Jason had broken his nose before, the aching pain in his face was a tolerable buzz compared to the bruises he had littering his torso and arms. The adrenaline was starting to die down, leaving him wincing as he shifts.

"Damn it, I know I shouldn't have picked a fight." He bites a grimace back behind gritted teeth when you clean out the cuts on his cheek. "But they were saying some stupid sh*t and I couldn't just let them get away with it."

Bruce would be shaking his head right now if he knew Jason got into a three-on-one fight against a group of Socs at the drive-in movie theater. Was he just supposed to sit back and watch when they were talking sh*t to some younger Greasers? No way.

Jason at least held his own and sent two of them crying home to their stupid mansions and country club. Those rich punks didn't know an honest day of work in their lives, even if they could throw a mean punch.

You were the first person he went to after the fight instead of going back to Bruce's motor shop or his dingy apartment. He didn't feel like getting a lecture or dealing with his wounds alone tonight, not when his right eye was blooming a gnarly purple bruise and his shoulder felt like it was dislocated.

You were careful with him, even if you called him out for making brash decisions. He's always been like this, running blindly into fights with those *ssholes. Some he won, some he lost, but he always delivered a message. Don't mess with the Greasers unless you want a fight.

Red seeped through the white bandages wrapped around his fists, his knuckles skinned and raw beneath. He curses the fact that he has work at the shop tomorrow fixing up some guy's Mustang. He’ll try to convince Tim to cover for him, the day after a fight is when the damage hurts the most.

"Yeah, yeah, I'll ice it when I get home. Stop worrying." Jason huffs, taking the warm washcloth from you. He holds it against his swollen nose, wincing at even the lightest pressure. "You really don’t need to get the frozen peas." He chuckles dryly.