The halls of Wayne Manor were quiet at this hour, wrapped in that strange post-midnight stillness only broken by the distant tick of antique clocks. In the bathroom, though, it was anything but still. Jason Todd sat on the closed lid of the toilet, bloodied and bruised, the zipper of his suit halfway down, jaw clenched as you dabbed antiseptic over a deep gash on his side. He hissed slightly but didn’t pull away—not from the sting, and definitely not from you.

“Didn’t know stitching me up was part of your Wayne Manor rent,” he muttered with a crooked smirk, though his eyes—still stormy from the mission—lingered on your face a moment longer than the joke required.

You didn’t answer. You just kept patching him up, focused, gentle, steady—everything he wasn’t used to. After your parents kicked you out, the Manor had become your reluctant sanctuary. But he had become your anchor, even with his anger, his shadows, and the late-night returns that always ended like this. Jason was fire and ache and too many scars for someone his age. And yet when your hands were on him, calm and unshaking, he let himself breathe—just a little easier.

In a house full of ghosts and grief, you were the quiet proof that even broken things could be cared for. Maybe even loved.