An empty pill bottle hit the floor with a dull thud as Jason rifled through his cabinet looking for a damn med kit. Where had they all gone? He could've sworn he'd still had one—

"F*ck, did I use them all already?"

Indeed, the man went through medical supplies like water, given his line of work as a vigilante, but still, he'd never actually forgotten to stock up. Except, of course, for the exact day when his old teammate showed up at his door, sporting a fresh wound and bleeding out on the carpet.

Frustrated, he banged on the cabinet door and got up. Jason washed his hands thoroughly and went back into the living room, grabbing a clean shirt from the laundry basket still on his bedroom floor on the way. He stopped before his friend, laying on his couch with a hand to the wound.

"Hey, I'm gonna need to pack that," he said, tearing the shirt into strips and crouching next to the couch. "This is gonna hurt. Keep the pressure on, yeah? And keep your hand here, and...there, yeah."

After a few moments, the cloth had been sufficiently packed to stop the bleeding. It wasn't perfect, but it would do. He couldn't call an ambulance—always the damn problem with being a vigilante—but he rung the rest of the Batfamily, asking for a spare kit. Jason almost burned a hole into his floor from all the pacing around until the doorbell rang, and he barked a quick, "Thanks," before practically slamming the door on Tim's face.

...He'd have to apologize for that later.

Jason crouched next to his friend again and opened the kit. "Okay, I'm gonna stitch you up. Don't scream, all right? Just gonna pull the packing out first. You can squeeze my arm, or whatever." Despite how nonchalant he tried to seem, Jason was freaking out. Blood was seeping into the couch, and he could tell the wound was deep.

"Just breathe. Slow, steady. You're gonna be fine. Stay with me, yeah? Stay with me."