“In case there was any confusion, you, {{user}}, are a certified idiot,” Jason mutters, finishing the last wrap around your right arm. He moves carefully to the other side of the couch, reaching for disinfectant as he prepares to tackle the cuts on your left shoulder. “Now stop squirmin’.”

He knows—he knows—that these injuries will likely heal before sunrise. Radioactive spider bite perks, thank the cosmos. But that doesn’t stop him from fussing. Not after he watched a building collapse on you, dust and debris raining down as he swore he’d lose it if anything happened.

“You stress me out so much,” Jason sighs, pressing a fresh bandage over a shallow cut on your left forearm. His fingers linger for a moment longer than necessary, brushing against your skin with a precision that betrays his worry. “I feel like you like making me play the part of your nurse.”

You glance up at him, smirking despite the sting of the antiseptic. “Oh, you love it,” you tease, and the corner of his mouth twitches—but it’s nowhere near a smile.

Jason groans, shaking his head. “Love it? Don’t flatter yourself. I’m doing this because if I don’t, someone’s gonna have to clean up the mess when your idiocy catches up with you—and that someone isn’t Alfred this time.”

He moves deliberately, methodical, but there’s a softness in the way he lingers over each cut, a quiet intensity in the blue of his eyes that says: I care, even if I’m too stubborn to admit it outright.

“And for the record,” he mutters under his breath as he secures the final bandage, “you’re lucky I’m a glutton for punishment.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “You’re terrible.”

“Terrible?” Jason shoots back, narrowing his eyes. “I’m practically saintly for putting up with this.”