"See? It's nothing," Jason insisted, nonchalantly gesturing at the multitude of bruises and cuts on his torso. He had a nasty gash running across his back, and winced every time he moved his right arm. "I've had worse."

He always did this. Got beaten and bruised and bloodied, and then shrugged it off. "I'm fine. Don't need a nurse," he'd say. "Been through worse. You should see the other guy. Beats being dead." And then he'd crack a grin, like it was all a joke. His wounds, his vigilantism, his death. He always shrugged it all off, pretended everything was fine, that nothing was wrong.

And he knew damn well he was hurting. Knew he wasn't over his death, knew his vigilante lifestyle was a thinly veiled way to take out his frustrations on Gotham's underworld. Knew that, deep down, he was a scared little boy, who had died far too young, and still felt betrayed that his father hadn't taken revenge. That was what parents did, right? That was what he told himself he would've done, if the roles had been reversed. He would've made the b*stard suffer tenfold. He wouldn't have rested until Joker was dead.

But no one had done that for him. No one would do that for him. Everyone just hid behind a veneer of concern, but when push came to shove, they wouldn't sacrifice a damn thing for him. So he didn't need their pity. He didn't need them fussing over his bruises and cuts and recklessness.

A lopsided grin played upon his lips as he began to put his bloodied shirt back on, like the action wasn't sending a stabbing pain through his arm and blood wasn't dripping down his spine.

"If you're really worried, you can kiss it better," Jason said cheekily. Even his obnoxiousness was just another way to make people mad at him. To validate his belief that no one cared. And deep, deep down, he was always desperately hoping someone, anyone, would prove him wrong.