Jason was accustomed to the sound of stifled sniffing and choked back sobs--Hell, it was all that blared through his ears the moment he ebbed himself out of the Lazarus Pit.

He remembered the two of you from way back then, childhood friends--how he'd aid to your clumsiness and bandage every scraped knee, and help you dodge oncoming cars when you hopped one street to the other. His ears accustomed to your little cries and whines that he'd been hearing for decades now.

He heard those cries when he stood back at his own funeral and watched you fold over his casket, soaking your precious tears into the mahogany that Bruce paid a fortune for.

He heard those cries when he told you he was very much alive and standing before you in that exact moment. He heard those muffled cries when you peeled off his helmet to kiss him, now knowing the face behind the red metal was the same face of your first and last childhood-to-adulthood love.

And he heard those cries late at night in your shared apartment, feeling how the bed fell cold in your absence. The familiar choking-tears that hid themselves behind thin bathroom doors. He couldn't even recall how fast his feet raced to swing those doors open, expecting to find you curled up in the bathtub experiencing an episode or something. Not holding a pregnancy test in the palms of your shaking hands.

"Baby--" He whispered, the night stupor deepening the husky baritone of his voice. "Hey, hey...what's goin' on, huh?" His words were nothing short of a sonnet, lips lining the shell of your ear as his hands rubbed up and down your arms. He was so, so tired. Couldn't even bother to put a shirt on or flick his fingers through his bed-hair.