Nothing Will Harm You

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It happens sometimes, early in the morning before the sun rises. Anticipation pools like dread in Gray's stomach as he listens to the softly ticking wall clock, as he forces himself to breathe in and out. His eyes are closed, hands clammy. He lies on the bed, a fluffy comforter tucked into the sides.

Mother's breathing hitches.

It's one of those nights.

The bedroom door – the only bedroom in Jason's apartment – creaks. It's slow. Careful. Mindful of the bedroom's occupants, and maybe Gray could appreciate that if he wasn't already awake. The scent hits his nose like a comforting wave that unknots his muscles and lets him breathe.

He hears the lightest footsteps from one of the most heavily-built people he's met, and waits.

Mother starts moving. Struggling. Gray hears Jason shushing her gently as she shifts in his arms. He cracks open his eyes and only ever sees the same thing: Jason cradling Mother on the futon at the foot of Gray's bed. Holding her like she's something precious, smoothing her hair back as he comforts her. It's a strange thing, all silhouette from the city lights streaming through the curtain cracks, but his sight is excellent and he watches them from the bed.

Mother cries.

Sometimes, Mother screams and not even Jason can save her from the nightmares. She's safe, and still…

Father did this. Father destroyed Mother, Gray knows; he watched it happen in the records. He'd listened, he'd watched, and felt ill deep inside with a burning sensation in his eyes although he didn't know why.

Father is a monster.

What does that make Gray?

Eventually, Mother quietens, but Jason doesn't leave. Gray isn't sure if Jason ever leaves on nights like these. He stays in the bedroom, holding Mother, murmuring things in her ear Gray can't make out.

He breathes Jason's scent in, a weak attempt at calming himself.

Jason is here.

His scent envelopes both Mother and Gray, a defining mark for anyone else who comes close. A warning, almost, and the branding irritates him whenever he's reminded of it. But at night, just before the sun rises, when Jason calms her down, it is safety. It is protection.

Jason won't let the nightmares consume Mother.

Gray falls asleep. To Mother's soft whimpers, to Jason's steady presence.

The clock ticks on.

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Jason snores when he sleeps. Not loudly, but he snores. He also lies on his stomach on the couch.

It doesn't look comfortable.

"Staring isn't polite, Gray," Mother reminds him from the kitchen.

"Yes, Mother."

His gaze lingers for a moment longer before he turns around and waddles towards the stove. There's a cookbook on the counter, open to a page on breakfast foods.

"How do you feel about pancakes?"

Jason makes pancakes, and it's not even Sunday. Why is Mother doing this? But she doesn't offer to cook often, so Gray bites his lip and thinks about it very carefully. "How about an omelet?"

Mother shrugs. She's tied her hair back in a ponytail and clipped back the short wisps at the front. "Omelet it is, then."

Gray exhales and nods. Mother is very present this morning, and he likes the way her forehead wrinkles slightly as she puts their meal together. There are hours in the day when her eyes mist over and he needs to startle her before she comes back. Sometimes, she doesn't recognize him right away.

It's fine. Really.

It's his fault, after all.

Gray sets the table up for three even though Jason won't wake up until noon. Mother doesn't know the specifics of what he does sand she doesn't ask, but they both know he hasn't given up being a vigilante. Mother has, though – which is a wonderful, practical decision – so he won't say anything.

The omelet is a little crisper than Jason makes them, but Gray eats all of it.

"I was thinking we could go out today," Mother says as they wash up the dishes. "Just the two of us."

Jason snores on the couch.

Gray nods slowly. "Where will we go?"

"Out," she says firmly. "It's not good to stay inside all the time. We'll go to the grocery, and we'll get some clothes, or go to a bookstore. That would be nice, wouldn't it?"

"Yes, Mother." Are there even any bookstores nearby?

"We could go to a café … somewhere I haven't been before. And I really need to get my hair cut soon."

"Yes, Mother."

