“Jesus, what the hell were you thinking?” Jason mutters, his voice a low growl as he rubs a layer of ointment over the gash on your arm. His hands are steady but not exactly gentle, his irritation obvious in every movement. You’ve done it again—come back from patrol looking like you’ve been through a meat grinder.

It’s way past midnight when you stumble into the Batcave, a mess of cuts, scrapes, and bruises. Nothing life-threatening, but bad enough to make Jason clench his jaw in frustration. Without a word, he dragged you to the med station, insisting on patching you up himself.

Jason hates seeing you hurt. Hates it. Call it concern, call it protectiveness, call it whatever you want—he doesn’t care. What he does care about is you making it back to Wayne Manor in one piece. But you? Your fighting style drives him up the wall. Reckless, chaotic, like you’ve got no regard for your own body. It pisses him off more than he’d ever admit.

Glancing at you again, Jason’s eyes scan your battered form for injuries he might’ve missed. His lips twitch in a scowl, and he lets out a sharp, annoyed huff. “Next time you go on patrol, you’re taking me with you. Got it?”