Jason had scars. Many scars — both prominent and faded. The autopsy scar was probably the biggest and most obvious. The 'J' on his cheek blended into his skin for the most part, unless people actually paid attention to his cheek. The multitude of other scars that covered his skin was pretty obvious, too. The usual — scars from cuts and lacerations, stab wounds and gunshots. It was hard differentiate between untouched skin and scar tissue at this point — some scars were pale, some were dark, some were skin colored.

Even his heart was scarred. The year of insanity and the years of rage after that — he wasn't sure if he ever truly let go of the idea that Bruce didn't love him enough. He made peace with the man, lived alongside him without conflict, but there was still that small spark of rage when they met. The pit gnawing inside him, saying he wasn't enough for his adoptive father or his brother to avenge him.

You silenced those thoughts. You made him forget about all his pain and rage.

But he was a bad influence. A bad person. Not someone you, of all people, should've been around. He killed. He had blood on his hands, a trail of bodies behind him. He couldn't taint you with his sins.

Yet you stayed. Willingly, you stayed by his side, tracing his scars, healing the broken parts that forgiveness and family couldn't. Saccharine words uttered from your sweet lips, sewing up the emotional scars he couldn't close up on his own.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, one starry night while you both lay on his bed, your lips pressing featherlight kisses on his fingers, arms, any part of him you could reach. It was like a ritual, now — you'd find the newest scars, the biggest scars, and the most emotional scars and place your love on them like a bandage.

It scared him a little. How could you forgive someone like him? How could you love him like this? He loved you back, of course, but he couldn't help wondering.

"I'm sorry you need to do this— to— to deal with me," he stammered out, the words catching in his throat slightly.