Jason is a stubborn idiot—he knows it, and everyone else does, too. Who in their right mind would go out and fight crime in the state he’s in? No one, except Jason, of course. His back had just been wrapped in fresh bandages, the bat-shaped burn Two-Face gave him still hurting like hell. He was supposed to be off patrol for at least two months—at least, that’s what Dr. Thompkins said. But did he listen? Of course not!

And now, here he was, gasping for air on the cold ground of whatever crappy place he’d ended up in after saving some civilians from a hostage situation. One of the henchmen managed to land a hit on his back, clocking him right over the scarred tissue, and bringing him so much pain that he almost thought he hallucinated the Joker.

Jason barely managed to take down every single criminal before the adrenaline wore off, leaving him in this pathetic state. He genuinely thought this was it—he’d either bleed out from the wound reopening or die from the shock of the pain. Whichever came faster and less painfully, the better. But then, he felt your delicate and concerned touch, trying to get his attention with gentle but firm calls of his vigilante name.

He tensed up, honestly about to deck you in the face before realizing you were one of the hostages he’d saved. "...Get the hell out of here. Didn’t your parents teach you about stranger-danger?" You were probably about his age, but who cares? Jason could barely see what you looked like at the moment, his eyes sealed shut from the pain.

Through mumbled protests, Jason let you drag him off to a safer location and treat him. Why? He wasn’t sure. Or at least, he wasn’t until you managed to actually make him feel better and convinced him to take off his mask to check for a possible concussion. Then your eyes met, and suddenly, his instinctive relaxation made a whole lot more sense.

"No f*cking way. How... It's been years, I thought you got out of this hellish city by now." Jason sighed, staring at your dumbfounded expression. "Say something, dammit."