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love-bugsy · 2 months

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trouble | jason todd

the worst thing about love (three) / series masterlist

you’re just trying to get through your surgical residency, but this masked vigilante keeps showing up half-dead on your fire escape and reminding you of your dead best friend. oh well, at least he's cute.

tw: no editing, allusions to character death, (haphazard) depictions of grief, mentions of blood and injuries, swearing, completely ooc Jason bc he’s just my lil guy, medical terminology learned from greys anatomy lol

only jerks steal other people’s writing and mine isn’t even that good so no reposts

The paint on your door is chipping, some of it flaking off when you shove it in that particular way to unstick the lock, dropping your keys on the side table in your entryway. Your eyes flick down to your watch, bleary eyes reading that you’ll only get a solid four hours of sleep tonight - by fault of a sadistic attending with a mountain of charts. Still half-asleep, you lock your door, habitually double-checking the deadbolt. Good ol’ Gotham. Taking a single step into your apartment, you freeze. Faint sound echoes from the living room; your TV is on.

Cold fear spills down your spine - you aren’t under any delusions that your neighbourhood is safe, but people here usually keep to themselves. You pull your baseball bat out of the umbrella stand by the door, clammy palms gripping the barrel too tightly. Wielding the bat haphazardly, you creep into your living room.

Old cartoon reruns play tinnily on your shitty TV, the nostalgia doing nothing to calm the prickling anxiety that crawls up the sides of your neck. Rounding the corner fully, you brace yourself for a murderous intruder to leap out at you; heartbeat in your throat.

Instead, your anxious heaving is broken by a gruff mumble from a lump taking up half of your couch. Fucking Red Hood. It’s the third time this month. Shoulders sagging, you pinch the bridge of your nose, squeezing your eyes shut like he’ll disappear when you’re not looking. You swear that mask glints at you mockingly when you look up again. You set the bat down, pulling off your coat and unwinding the maroon scarf around your neck. You’re being influenced, birdie.

You approach the couch, stepping around muddy boot prints to turn the television off. You drop your bag against the coffee table and slot yourself between Red Hood’s wide-spread legs. He’s slumped upright in the middle of your couch, one arm slung out over the back; scuffed leather jacket chucked over the other side. Something stutters in your chest at the sight of him taking up so much space in your home; the evidence of his presence.

You think he’s unconscious at first, but there’s a tenseness to his shoulders still; a rigidity you’ve seen lax when he was bleeding on your living room floor. The sight of him so relaxed spurs you into a bit of a panic - you doubt he would ever be so unguarded unless he had a serious injury.

Reaching out, you feel around his torso, frowning at the rough patch of dried blood seeping from his left shoulder. You unbuckle his makeshift pauldron and hunt around in your work bag for a pair of scissors to cut away his sleeve. You’re leaning over him with the scissors when he huffs, head shifting in his sleep. You flinch - nearly nicking him - and draw back holding the scissors a safe distance away.

“Shit!” You gasp out, as his mask lifts to meet your eyes. He lets out a gravelly laugh at your shock and you frown, taking your scissors to his sleeve again.

“Not gonna buy me dinner first?” He rasps drowsily. You can hear the shit-eating grin he’s sporting under the mask and you shoot him a dry look - fighting a smile as you gently pull his sleeve away. Pursing your lips at the dried blood caking his shoulder, you press around to find the wound, pausing when he draws in a sharp breath. You raise an incredulous brow.

“Is this a bullet wound?” You don’t know how he manages to look sheepish from behind the mask. He winces when you start cleaning away blood with an alcohol wipe.

“You should… shit- you should see the other guy.” You purse your lips a little, focused on cleaning the wound. Occasionally, he huffs when you get a little too close to his injury. You gnaw on the inside of your cheek to stop yourself from scolding him for getting shot in the first place. You should examine him impartially - years of training scream that one oversight could be fatal - instead, you slip up into something instinctual; something gentle.

“Jesus, Red… this is… how the hell have you been keeping yourself alive?” For some reason this yanks a dry, barking laugh from him. That damn familiar laugh. You just can’t place it.

