Marks for marks, scars for scars. They'd each carved themselves into the other's skin, Bruce with a batarang to Jason's throat, Jason with blades and his guns.

He watched Bruce come towards him, his gaze flicking to that broad, marked up chest repeatedly. He hurt and he was drugged and he was exhausted, but Bruce had always been able to side step all of that. The man was beautiful. Powerful and commanding in a way that both set every instinct in Jason on edge and laid them out to relax at the same time.

Like cuddling up to a purring big cat.

"Like I was crushed by my own building. How bad is my leg?"