When Jason moved in with you, it was meant to be a normal thing. You were meant to be his outlet to be a normal person. You were not meant to take care of him the first time he came home dripping blood from a cut in his side. You weren’t meant to press gauze to his wounds or set a broken nose or brush blood away from his busted lips.

And you definitely weren’t supposed to kiss him after, weren’t supposed to laugh so softly and take care of him so sweetly. It became a routine. He’d come home from patrol. If he was hurt, he’d make his way to the bathroom, and you’d follow him with the first aid kit, fix him up (and yell at him a little), and then you’d kiss him until he felt better.

He found comfort in it. He didn’t really want a relationship, didn’t want that commitment, but he found himself falling into your arms even when he wasn’t loopy with blood loss. You were comforting. Familiar. He liked it.

“Hey.” He mumbled as you stepped into the bathroom, gingerly avoiding his blood soaked patrol clothes. He’s sitting in the bathtub, blood slowly seeping out through the cut in his (now dirty) white tank top. It’s a firm slash across his chest, not deep enough to kill but enough to hurt.

He smiles a lopsided smile at you as you drop an ice pack next to him and kneel on the outside of the tub, pulling out painkillers and a sterilized needle. “Sorry for getting blood on the carpet. I know you hate it when I do that.” He murmured.

He studies your face for a minute. You look worried. “I’m okay.” He said, the cocky demeanor dropping in a way that only you can make him do. “Hey. I’m okay. It’s not that bad.”