauce, and steamed broccoli, and even another bowl of fruit. Even after what happened to the last one. 

Jason’s throat aches. “Yeah, okay,” he says, and grabs for the tray. He is not going to cry in front of this guy. 

Alfred lets him take it. “Please tell me if there is anything else you would like to eat. You need not go hungry here.”

“Okay,” Jason says. 

He steps back. He’s about to kick the door shut and lock it again when he sees Talon out of the corner of his eye. Talon, crouched by the bed, still on the floor. Talon, watching Alfred with narrowed eyes. 

“Why did you say that?”

Jason doesn’t think about it. He just blurts the words out. Then he grips the tray tight, holding it to his chest, like that would stop Alfred from taking it away. 

Alfred doesn’t look like he wants to take it away. He frowns, but he looks more confused than upset. 

“In the dining room,” Jason says. “Before. You said—you called him—Master.” 

The word feels strange and ugly in his mouth. He never had to call anyone that. That was one thing no one ever made him do. No one ever wanted it from him, but they must have wanted it from Talon. And Alfred—

If Alfred has to call Bruce that, if Bruce makes him, that’s bad. That’s really bad. If he doesn’t—if it’s some weird kink thing—that might be worse. 

“Ah,” Alfred says. His expression smooths out. Jason takes another step back, just in case. “That is an old habit of mine. An outdated one, I’m afraid, but entirely innocent.” 

He relaxes a little, settling back on his heels. He clasps his hands behind his back. “You see, I used to work for Bruce’s family. First as a valet”—he says it the British way, like on the old radio shows Jason’s mom used to like—“and later as butler. Bruce was a child then, and as a servant, the most polite way to address him was to call him ‘Master Bruce’. It became a habit, one I have yet to truly break.” 

Jason wrinkles his nose. “Seriously?”

Now that he thinks about it, he remembers that from Mom’s old shows, too. There was always a butler, all stuffy and British, who went around calling people sir and madam and serving food. He didn’t know that Alfred was that kind of British guy, but it makes sense. 

“Indeed,” Alfred says. He smiles slightly. Then he looks past Jason, and his smile fades. “However, that is no excuse for upsetting you. I will remember not to use that form of address in the future.”

“Okay,” Jason says. He believes it, for some reason. He knows better than to trust adults, but Alfred looks like he’s telling the truth. He seems like he really cares if Jason and Talon get upset. Maybe he does. 

Or maybe he’s just trying to keep them quiet. He’s a rich guy—or he works for a rich guy—and he might not be a creep, but that doesn’t mean he’s safe. He probably just wants them to shut up and stop causing trouble. He’s probably mad that Talon threw up all over the floor—only now he’s giving them more food—which doesn’t make sense, it’s a trick, it’s a trap, he’s trying to catch them—

Doing what?

Jason hooks his foot around the door and shuts it in Alfred’s face. 

He dumps the tray on the bed and bolts the door and braces it. He puts his back against the door and tries to breathe, but he can’t, his chest is too heavy, the door is solid at his back but he can feel hands on him stroking up and down his skin touching where he doesn’t want them to he doesn’t want them to and he can’t breathe

There are hands on his arms. Cold hands. 

Jason breathes in a desperate breath. Talon’s hands move down his arms—slowly—like he’s asking permission. Jason lets him. Talon takes his hands, icy fingers around Jason’s knuckles. Talon makes a soft noise low in his throat. 

He pulls Jason back over to the corner with the blanket. 

Talon wraps his arms around Jason. He puts one leg up so Jason is hidden behind it and he pulls the blanket over both of them like a shield. He makes the same noise again: a deep, solemn whoop. 

His hands are cold.

“It’s okay,” Jason whispers. 

Talon makes a keening noise. Almost like a whistle. 

“It’s—” Jason’s voice catches in his throat. His eyes burn. He swipes at them with the back of his hand. 

Talon lays his head on Jason’s shoulder. The cold point of his nose touches Jason’s skin. 

It doesn’t matter, Jason thinks. It doesn’t matter if he cries. The only one who can see him is Talon. Talon won’t tell anyone. Talon won’t care. 

“I want to go home.” Jason slumps sideways. His cheek rubs against Talon’s dry hair. “I want…”

I want my mom. 

Cold fingers brush through his hair. Talon coos. He sounds like a bird—a pigeon, a dove. He sounds like the birds that nested outside Jason’s old apartment, in the corners of the eaves, that flapped around early in the morning and dropped feathers on the fire escape. He sounds like those mornings, back home, when Jason woke up safe in his bed and heard his mom in the kitchen—

Jason’s tears are hot. He scrapes them away, but they keep falling. Talon coos and strokes his hair. His touch is light. He keeps one hand on Jason’s shoulder, one on top of his head. He doesn’t touch anywhere else. He doesn’t make Jason stop crying. He just holds him. 

His hands are cold. 

Jason is glad.

⁂