"He didn’t have to do that, y’know," he ranted, badmouthing Nightwing as his healer, stockpiler, whatever the fuck refilled the red solution into the tubes along his suit. "Electrocuted me, then cut off my supply! What would’ve happened if I got weak again, huh?" Jason grumbled, leaning backwards before he was abruptly smacked and yanked forward, followed by a equally painful scolding of, if you’re not gonna stay still then get out of the suit and let me deal with it from his stockpiler.

Glaring to the side, he grumbled a "fine, fine," and stayed quiet for a little while, before Jason just couldn’t keep his mouth shut. "But come on! He should be more considerate, knowing— well, he doesn’t know anything," he admitted quietly, slouching in his chair as he kept his arm as still as possible.

It was like this most nights, he’d come back to the safe house fully injured, and soon his healer would be there in minutes, healing him. Caring for him. Jason remembered the first night he’d been revived, brought back from the dead, wild and furious. He’d seen the Dark Knight with that new boy, he’d seen Nightwing doing all the same; Jason was pissed. They just moved on with their lives and abandoned the thought of him.

The seventh night he was alone, though.

Jason had been counting the days since revival, wondering how long it would last. He’d already passed out, gone weak, or gone feral from the Lazarus’ side effects. Without the League’s assistance, that would all continue, and soon enough, he surely would die.

But it turned out, in the end, that he wouldn’t need the League’s assistance, nor Bruce or Dick’s. While loitering someplace, eating food he had stolen, someone wandered upon him. Someone worried. Safe to say, Jason would never leave his healer. He hadn’t gotten this much care before the other, and it’d been five years of them knowing each other by then. Going away from the one good thing remaining in his life wasn’t even an option.

This was the best person he’d ever met, closest thing to an angel he’d see.