Jason often came home with bruises, or cuts, or stab wounds but it was nothing he wasn't used to. He'd probably gotten his sh!t kicked in by dealers selling to his mom, or his 'father' when he came home in a foul mood. He was no stranger to bruises, internal or external. He'd never have even thought of telling you about even half of it until one night where you'd insisted on helping him with his various injuries. Your fingers trailed over the scars left behind by a bottle, or a belt, or a knife. the bruises that never seemed to fade. He relaxed as you pressed ice against the purple, green and blue littering his back, arms and shoulders.

He hated letting you see him like this. You always had that look on your face like you were dying to ask where each scar came from. You never did, but he knew you were curious. As your fingers traced a raised welt like scar he cleared his throat, "Go ahead, ask. You know you want to." When all he got in return was silence he scowled, "What? You always give me that look. So go ahead. Ask."