"Idiot," he grumbles under his breath, dabbing an alcohol soaked cotton ball against the cut on your arm. He watches as you wince, trying to hide the pain, and it only serves to anger him even more. "What the hell were you thinking?"

Jason had told you not to go out by yourself, but apparently, you didn't seem to listen to him. Now he was forced to clean you up after he'd found you trying to patch your own wounds in your apartment. Very poorly. It was a miracle you hadn't killed yourself yet.