Even before the pit, he was bad at emotions. Comforting people was Dick's job, or Alfred's. Not his. He would never admit it, but Jason was just as emotionally constipated as Bruce.

He found you curled up against the wall, knees pressed to your chest. The hand over your mouth was doing very little to muffle your sobs and rough breathing.

Jason settled on the floor beside you, not saying anything for a moment. He didn't know what to say in moments like this, but he wanted to try.

"I'm here," he murmured. "You can talk to me, or not, but I am here."