“You’d be surprised.” You give him as flat a look as you can manage, absently gnawing on your bottom lip as you examine his injuries. He flattens his head against the back of your couch, staring stoically up at the ceiling as you prod around the bullet wound. You yank your phone out of your pocket, aiming the weak flashlight at his shoulder. Shit. Bullet’s still in there.

He lifts his head when you turn your back to him, putting your phone down to grab what you need. You shoot him an apologetic look, “Got a bullet in there, Red.” He grunts, shifting so his shoulder is angled towards you. You pull on a pair of rubber gloves, dousing the palms in Betadine. “This is gonna hurt.” He huffs out an amused breath.

“Always does.” You lay a repentant hand on his other shoulder before digging your fingers into his wound, trying to find the shell. His breathing starts to get more laboured, his head lolling back a little. Wincing in his stead, you pull out what’s left of the bullet, wiping it off to see if there’s shrapnel still in his shoulder.

“You’re lucky, this looks intact.” You feel the way he looks at you, biting your bottom lip to hold in a laugh. He is less amused.

“Lucky, huh?” He says, gaze locked on the bullet as you hand it back to him - clean of his blood. Taking it in his good hand, he fiddles with it as you dig around for bandages in your first aid kit; you’re starting to run out. You find the bandages at the same time as you find your response; part fond, part disciplinary.

“Just be glad you don’t need stitches.” His head shifts slightly and you get the distinct feeling he’s trying to read you. He’s silent for a long while after, watching you bandage his injury quietly.

Not for the first time, you’re unsettled by the blank slate of his mask; you don’t like that you can’t figure him out. His anonymity makes the silence unnerving.

“So… you gonna tell me how you got shot?” He just looks at you, mask hiding any indication of his response.

“My self-preservation skills aren’t all that honed.” You can’t help the snort that escapes you at that, covering your mouth with both hands in embarrassment. You have to look away at how intensely he’s staring at you. Tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, you go back to securing his bandages.

“I noticed.” You mean for it to sound dry but you can’t fight the little smile that betrays you. You’re getting too comfortable with him, forgetting that he’s a killer, forgetting that he’s a criminal, forgetting that he isn’t him. Maybe that’s why you blurt out the first thing that comes to mind. “Reminds me of someone I used to know.” Stupid.

“Never heard that one before. Maybe you should introduce us.” His tone is joking, but you tense up all the same.

“No.” You say, tightly, averting your eyes. It’s cold, and mean. You grit your teeth to stop the flood of memories. Red doesn’t notice.

“Ashamed of me are ya?” He teases, voice rumbling out of his modulator. The sound is somehow twisted, grating against your ears. Unknowingly wrenching up a buried grief into the pit of your stomach; kicking dirt in a minefield.

“He’s dead.” You marvel at how cold you sound, how detached, when your chest is tight with a phantom pain. He shifts up immediately, sobering in an instant. He reaches out a gloved hand, gently pulling your wrist from where you’d unconsciously crossed your arms. He rubs an apologetic circle into your pulse point.

“Shit, sorry.” You look away, though you know it’s unfair. He winces. “I didn’t- I’m…”

“... sorry.” You nearly drop the tray of dirty dishes you're carrying at the sight of Jason in your door; hand cradling his profusely bleeding nose. Shoving the tray onto the closest table, you sit him down at a chair behind the counter and wander off to find a clean towel. Wetting it under the sink, you sigh, nudging his hand away to tenderly daub at the blood under his nose.

The silence stretches, broken only by Jason’s foot tapping on the floor as he fidgets in the chair. He winces when you bring your hand up to check his nose and you snap.

“If this was one of those Castor boys again, I’m gonna kill ‘em.” That pulls a little smile out of him, imagining you up against those 6 foot ogres. You don’t think even the Gotham in you could give you a fighting chance with those two.

“S’okay. Can handle it.” Little crease between his brows. You sigh fondly, running a curious finger over the tiny scar on his cheekbone. If you were paying a little more attention, you might have noticed the red flush crawling up his neck at your touch.

“I know that. Doesn’t mean you should.”

