Getting one, two, three, four knocked out.
(A batfam prompt-- Jason edition)
This is based off of me and my current agony. Today, I went to the dentist to get four of my teeth getting taken out. Not for cavities or anything like that but because of the braces I'm going to be wearing and the plan my orthodontist has to get my teeth straight and orderly.
(This was made possible because I had quite the case of overcrowding on my bottom teeth because of the two baby teeth I still had which caused the rest of the teeth to have to use whatever inch of space they could get. It is so, so painful afterwards when the anesthetic wears off but so, so worth it because of the results it brings. (Straightens teeth, fixes overcrowding, etc.))
Sooo... let's imagine one day you (or we) are in a similar situation. In which you get teeth taken out and are not put into a state of mind where you are loopy and unlike yourself (like when people get their wisdom teeth taken out). You are instead put in a situation where you can't feel your mouth and lower jaw and have folded gauze stuffed into the gap(s) where the teeth/tooth once laid.
In situations like these, you constantly have to replace the gauze because it eventually will get flooded with too much saliva and/or blood.
Of course, when you begin to notice the red streaks falling out the side of your mouth when you look over at the mirror to check. (You look a little bit like a character from a horror movie about teddy bears, their stuffing, and sewing, but that's alright. You'll be okay.) So, like any reasonable person, you go to the bathroom to change them. You're home alone so leave your bathroom door open because you can and for convenience. And you're probably going to have to replace them in a couple minutes so why bother closing the doors?
Of course, snooping vigilantes were not considered in this equation.
Jason has come to the manor. (Like he does every blue moon.) He was feeling like a little shit that day and wanted to bother his siblings but no one seemed to home.
Well, no one except Alfred and you, of course. We all know the better choice to bother. And unfortunately, Alfred was nowhere inside the manor-- probably in the garden-- so he was not there to inform Jason of your situation.
He goes to your room, doesn't knock, and is instantly disappointed to find your bedroom empty. It's unusually messy. A dark towel crumpled over the blankets, almost as though in a rush. The blankets themselves droop over the edge of the bed, threatening to slip down to the floor. Usually, your room is... neater, to say the least. Not neat but neater than this.
But... your bathroom door is open. Jason doesn't think about why you have your bathroom door-- you could be practicing makeup in the mirror, cleaning, anything really.
What he doesn't expect is to see you curled over the sink, muscles trembling. His practiced shit-eating smirk crumbles to dust when you lift your head and blood, stark red against your usually pristine skin, is dripping off your chin in a thick river.
His eyes dart over to your hands where they grip the sink-- the tips of your fingers are stained red as well and he would bet good money that there's probably some on your palms as well. It's all over the sink, all over your clothes, and has some strands of your hair sticking to the skin of your neck and your cheeks.
You've clearly attempted to clean the mess judging from the powerful scent of chemicals that has spread over the entire bathroom and the large spray bottle set on the sink like a white flag.
You look over at him, in terrible agony. Not because it was terribly painful but gave a long-term discomfort that lingered and lingered and dug into your very bones with no care for any objections you might have. You can't feel the lower half of your face and it's frustrating. You have no control over how it contorts or if it does so at all. But hot tears still mark and stain your face and gather at your chain.
Jason-- sweet, loyal, protective, passionate-- is furious. Someone hurt you. Someone put their hands on you. Someone thought it had been a good idea to leave you bloody.
It does not help that your jaw is still sore from the anesthetic hours later when it's mostly dissolved, especially since you can't speak without spraying blood everywhere in a fifty-mile radius. And if you have a hard time trying to convince and talk to Jason, imagine how much harder it is to try and convince the rest of your family.
(For this, I'm thinking either they find out a little later when the bleeding has slowed down and you can speak again and it becomes a sort of inside joke or a funny story they/you tell.
Either that or they never find out and you just keep going out and doing completely normal things that just so happen get you hurt-- like doing skateboarding tricks and twisting your ankle because of it or getting home 'unusually exhausted'/stressed/snappy because of finals week or too many extracurriculars or simply life. The family all has their own theories, but they all come to the same conclusion that someone is hurting you and you are attempting to protect them.
Some think you're a part of the mob and you've been blackmailed into doing so, only you're doing a bad job/are being run ragged and the mob punishes you for it.
Others think it's a partner or a friend who is abusing you, but you love them too or are too afraid to tell your family.
And a few may even think you're getting trained mercilessly or being mistreated at a place of work (school, workforce, etc.) and you're trying to protect that person because of the training or because you are attached to this authority figure. (Some teachers suspected of gr00ming are swiftly fired.)
