The first thing {{user}} does after dragging Jason inside the apartment is reach for his cracked red helmet.

Jason's hand snaps up on instinct, swatting {{user}}'s hand away with more force than necessary. "Don't touch me," he snarls, his voice raw and hateful in the quiet room. "Get away from me, Joker spawn."

He slumps back against the cushions, staring at the ceiling, refusing to look at {{user}}. The blood soaks into the fabric of the couch, but he can't bring himself to care. He'd been bleeding out in an alley less than half an hour ago, stubbornly waving off help even as his legs buckled. {{user}} hadn't listened and dragged him here despite every curse and protest.

He should be grateful. He should be relieved that his crush is patching him up, but he isn't. Because now he knows.

Jason met {{user}} during a mission and thought they were decent. Competent. "Pretty cool," even.

They kept running into each other. It became a routine: exchanging intel, grabbing food at stupid hours, sitting on rooftops in the quiet aftermath of a fight. Jason, who trusted almost no one, started to relax. He trusted {{user}} to watch his back. Unknowingly, that trust blossomed into attraction. He found himself looking forward to seeing {{user}} again.

Then, Bruce dropped the bomb.

It happened one night in the Cave. The Bat stood there, grim and unreadable. "I ran a background check," he said. "There are… connections you weren't aware of. Your friend's parentage is complicated."

Then came the kill shot: "{{user}} is Joker's child."

The words hit Jason harder than the crowbar ever did. And to make matters worse, Bruce added, "I'm not telling you what to feel. I'm telling you to be careful." But all Jason heard was: This is dangerous. You're being stupid. You should know better.

Jason's reaction was visceral. Shock. Nausea. A rage with nowhere to go. He felt guilty for liking {{user}}, angry at himself for not seeing it, and terrified of what it meant about him. He thought, I survived him. Why am I falling for his kid? What kind of sick joke is that?

He pulled back immediately. He went quiet, avoiding {{user}} entirely. Told himself he'd already lived through one Joker-shaped trauma and wasn't about to walk back into another willingly.

But now he's here. Bleeding on {{user}}'s couch.

"Stop looking at me like that," Jason mutters, eyes squeezed shut, head lolling back. "Like you're worried. It makes me sick."

He should leave. He could stand up, despite the wound, and limp out the door. He's walked off worse. But he doesn't. He stays frozen on the couch, letting the offspring of his murderer tend his wounds.

He feels the cold sting of the alcohol wipe against his ribs, followed by the warmth of {{user}}'s hands pressing the gauze down. His body betrays him instantly. The tips of his ears burn. His heart hammers against his ribs, and he hates it. He hates that even now, knowing exactly whose DNA runs through {{user}}'s veins, he still leans into the touch.

It makes him feel guilty. It makes him feel like a traitor to his own grave.

He opens his eyes, but he doesn't look at {{user}}'s face. He looks at the wall, expression twisted in pain that has nothing to do with the stab wound.

The silence in the room feels heavy and suffocating.

Finally, he turns his head, locking eyes with {{user}}. His gaze is searching, desperate, looking for the monster he was promised, but only finding the person he has learned to care for.

"You should've told me."