“Sorry I… it just makes me so angry- I,” he huffs in a tight breath, like he can’t get enough air in, “I can’t stop myself.” You frown, torn between being angry at him or with him.

“I don’t want you to apologise, blue, just,” you draw in a pensive breath, brows furrowed, “They got you bad this time.”

“They were jumping a kid, ‘dee, couldn’t stand by and watch.” His hands are as restless as his bouncing leg and you feel a twinge of endearment and jealousy all at once. He’s always moving, so much that sometimes you feel like you’re at a standstill; only a matter of time before he leaves you behind - grit in your teeth and grit in your heart. But today, he’s your best friend and he could’ve gone anywhere, but he’s here. You wrinkle your nose, worry creasing your forehead.

“You and your hero complex.” You hand him the bloody cloth to fiddle with, before gingerly checking his nose again - barely ghosting your fingertips over his nose. You didn’t know - back then - what being careful meant - to him, to you - you just knew you meant it. Your eyes are locked on his nose when you speak again, “S’gonna get you killed one day.”

He narrows his eyes at you, head tilted to the side - a language you aren’t fluent in yet. He’s serious for a long moment, watching you dart your eyes away and begin to pick at the skin peeling off your fingers. His brows loosen.

“Not when I got you lookin’ out for me, birdie.” He shoots you a toothy grin - god, you love his grin. All his teeth bared like he never learned how to smile properly. You always want to make him smile like that. Still, you can’t help the way your brows knot up, jaw tight as you watch a trickle of blood drip from his nose.

“I’m tired of watching you get hurt, Jay.” The lump in your throat makes the words come out thick; the fear makes them small. Despite your best efforts to hide them, stubborn tears pool on your lashes as you blink furiously. Jason looks devastated.

“Shit.” He brings his free hand up to take your wrist, rubbing comforting circles against your pulse. (An effort to stop your tears that only makes them fall harder.) “I’m… I’m not used to people worrying about me. I’m sorry. Fuck, please don’t cry, I hate it when ya cry.”

You let out a watery laugh, trying to swallow the lump in your throat. The little voice that tells you you’re going to lose him one day. You must look utterly pathetic when you meet his gaze because he pulls you into a tight hug, tucking your head into his shoulder as you cry.

Distantly you recognise the uncomfortable position you’re folded in, nearly bent in half to press your face into his neck, his shoulders pushing against yours. You don’t know how long the hug lasts - a lifetime in a minute and a half - but when you finally pull back, eyes puffy and red, Jason hangs on to your wrist, thumb brushing the hollow where your hand meets your wrist.

“I got your shirt all wet,” you say, laughing self consciously, “I’m sorry.” Jason just shakes his head, grinning sheepishly.

“I got blood on yours.” You nearly get whiplash from how fast your head turns to your shoulder, which now sports a deep maroon splotch. Gross, nose blood. He laughs heartily at your expression, “Guess we’re even then, birdie?” You roll your eyes, pulling your hand from his grip to cross your arms over your chest, raising a brow when he pouts in return.

His eyes dart between your unamused expression and the clock behind your head, smile faltering a little. He has to go. You hold out a hand for the cloth and he jumps up - his constant energy is a marvel - dropping the bloodied tea towel in your open palm. He runs his hand under his nose, smearing a last drop of blood over his upper lip.

You stop him as he’s about to leave, running the clean corner of the cloth gently over his mouth to wipe away the mark. He looks straight into your worried gaze, bringing up a finger to smooth the crease between your brows. “Hey, birdie, no wrinkles over me.” Your mouth twists.

“S’you and me, ‘dee, promise. Not gonna go anywhere else.” Jason holds out his hand, pinky outstretched. He cocks his head with that stupid, glorious grin of his. “Come on, don’t leave me hanging.” You roll your eyes, wrapping his finger in yours.

“You and me, blue.”

“Doc?” You jolt back into the present, hands frozen over the clip you’re securing Red’s bandage with. His hand is still wrapped carefully around your wrist and you yank it back - face heating - letting his hand fall forlornly by his side.

