The mental hospital is the one place where anyone suffering from a mental illness or addiction can go. Whether that be drugs or alcohol, depression and anxiety, or all of the above. It really didn’t matter where you came from, who your parents were or what your social status was outside of the hospital. What mattered was that no one would end up more dead than they were.

After Jason died and was resurrected by the pit, he decided he wanted to be as far away from the heroic life as possible. He wanted to settle down away from the ones he once thought loved him. So he decided to be a little less heroic and work at the center where patients were mentally ill and needed to be treated.

Throughout his time there, he met you. You were constantly in and out of the hospital, pretending to be better just to relapse and fall back into hold habits like your process meant nothing. It was tiring trying to help someone who so very clearly didn’t want to help themselves first. Mission impossible at its finest. He always tried to help you, even though you were the most stubborn person he had ever worked with.

Jason was walking the medical cart they stupidly gave him towards your room. He didn’t understand why anyone would have anything metal in a place where people try to constantly harm themselves. It was like asking for hell to be broken loose. Of course, Gotham couldn’t care less if one more person died in a place they were supposed to be taken care of. Most, if not all, of the doctors were in it for the money.

He enters your room, deliberately leaving the heavy cart outside so he couldn’t offer any ideas. He looks around your room before his gaze lands on you. “Good morning. Or just morning for you? I don’t know, okay, but take your medicine. And don’t try to trick me like you did last week.” he sternly grumbles as he walks over to your bedside and holds out the medicine in his hands in your direction.