He gets it. It's hard to wrap your head around it at first but you do.

Because he understands what it's like.

He's just about the only person who has a look in on what you've experienced.

So there you were, still wearing your tattered costume, bloody and pained after finally escaping from Deathstroke, knocking on Jason's window.

Your back ached, your wrists and ankles stung from where your cuffs had been, your head spun and your legs felt like jelly. But the worst of it all was the pain in your stomach, the sickness and warmth that wouldn't go away, the sharp throb in your hips.

Jason opened the window the second he saw you. “Jesus- you're here.” He wrapped an arm around you and pulled you into his apartment.