“Shit, sorry, I- sorry.” You finish your, somewhat shoddy, job, chucking your supplies back into your bag haphazardly.

“You okay over there?” With your back to him, you hum a less than convincing agreement that he seems to believe. You hear him rustling about behind while you zip up your bag, and assume he’s getting ready to sneak out your window, leaving you with only traces of him until he fucks up on patrol again.

Instead, when you turn around, he’s holding out a scratched up burner phone, mask tilted. You shoot him a confused look, taking the phone into your hands.

“What… am I doing with this?” He laughs, and you fight the heat rising in your cheeks at the sound.

“You know, for someone so smart, you’re pretty dense sometimes.” Now your face really does feel hot, brows furrowing at his chastisement. He chuckles at your quiet indignation, pushing the phone closer to you, “Your number, pretty girl, so you don’t get scared half to death next time I show up.” You fumble the phone, glancing between him and it as you enter your phone number. You tuck your hair behind your ear as you hand it back to him, crossing your arms again.

“Next time, huh?” You think he might be smiling under the mask, though you’d never be able to tell.

“Not getting rid of me that easily, doc.” He gets up, dusting off invisible dirt from his pants. Absently, you follow him over to your window, sweeping up his leather jacket before he can. When you hand it to him, your hands brush - a cliche jolt sparking up your arm when you touch him. He looks away as he takes it.

Red ducks out of your apartment and onto the fire escape, putting the jacket on fluidly and adjusting his mask. He gives you a little mock salute and you shake your head, biting back a smile.

“Don’t text me unless it’s an emergency.” You say, not meaning it at all.

“Swear on m’life.” He returns, fingers crossed behind his back. He turns after a last, charged stare, grasping the railing with his good arm. Flustered, you scramble, not one to let him have the last word.

You lean out of your window as he swings, one-armed (christ almighty, your knees might be weak), down onto the fire escape below. “You can use my door, you know!”

He meets your stare from below, as you hang half out of your apartment. He belts out a chesty laugh, “Now where’s the fun in that?” He swings over the fire escape, and disappears into the night.

Oh yeah, you’re in trouble.

some “emergency” texts:

y’all I wish I had an excuse but the truth is just that I have adhd and I got really into pjo haha, uh so here’s chapter 3. it’s not great but it is done so I hope you guys enjoy it, gonna make less promises about my fucked up schedule now lol.

with love, bugsy :)

#x reader #jason todd imagine #jason todd fic #jason todd fanfiction #jason todd x reader #love-bugsy #jason todd reader insert #series: the worst thing about love

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love-bugsy · 4 months

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to whoever out there is listening, I am profusely sorry for my radio silence - been a rough few months ngl, got distracted by not so great grades and a rekindling of my pjo obsession - but to anyone who’s still interested, twtal chap 3 will be out tomorrow, I pinky promise :)

#love-bugsy #she speaks!!

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love-bugsy · 7 months

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meet cut(e) | jason todd

the worst thing about love (two) / (one)

tw: allusions to character death, depictions of grief, mentions of blood and injuries, swearing, completely ooc Jason but he’s like my own lil character now and I’m protective, i learned my medical terminology from grey's anatomy don't hate me

only jerks steal other people's writing (just don't repost, mate)

You’re awake when he stumbles into your apartment two weeks later. You stare at him owlishly; knees tucked up against your plush, non-indented couch, glass of Merlot in your hand kept carefully away from the carpet you just scrubbed the bloodstains out of. You set it gingerly on your coffee table, half convinced he’s not real.

“I got… a cut.” It seems strange for this masked vigilante - you may or may not have been doing some tipsy research on the hooded hero - to look so sheepish. All six feet of him stooped in your cramped apartment, one hand clutched to his side, that emotionless mask staring straight through you. You get up from your couch wordlessly, walking down the hallway to rummage through your bathroom.

First aid kit and isopropyl in hand, you return to his awkward stance in the middle of your living room; his gaze intently focused on your overstuffed bookshelf. His attention snaps to you when your sock-clad footsteps meet the edge of the plush rug separating you. From this angle, you can see the stubborn, brown bloodstain that you tried to hide under the leg of your armchair - little marks… stains or rusting memories… You gesture to your couch, and he sits, taking off his jacket.