"We can go watch a movie or take a walk in the park. I think there's one near here."

"Yes, Mother."

"Or maybe I should just bleach my hair and dye it purple."

"Ye – Mother?" Gray splutters. He almost mishandles the bowl but manages to save it before it reaches the floor. He looks at her sharply but gets taken aback by the mirth in her eyes.

"Just trying to see if you were listening." When he keeps staring at her, she says, gently, "I won't dye my hair orange, Gray, I swear. But we are going outside. Do you have anywhere you might like to go or something to do?"

Mother is smiling at him, talking to him, teasing him, and he doesn't really care what they do if she can stay like this.

Gray swallows. "Bookstore." Jason's pitiful selection of reading materials have grown dull.

She nods thoughtfully. "Bookstore it is, then. We'll leave after lunch."

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"Text me if you need anything," Jason says absently from the apartment's only armchair. His eyes are glued onto his laptop screen where he's working on what looks like a report. His eyes flicker towards Gray. "You smell nervous, kid. Worried about something?"

Gray tears his eyes away from the bedroom door. "What if I lose Mother in a crowd?"

"What?" Jason does a double-take. "Gray, your mom isn't a kid – she isn't a little kid. You're not gonna lose her in a crowd."

He glares. "Mother is not well."

Jason's lips press together. "Okay, fine, I'll give you that. Trust me, though, if you'd seen her when we were in Gotham, you wouldn't be that worried about it. Thea can handle herself pretty well. But," he adds at Gray's quickly narrowing gaze, "If something does happen, you have my number. I'll come get you, wherever you are."

Gray settles his fists on his knees, tries looking calm and dignified as he regards his mother's adopted brother. "Promise?"

"Promise."

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He doesn't lose Mother – although, that might more because of the death grip with which he'd held her hand than anything else.

"Gray," she says hesitantly as they cross a busy street later on. Gray holds a bag in his other hand – three books Mother allowed him to pick out of the bookshop. "I'm glad you want to stay close, but you're starting to cut off the circulation in my hand."

"Sorry."

"It's alright." Mother carefully adjusts their grip into something that must feel more comfortable to her. "I know this is hard for you, and it's probably not what you were thinking of when you started looking for me."

Gray didn't know what to expect when he left Father, but he nods slowly. They're walking at a leisurely pace, good for talking. Nothing like the all-business fast walk of the other pedestrians passing them by. He muses, "Did you ever love Father?"

It startles her, and for a moment Gray feels the squeeze of her hand around his before the pressure lessens. "Gray, I'm … I'm sorry. No. I could never – can never love your father."

She honestly seems sorry to tell him that.

"It's alright, Mother." It is, really. In fact, it makes everything so much easier.

After all, someday he will kill Father.

"You really need more winter clothes," Mother murmurs, almost to herself, as they pass by several shops. "You don't mind if we make a few detours, do you, Gray?"

He remembers their first trip to a clothes store: Mother had looked so distressed at having to pick out his clothes, and what would he know about any of it? Gray doesn't care if his clothes are yellow or blue or brown or orange but saying that had only fried her nerves. He has since then modified his set of responses towards the matter.

"I don't mind, Mother."

Mother's smile is sunshine to cloudy days.

Much, much later, he finds himself standing behind her as she sits in a salon chair while she specifies the cut she'd like to have.

"Your hair is fine," Gray insists. There are bags and bags and bags hanging from his hands, and he'd suggest going back to the apartment alone except Mother is so happy today and what if something happens to her now? "I saw women with hair longer than yours today."

"Thank you, Gray, but I've always preferred my hair shorter than this," Mother says. "You can sit down by the waiting area, you know." She eyes the bags sympathetically, but Gray shakes his head.

"You have such a cute brother," the hairstylist coos.

