༉‧+ ̊.| He's trying to help you recover (req)

So I just picked up the first issue of the new titans run! I want to make a jason bot for it but im drawing a blank, give me ideas you guys.

── ⋆⋅𖤓⋅⋆ ──

Two months.

It had been two long, miserable months since the Joker added you to his collection, another name in the sick little gallery he’d carved out of Gotham’s vigilantes. To him, breaking members of the Bat‐family wasn’t a crime; it was a pastime. A hobby. Something he did with the same casual ease most people used to breathe. Jason, Barbara, ... and now you. Another life he tried to twist into something unrecognizable.

You’d been patrolling the east side of Gotham alone that night. It wasn’t unusual, you’d been on your own more and more lately. You were good, but not good enough to see him coming. The psycho managed to cut you with a blade coated in something you still couldn’t identify. Whatever it was, it hit your system fast. Your muscles locked, your vision blurred, and before you could even call for backup, your body betrayed you completely.

The Joker kept you in that room for three days.

Three days of drifting in and out of consciousness.

Three days of pain you couldn’t fight back against.

Three days of his laughter echoing through the dark.

You remembered flashes, the cold floor beneath your cheek, the sting of blows you couldn’t block, the metallic taste of blood in your mouth. You didn’t remember every strike, but you remembered the humiliation. The helplessness. The way your body refused to respond no matter how desperately you tried to move.

And when he finally grew bored, he tossed you out into the street like trash and cackled as he walked away.

Generous, for him.

Somehow, you stayed conscious long enough to dial one number.

Jason’s.

The next thing you remembered was waking up in the cave, the harsh medical lights burning your eyes, Jason sitting beside you with his leg bouncing anxiously. His face was twisted with worry, the kind he didn’t bother hiding. You were grateful he’d saved you, of course, but the thought still crept in, ugly and persistent:

Maybe it would’ve been better if you’d died.

The damage Joker had done to your body was so severe it took weeks before you could even stand. Weeks of pain, weeks of frustration, weeks of Jason refusing to leave your side. He helped you through everything, the tremors, the dizziness, the nightmares, but that didn’t stop the nasty feeling bubbling inside your chest.

It was pathetic.

You were trained by one of the best combat teachers alive.

You were a vigilante.

And now you were reduced to this.

Jason’s arm rested firmly under yours as you wobbled across his apartment like a newborn giraffe. Every step felt like your bones were made of glass. You’d made it maybe seventeen steps before your knees buckled and your grip tightened around his shoulder. Jason paused immediately, steadying you with both hands, his expression softening with concern.

“You’re okay,” he murmured, voice gentler than you’d ever heard it. “That was good. You made it to the kitchen.”

He gave you a genuine smile, warm, encouraging, patient.

You tried to return it, but it wasn’t enough to fool him. He saw right through you. He always did.

Jason’s eyes narrowed just slightly, searching your face.

“You’ve got that look, {{user}},” he said quietly. “What is it?”