Yanking a stool over to sit in front of him, you pull up his shirt, brows furrowing at the slice in his side. He’s undressed the cut you stitched up for him before he should have, and you examine it while you clean his most recent knife wound. Your stitches are far from perfect - the scar bulging in some areas - but for such a high tension wound, it’s healed well.

Your eyes flicker up to his blood red mask for a moment, and it occurs to you - distantly - that you should probably be terrified. I mean, seriously. A part of you screams that this is how people get murdered. Another part of you thinks that this is the most vulnerable he ever gets; his shirt off, gritting his teeth through the pain of 91% isopropyl alcohol.

Another - buried - part of you thinks this seems familiar.

Your gaze darts back down to his chest, lingering unconsciously on the end of the scar that cuts out from underneath his shirt. Your eyes catch on the ugly bruises decorating the tan expanse of his torso, some angry and purple, others a sickly yellow. He clears his throat awkwardly and your cheeks heat, returning your attention to sterilising his wound. Real classy, birdie, ogling a guy whose face you’ve never seen. He breaks the thick silence first, low voice crackling through his modulator.

“How’s it look, doc? ‘m I gonna survive?” You hide a smile beneath your exasperated look, brows knitted. Still, you can’t fully conceal the amused edge in your dry tone.

“You’re not nearly as charming when you’ve been stabbed.” He cocks his mask; unreadable. For a long moment, you think you might have actually offended him, until he huffs out a staticky laugh.

“Slashed, actually.” You scrunch your nose. Pedantic asshole.

“Look, I’ve had a long day, which wasn’t exactly made better by having to patch up a freak in a super-suit, so just… save the witty ironicism for someone who didn’t have to clean up baby vomit all day.” You can hear the smile in his voice when he responds, mask’s gaze still fixed on your face.

“Ouch, doc, and here I thought you were happy to see me.” A little pause as you meet his gaze briefly, unable to shake the familiarity… the instinctive fondness that warms your chest. His next words seem more guarded. “So, why’re you helping me then?” Good question. Your focus never falters from the slow concentric circles you’re rubbing around his wound with an alcohol soaked hand towel.

“I took an oath.” He laughs again and you quash the little spark of pride that hearing it gives you. You swap the towel in your hand for a roll of bandages and a plaster, applying the latter first before starting to wrap his waist.

“My bad, doc, I thought you were helping me out of the goodness of your heart.”

You scrunch your nose, trying to suppress the smile that tugs insistently at your mouth. Reaching for a clip, you secure his bandages and help him pull his shirt down so it doesn’t catch. You get up from the stool, shuffling it out of the way for your future self to move back in front of your kitchen island. Yawning, you stretch your hands above your head, a little noise of relief leaving your mouth when the tension in your shoulders loosens. You pretend not to notice how his mask tilts, lingering on the sliver of skin exposed as your shirt lifts.

He settles backwards, leaning his shoulders over the arm of your couch so that his legs don’t dangle over the edge. You watch as he yanks your throw blanket haphazardly over his torso and crosses his arms over his chest. You’re sure he must be keeping you in his peripheral as you startle out of eyeing him warily, but he doesn’t acknowledge any of it. Maybe to save you some dignity. Padding back to the hallway, you make it halfway before pausing, words spilling from your mouth unbidden.

“You can have some coffee, you know.”

“What?” The question comes out slurred, a full night’s worth of adrenaline finally dwindling. It brings back a flash of a near empty coffee pot - last dregs dripping slowly into a blue mug held in lethargic hands. You blink.

“In the morning.” He tilts his mask, and you stumble to elaborate, “When you sneak out. You can have some coffee.” Cautious, you study his reaction, but your vigilante doesn’t move an inch - his mask’s white slits boring holes into you like he’s trying to figure you out. Or waiting for a catch. You think he might trust you more if you give him one.

