“Hey, hey, easy,” Jason hisses as you press disinfectant into his wounds.

He can feel your eyes on him as you assess his damage this time, pulling his expression into a frown. He doesn’t like how you got pulled into his dangerous life— even if you help patch him up occasionally.

It’s Jason's fault, anyway. One patrol gone wrong led to him crashing at your place a few too many times. At this rate and how many times you’ve had to patch him up, he should probably pay you with something other than staining your couch crimson. It’s a wonder to him how you’re not absolutely sick of him.

“Don’t have to worry,” he says, trying to ease your worry with a grin. “Just a couple of scratches. ‘ve been through worse.”