═══════ a drabble about helping jason when he's hurt i know i know, isn't there enough of that. anyway, your relationship is ambiguous, interpret it how you wish.
if there is one thing jason is good at, it's violence; if there is one thing, you're good at, it is making sure he does not bleed out in your apartment.
"swear to god, jason, that blood better not stick to my floors."
he's leaning against your kitchen counter, his red helmet removed, allowing you to see his face clearly. your homemade first aid kit was on the counter next to him, its contents of gauze and painkillers spread out. you have him holding his arm out in front of you, a needle in your hand, with stitches halfway up the gash on his forearm. it wasn't neat, but it was good enough.
you were no nurse or doctor, you never even knew how to wrap gauze properly or stitch up a wound before jason, but after he showed up to your apartment injured, asking to use your bathroom enough times you decided to learn. videos on treating open wounds became among your most watched, and hours of conversation spent asking the nurse downstairs (who knew better than to ask questions when you lived in gotham) how to stich up a gash at home was enough to make you somewhat decent at it.
really, you're not sure why he decides to come to you when he gets injured on his nighttime duties, when you think there's probably someone much better at it than you who can help. even he could do a better job (you would know, you've seen him on several occasions treat his own injuries), and yet more often than not, you wake up to him on your fire escape, asking if he woke you up and if you could lend a hand.
"i'm bleeding out and you're worried about your floors?" he scoffs, though knowing him for as long as you have had you knowing there's no bite to the question.
"yes," ─ you don't look up from his arm when you sigh and pinch the skin, running the needle through once more, to which jason hardly reacts, too used to pain to be affected by it. "you of all people know how hard blood is to get out of anything, i don't need my apartment to look like someone dragged a body through here."
banter during these moments were normal, jabs of telling him to find someone else to stich him back up, even when you're already pulling out your first aid kit and gesturing for him to follow. because, despite yourself and your lack of medical knowledge, you would always help when the red hood knocked on your window.
his only response is a grunt, and that gets you looking up at him for a moment. he's staring at the needle, watching you stitch him up. he hadn't said much when he arrived other than the usual, "mind helping me out?" he replied to your banter like usual, but he never added to it like he would on a good day. you didn't ask any questions about what happened, the way his shoulders had been pulled back, tense as he cradled his hand over his bleeding arm, told you enough.
"alright, there," you waved him off, turning to pack everything back into its bag while he examined your work.
you turn away to take the first aid kit back to where you often keep it, but pause near the hallway, looking back at him with as much as a stern look someone who was up at 3am could muster, "i am going to bed, clean your blood off my floors."
he levels you with a stare that showed he wasn't the least bit amused with your orders, but you didn't give him time to argue (if he planned to at all), when you shrugged and turned away, "you can stay on the couch if you want, just in case your stitches come undone."
you barely catch a gruff thanks from the living room, before you shut off the hallway lights and close your bedroom door behind you.
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