“You have to wash the mug, though. And the coffee’s old.” If you focus hard enough, you can hear something percolating - the coffee in your makeshift warmer or… the tenuous thread of something like dependency. He shifts on the couch and you suppress a wince at the stress it will put on his injuries.

“I like old coffee,” he hums out blurrily, hushed static of his modulator nearly rendering the words unintelligible. You flinch, turning off the living room light instead of responding.

You’re seventeen, he’s sixteen. You give him shit for being two months younger than you. It’s so late at night you’ll start to call it morning soon, and the two of you sit on opposite sides of a diner counter.

You lean over the counter, arms outstretched, dropping your head into your clasped hands. He reaches over you, pouring out another cup of old, lukewarm coffee. He follows it up with an unholy amount of cream and sugar - just how you like it - nudging it over to you with that wry grin of his.

“Tired, birdie?” You are tired, but not as tired as he is. You think maybe Wayne Enterprises should be funding his college tuition, not this superhero shit. Superhero shit that he never talks about, except. He used to tell you everything. You used to tell him everything.

Because he’s smart. He’s really smart. Smart enough to not risk his life every night. You want to tell him that but you know he doesn’t see it that way. In that mask, he’s infallible. Instead, you hum in agreement, dragging the mug closer and taking a sip. You scowl at the bitterness.

He frowns petulantly, looking at you with tired, amused eyes. “You don’t like my coffee?” You set down your cup, wrinkling your nose at the unexpectedly loud ‘clink’ it makes against the counter.

“You’re so dramatic, blue, only you like day-old coffee.” He gives you a dry look, one that says he’s too tired to mock-argue with you. So instead, you turn on the sink behind the counter, rinsing cutlery to load the dishwasher. You both sit in near silence, broken only by his fingers tapping carefully on the counter and your absent-minded hums.

You spend days agonising over a present as his birthday rapidly approaches, though you know he hates the fuss. You settle on a gunmetal grey lighter, shakily hand engraved with a bluejay. Something to replace his shitty BIC one, with its smudged sharpie lettering that barely spells out ‘JT’.

Secretly, you look forward to the sardonic comment he'll make about how he thought you disapproved of his cancer sticks. The truth is, you don't think you could stop enabling him.

A month out from his birthday, he drops by after patrol with your copy of Wuthering Heights. You ask if he liked it and he says he didn’t. Something, something, overly maudlin. He’s lying. He always gets that little specific crease between his eyebrows when he lies to you.

It feels like all you see lately.

Are the nightmares getting worse?

Lie.

Stayin’ out of trouble?

Lie.

Are we always going to be like this? Am I always going to lose you when you put on that suit?

Lie.

Over and over until you snap, poking a finger straight into the crease and smoothing it out. You tell him you want the truth and he tells you he can’t give it to you. You yell at him for ten hour-long minutes, sweeping angry gestures with your arms. One of them knocks over his half-full mug - blue shards shattering in the slow spill of murky coffee. You wish you remembered what he said to you, but all you remember is watching him leave. The last time he ever did.

You wait two weeks for him to come back, recording apologetic voicemails that he dodges with clipped, sullen phone calls. Then, he stops picking up at all.

His death isn’t reported on the news.

Alfred visits you once after he dies, carrying Jason’s old leather jacket like a sleeping animal that might come alive at any second. You don’t talk - not even when he hands it to you - you don’t know what you would say. You don’t know each other, you have nothing in common, except that you loved the same person once.

Your life shrinks - going through the same mechanical motions for months on end, school, work, home. It feels blasphemous to do anything but stare at the jacket - to lift it from where it hangs on the back of your door, to make it yours instead of his - until, one day, you can’t bear to be distant from him anymore. You put it on, shove your hands in the pockets like he always did, digging around. You find an old hairtie of yours in the inside pocket and a stick of apple pie flavoured lip balm you lent him last winter.

His lighter is in the front pocket, blue as his pale, dark eyes. Carefully, you place it on your desk, next to the one you meant to gift him.

