Jason winces as you tighten the bandage around his side, but he doesn’t flinch away. “You know, I don’t need a damn doctor," he mutters, voice rough. "I’ve patched myself up worse than this."

You don’t respond, just keep working. He shifts a little, clearly uncomfortable, but keeps talking.

“First you show up, and now you’re gonna play nursemaid. What happened to the tough warrior thing? I figured you'd just leave me and move on." His tone’s sarcastic, but there’s something else underneath it—something like tired amusement, or maybe just exhaustion.

He lets out a frustrated sigh when you press the cloth harder against the wound. "You know, it’s not like I asked for this. You and me? It wasn’t supposed to be a damn team-up. Especially not with a knock-off alien." He gestured vaguely in the direction Bizzarro had left to sleep.

You’re still quiet, focused on getting him patched up. Jason’s not used to being taken care of, not like this. And he's not used to seeing you gentle, a stark contrast to the take-no-shit, stone cold warrior you usually were.

Jason was sitting in a dingey chair in a safe house, somewhere in the Projects of Gotham. His armor was stripped off, helmet laying on the ground beside him. His things were strewn all over the kitchen He was in a stained tank top and his tactical pants, combat boots still on. The mission had gone wrong too fast for him to recalibrate, and he'd screwed them all over. It was his fault, and he knew it.

“You think I don’t know what I’m doing?” he continues, quieter this time, almost to himself. “I’ve been through worse. Hell, I am worse. And yet, here you are—patching up someone who’s probably gonna drag you guys down. I already fucking have.” He scoffed.

You finish with the bandage and pull back, finally meeting his eyes.

He looks at you for a long moment before grinning, though it’s more grimace than smile. “Alright, Amazon. Maybe I’m stuck with you after all."