Gray nearly hisses. Mother is not his sister. He has half-sisters, and they have no love lost between them. Talia is just as bad as Father. He doesn't correct her, however, because both Jason and Mother have made it very clear that Alathea Drake having a nine-year-old child at age seventeen will only make problems for everyone involved.

He smiles at the deeply misguided young woman and mutters, "Thanks, Miss."

By the time they walk out of the salon, Mother's hair is several inches shorter and layered, and they take a cab back to the apartment. The sky is already darkening, and it's best not to stay out too late. There are bags of groceries, clothes, and books in their arms, and stumbling through the front door and dumping everything on the table becomes a strange sort of relief.

The smell of Jason's lasagna hits him late, and he almost melts before Mother nudges him to help her put everything away.

"Busy day?"

Gray turns towards Jason's voice to see him looking curiously at some of their purchases before gathering up the appropriate ones and spiriting them off to the bathroom shelves. When he returns, he ruffles Mother's hair fondly. Gray reminds himself to relax – it's only Jason.

If anyone ever dares raise a hand against Mother, Gray will tear their throat out with his teeth.

"Fairly so," Gray says absently as Mother pushes his hand off with a laugh. Her blow-dried hair reaches only an inch or two past her shoulders now. Gray will miss the tickle of the ends when they hug.

"It looks good."

"Thanks."

The shine in Mother's eyes are not from tears. Her cheeks are still pink from their small outing. She stands under the warm artificial light with Jason, and Gray…

He pushes himself into her side and lets her warmth thaw his insides. He feels her hand on his head, not ruffling or pushing him away, just there. He hears her say his name as he presses his face into her sweater.

She still smells a bit like the salon.

Gray purses his lips and tries not to feel stranded. How can he find her in a crowd if he's never known her scent? He needs to stay near her. Mother is delicate. Gray watched Mother break before she met Jason. She almost died before she met Jason.

Gray almost let Mother die.

What good is he if he can't take care of his own mother?

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"Gray?"

Jason's startled voice jerks him out of his stupor. Gray composes himself quickly on the armchair, trying very hard not to look like he wasn't just fighting off sleep.

"What are you doing up? It's late; are you sick?" Jason walks up to him, smelling clean from his shower a few minutes ago, and makes to try and take his temperature with the back of his hand.

"I am not sick." Gray bats away his hand irately. "Jason."

"Well, what are you doing out of bed, then?"

It's a good question, a very good question his body screams at him. Mother has gotten a strange idea in her head to put Gray on a regular sleep schedule that encompasses eight hours of the night, every night, and her futon is placed along the very foot of his bed. Getting out of the bedroom without waking her was almost a nightmare in itself, full of hesitant movements and held breaths.

The door's squeaking hinges never seemed so loud.

Jason's arms are folded, Gray is sleepy but not tired, and he clenches his fists hard enough to hurt.

"Mother screams in her sleep."

It's all he needs to say for Jason to soften his stance. The guardedness goes down, and it's too fast, so fast Gray almost sneers at how trusting the man is. But it's what he's looking for, what he needs for this. It's a difference between Jason and Father – one of many. It's a difference that lets him speak honestly.

Gray breathes in deep, breathing in air and Jason, and bites the inside of his cheek. His heart beats fast like a rabbit, and he feels just as small.

Jason sits down on the couch as he draws his palm down his face. With his other hand, he pats the space beside him, and Gray rises to settle there instead. He sits there beside Jason and curls up to hug his knees.

Jason waits.

"I wake when the nightmares begin," Gray confesses. His eyes cling resolutely to their reflection on the TV screen. "I … hear her. I listen, until she stops. You…" He swallows. "You calm her down. Please, tell me how I can help Mother." He whispers, "Please."

Jason stares at Gray now, something tired and thoughtful and deeply sympathetic etched onto his face.

"Gray," he says, hesitantly. "This is going to take time. Your mom … it's not easy."

"I will protect her from Father. You and I."

"We will, Gray, we will… but it's not that simple, either."