Two lighters and you don’t even fucking smoke.

oof okay, this one was a bit of a monster (don't know if it bodes well for this series for me to have struggled with this chapter so much lol) but i hope you guys like it. :) i might have to take a little break over the next month because of my final exams, but rest assured, doc and jay will be back again come november. tysm for reading!

with love, bugsy

#series: the worst thing about love #love-bugsy #jason todd x reader #jason todd fic #jason todd fanfiction #jason todd imagine #jason todd reader insert #x reader

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love-bugsy · 7 months

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nav + about

welcome to the underworld.... bugsy, 18, she/her, virgo, hopeless romantic pinterest | masterlist

ongoing fics:

-> the worst thing about love | jason todd (series)

do not copy or repost my work (it's not worth it smh)

#navigation #love-bugsy

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love-bugsy · 7 months

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MASTERLIST

fics

-> the worst thing about love | jason todd (series)

(wip) you’re just trying to get through your surgical residency, but this masked vigilante keeps showing up half-dead on your fire escape and reminding you of your dead best friend. oh well, at least he's cute.

this page is under construction... come back soon...

#masterlist #navigation #love-bugsy

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love-bugsy · 7 months

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the worst thing about love

>> you’re just trying to get through your surgical residency, but this masked vigilante keeps showing up half-dead on your fire escape and reminding you of your dead best friend. oh well, at least he's cute.

or: jason todd first showed up at your parent's diner when you were ten - shivering and suspicious. you were inseparable, birdie and blue against the world, until he died. nine years later, gotham is populated by the same wackjobs and some new ones too. one of them - red hood - keeps stumbling onto your fire escape and into your life.

-> the worst thing about love is...

-> meet cut(e)

-> trouble

#navigation #masterlist #series: the worst thing about love #jason todd x reader #love-bugsy

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love-bugsy · 7 months

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the worst thing about love is… | jason todd (chapter 1)

tw: stitches, mentions of blood and injuries, swearing, completely ooc Jason but he’s like my own lil character now and I’m protective, very inaccurate medical terminology and procedure lol

only jerks steal other people's writing (just don't repost, mate)

There’s a dead man on your fire escape.

Well. He’s not actually dead, but his pulse is weak when you drag him into your living room, out of the relentless Gotham rain. Pulling your hand away from under his mask, you crouch down, peeling off the worn leather jacket around his shoulders and unbuckling his pauldrons. You feel around his back, brows furrowed. You can’t feel anything through the padding in his rain soaked shirt.

Hands wandering down to where his front is flat on the floor, you press down on his side, eyes widening when your fingers come back slick with blood. You go into autopilot, flipping him onto his back and yanking up his compression shirt. You might’ve gasped at the knife wound if you weren’t working on instinct. It’s bad.

Shoving away the doubt clawing at the base of your skull, you steady your trembling hands. You’ve been trained for this.

Don’t feel, just do.

The cut is long and serrated, and deep as all hell. It slices through the middle of a jagged, Y-shaped scar that chains over his shoulders like a noose. Jesus.

It’s like he was stabbed and then dragged across the floor, cutting diagonally across his torso. How is he even still alive? Your hands move faster than you can think, completing an internal checklist as you go.

Breathing? Fast and shallow through his modulator, no obstructions. Bleeding? Applied tourniquet to epigastric region - transfusion isn’t even an option… Your brain works overtime, sifting through diagnostics lectures - penetrating abdominal trauma, debrided of devitalised tissue, no visible debris… You trace the edges of the wound looking for inflammation or fluid buildup; signs of peritonitis, but the weapon seems to have missed any internal organs. Lucky. Even luckier that he landed on a surgical resident’s fire escape.

Reaching over to the lamp by your couch, you shift it so that it shines directly over his abdomen. A last check of his wound confirms that there are no external indications that you should conduct a laparotomy. You just have to sew him up and hope to god the knife didn’t puncture anything internal.

You keep a hand planted firmly over his tourniquet, applying constant pressure, reaching for your backpack. Dragging it over, you use your teeth to open your suture kit and your free hand to sterilise his cut with Betadine and alcohol, wiping gentle circles outward from the wound. You dip your needle like Achilles in the Styx, hand and all, into the sterilising liquid, tugging a glove on with your teeth.

