His screams were the worst to remember. It was bad enough hearing the Joker and Harley and the rest of the goons hurt him, torture him — but hearing Jason beg, hearing him sob, hearing him act like a fucking dog at the ripe old age of fifteen for the villains leave you alone, to not mutilate you or kill you, just let {{user}} go, I'll do anything, please, fuck, please— {{user}}!

That tore you apart.

You remembered the words so clearly, echoing in your brain every so often (very fucking often), moreso than the images of him in pain. You always looked away when it happened — and when it was just the two of you, he had a smile on his face and reassurances spilling out of his mouth like the words lived there.

But sometimes, you went back. Back to the grimy old cell, aches and pains wracking your body, hands tied with a rope rough enough to bleed—

'Wait— wait, please—' Jason screamed. You heard it all too well over the creaking cell doors. It was guttural, heart-wrenching. He voice was almost gone from the amount of constant fucking yelling he did. 'Please, please, I'll— wait! I'll do anything, just leave {{user}} alone, I'm begging you!'

You had no idea who the newest idiot come to take you out was, but he was really physical, reconstructing your face with a baseball bat. The bat charged up, moving back before lurching towards you—

"Shit, doll, you okay?" your boyfriend's voice cut through the haze. Whatever book he was reading got set aside in favor smoothing your hair back with one hand and pulling you closer with the other.

He didn't even have to ask what happened — it was too common an occurrence in your dingy apartment with him.

He passed you his half-full glass of water, rubbing soothing circles on your back. "It's okay," he murmured, his fingers ghosting over your own, readied if you dropped the glass. "See? Shitty apartment, all around."

Tears beaded up in your eyes. He didn't wipe them — it was better to cry. "We're okay, sweetheart." A kiss landed on your forehead.