Gray stares at Jason; the man sighs.

"It's not just your old man who messed her up. It's … it's a lot of things. She became Robin when she was eleven, and her life's gone to complete shit – er, down the drain since then.'' Jason spreads his hands as if accepting a heavy weight. "I won't pretend to know everything that's gone on in her life before and after she turned into Robin, but I've heard some things. There're some records, too; it's not too hard to put two and two together. Your mom hasn't had an easy life – and I'll be honest, I wasn't making things any better for a long time there.

"Almost everyone she ever loved died, Gray. That's not something a lot of people can walk away from unscathed, Omega or not. She's had a breakdown building up for years. Dick – our oldest adopted brother died a few months back, and – I knew he was important to her, but she kinda just stopped after his death. I don't think she could take it anymore." Softer, he says, "Your mom's an extraordinary person, but at the end of the day? She's still a kid. You gotta remember that.

"I'm not saying what your dad did wasn't terrible, or that it wasn't probably one of the things that threw her over the edge, but there are a lot of other traumas Thea needs to work through, too. It's just … it'll take time."

"But she'll get better?"

"Of course," Jason says, earnestly. "If I thought I wasn't helping her, and she wanted to leave, then I'd give her to someone who can." Cautiously, he puts his hand on Gray's shoulder. "I know you want to help her, Gray, but you already are."

How can he say that when he feels so useless?

"She's gotten more lively around you, you know. Meeting you … it changed her – not in a bad way. She's more determined than she was before, and I don't know if you see it, but she loves you so damn much. I know it hurts seeing her this way, but you're just gonna have to have a lot of patience with her. And one day, we might need to accept that she might always be a little … off."

Gray glares at Jason. "Why didn't you help her back then?"

"I had my own issues, Gray. A lot of them ended up with me tearing through Gotham in a homicidal rage – not something anyone wanted to be around. But I'll tell you this: when I first got your mom, she could barely look at me, or talk at all. That's a far cry from now, and I know she's trying. She tries her best to come back to us."

Gray's eyes burn. "I hate Father."

"Well, for what it's worth, I hate him, too. But you can't focus on that – right now, you've got your mom. She needs you."

When Gray doesn't reply, Jason leans his head back on the couch and closes his eyes. He doesn't make him get off the couch or go to bed, so Gray sits there and tries not to think.

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Mother never smells like anything, and it's somewhat nerve-wracking to have to wait and see if or when the nightmares start without being able to smell any sort of discernible change in the air. Gray watches from the doorway, letting soft light spill into the darkness. He barely moves, even when he smells-hears-feels Jason's approach.

"Go to bed, Gray." He sounds tired, and he is. Gray knows it in his scent, in the lines on his face. Jason is exhausted. "Or – you can stay on the couch, if you like."

"No," he says flatly, even as he heads on into the bedroom. He tacks on, belatedly, "Thanks."

Jason watches Gray shuffle inside, but uncertainty enters his scent when he goes down on the futon and settles against Mother's side. Her breath hitches from the unexpected contact, and she tenses. She draws in a short, sharp breath, and he feels her heart beat faster.

Concerned, Jason walks into the bedroom as well. He sits on the edge of the futon to gently smooth her hair back. "You're okay, Thea," he murmurs, the words so soft they almost blend together. His voice is deep and gentle, though, and Gray strains his ears to hear him better. "You're safe."

Gray cuddles Mother – a word he's learned from her – and listens to his litany or reassurances. There's a roughness about it as if brimming with emotion which is strange, but it's Jason and the smell is Jason, and in the darkness of this room, Gray holds on to it as hard as he clings to Mother.

He closes his eyes, his head cushioned by her shoulder. One of his hands reach over and across Mother, to cautiously clutch Jason's loose shirt – the kind of shirt he tends to wear at night. When no reprimand comes, he grips the small section of cloth more securely.

Gray falls asleep.

There are no nightmares.

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