You grip the needle driver in your dominant hand, pickups clutched in the other and take a steadying breath. There’s a stillness to the room, quiet save for your heartbeat pounding in your ears. The wound is large - high tension - so… mattress sutures… horizontal so the tension is spread over the edge of the wound.

You take your first bite, adrenaline driving your needle into a clean stitch. You reverse it, passing through his cut again, before tying it off with the practised motions of a thousand surgical knots tied on yarn and thread and fraying jeans. You settle back on your knees after the first suture, readying yourself for the stitching to come, and start the next one.

Hours later, you haul him onto your couch, sitting him up on the arm rest to take pressure off of his dressed stitches. Frowning deeply at how uncomfortable he looks - even unconscious, you tuck a throw pillow under his scuffed metal mask.

Leaning close to check his breathing, you hear crackling slow and deep through the helmet’s voice modulator. Bone-deep relief floods your system, a little sigh leaving your mouth involuntarily. Sitting heavily against your coffee table, you press the heels of your hands into your weary eyes.

He’s stable. For now at least.

Head bumping against the edge of your couch, you breathe in deeply, fighting the anxiety twisting in your ribcage. The couch smells like rubbing alcohol, stinging your nose so badly your eyes water. It’s followed by something familiar - underneath the heady scent of petrol and metal - like… if you mixed Gotham up into a single smell; rain and smoke and wet pavement. He… he smells like-

“Jay!”

The faulty fluorescent lights - courtesy of your parent's small family diner - seem to flicker in tandem with your strident yell.

Your best friend looks up at you through a mop of dark hair, collarbones poking out of his thin t-shirt, second-hand leather jacket chucked haphazardly on the other side of the booth. He’s stolen your copy of Jane Eyre, flattened with one hand next to a plate of old fries you’d scrounged for him.

You tug your book from his grasp, tucking your pen into the pocket on your apron. He looks up at you with a mouth full of fries, infuriating confusion written across his face.

“What? You promised I could read it.” You sigh in exasperation.

“When I’m finished! And-” A dramatic gasp rips from your mouth when you examine the book. “Are these- grease stains?” You take the book in both hands, swatting Jason with it.

“What so it’s okay to hit me with a book but not get grease- fuck, jesus, okay, okay!” You raise the book over your shoulder with both hands.

“Do you yield?” His mock-angry expression almost makes you laugh, a hand held up near his face to shield from your attack. There’s a soft twist to his frown, like he’s trying to stop his mouth from pulling into a grin. He raises his hands in surrender, and you relax your hold on the book.

Rookie mistake.

Jason darts forward, faster than you can blink, grasping your waist with both hands and dragging you towards him. He yanks the book from your hands and lets you go, grinning childishly at you with the book in his hands. The cat with the canary.

You throw your hands up in exasperation before planting them on your hips like a disappointed mother. The admonishment on the tip of your tongue turns into a weary sigh when you hear your parents calling for you from the diner kitchen. “Fine. But you actually have to try to not spoil it this time.”

Jason crosses his fingers over his chest, “Scout’s honour, birdie.”

You try not to flush at the nickname, just like you do every time he says it. Still, you fold like a stack of cards.

(He spoils it the next day.)

When you wake two hours later for rounds (at the ass-crack of dawn), he’s already gone. You pad quietly around your kitchen making coffee from day-old grounds, cautious not to disturb the sanctity of the early morning (or the ghost of his presence).

The only evidence of him is alight in the dim light that spills over your kitchen counter and into your living room - the deep indents in your couch and the bloodstains on your carpet… The rain on your wood floors, from the fire escape window you’re sure you didn’t leave open.

hi, hello, uhh this is the first fic I've ever posted so bear with me. if anyone actually sees this, i do apologise for the inaccuracies and lengthy prose. also, this will be a series so stick around if you like slow updates, slowburn and second chances. thanks for reading my rambles.

with love, bugsy

#series: the worst thing about love #love-bugsy #jason todd x reader #jason todd fic #jason todd fanfiction #jason todd reader insert #jason todd imagine #x reader

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