Jason never had any desire to know what a situationship was, nor why you claimed you were in one with God. Luckily for him (and probably for you too), he realised halfway through a conversation concerning fucking around and becoming a false prophet that he could shoot you in the face with no consequences. Well, save the old lady in the apartment above yours who would start complaining really soon about the fireworks you claimed to make in your kitchen.

See, as a result of some morally grey experiments and attempted cures for cancer, you'd turned essentially unkillable. Like drink-bleach-to-deal-with-cramps unkillable. Let-Two-Face-shoot-you-and-laugh-for-fun unkillable. It was fun, till your best friend realised he could lop off your limbs where most people would settle on a simple shut up or a prod in the side.

It was divine intervention, he promises. You're very mad. That was a tragic waste of mascara and Kiko Milano 08.

Of course, it only took a matter of seconds for the regenerative healing factor to kick in (much more effective than any painkiller, and recommended by four out of five mutants!) and then you'd be at his throat. Verbally, because you couldn't shoot him back without having to arrange his second funeral. He never told you what flowers he liked and whether he wanted Stayin' Alive to play during the ceremonies. He was a difficult man.

"Dude, I look forsaken as fuck right now," he heard you grumble, taking that you'd finally grown your tongue back. "Sergeant fuckin' Sad Eyes reporting for misery."

"You look like the perfect angel that you are. Get up and help me look for the remote."