Good.
Jason Todd x Nurse!Reader
MAJOR hurt/comfort
authors note: tbh i do not put as much effort as i should when i write these fics so pls forgive any errors. ty to the internet for providing me with tutorials on how to heal burns :)
ALSO this happens after the end of under the red hood. if you dk what happens basically the building everyone is in explodes and jason is probably incredibly emotionally vulnerable
CW: wounds and burns
words: 2227 . playlist/vibes
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There’s the squeak of your window opening, and despite the fact you know it’s Red Hood, you pick up the baseball bat you keep beside your nightstand.
You had met Red Hood at a side job of yours. As a nurse in Gotham with dogshit pay, sometimes you’ve got to have some more questionable sources of income. You were stitching up some criminal who’d been beaten to half a pulp by Batman in the back of some sketchy club/drug dealing front, and he had caught your eye. Later, you realized he was probably there to fuck with the guys in the area once the men you were patching up started muttering about “The Red Hood” like if they spoke too loud he was going to hear them.
He’d played into your advances, flirting back with as much enthusiasm as you had arrived with. It was flattering having such a fine-ass man show interest in you. It didn’t matter how genuine it was since he had proven how good a lay he could be a week after that when you two had found each other again at another base of operations for another gang.
Every other time he always found you. He probably knew where you lived before you brought him back to your apartment. And he never took the mask off. It was a little weird, how attached to it he was, but it’s Gotham, and you’re fucking with a criminal. You’re lucky that, as far as you can tell, he’s not an escapee from Arkham. He didn’t touch the mask, and you didn’t say anything. Maybe he was super disfigured or something. You didn’t care; he looked good and fucked good, so nothing could’ve been that bad.
Red Hood always left before you’d even fallen asleep. The post-orgasm haze was enjoyable until he untangled himself from you and left without saying goodbye. It was always a silent affair every time he left. He was so committed to leaving that he refused to stay the night during a thunderstorm, deciding to brave thunder and rain instead of sleeping in the same bed with you
It didn’t hurt, but it was a little disappointing. You had never defined your relationship with Red Hood, but you knew he wasn’t interested in anything but sex. You were, though. The dull ache in your chest every time he left was nothing unexpected; catching feelings, or at least thinking you are, is a natural progression of fucking someone once every week or two. It’s a pattern you’ve found forming every time you’ve tried to have a no-strings-attached sort of relationship, even if you haven’t even seen his face before.
Creeping out of your room with socked feet, you shuffle toward your window and flick the light on.
Your bat clatters to the ground, and you can see Red Hood flinch slightly.
“Oh my god, what the fuck happened?” You gasp in shock at the state of the man who’s just broken into your apartment. Red Hood is beaten and bloody and clutching his side. You can see blood oozing out from the gaps between his fingers, but that might just be from how burned his hand is. His mask is just gone. But he’s still wearing a domino mask over his eyes. Bruises bloom everywhere on his face; his eyebrow is sluggishly bleeding into his eye, which is puffing up under the mask. He’s leaning against the wall beside your window, looking more like he collapsed.
He groans quietly in response as you rush over to him, collapsing on your knees next to him, “Got in an–” He coughs quietly, that’s not good, “An explosion.”
You want to suggest a hospital, but you know that he would immediately refuse and–if he could walk–probably just leave. Talking to Red Hood in vulnerable moments was like coaxing a feral cat.
“Okay,” You mumble, “Okay,” You know how to do this. Maybe with more people and more hospital equipment and not in your apartment, but you know how to do this.
“Alright,” You shuffle next to him and wrap an arm around his torso, maneuvering his arm to rest on your shoulders, “I’m going to lift you on one, okay?”
Red Hood nods, his eyes fluttering closed.
“Hey,” You snap, nudging him with your shoulder, “Stay awake–and deep breaths, alright?” Shuffling into a crouching position, you adjust him slightly, “Three, two, and one,” You both grunt in unison as you lift him up and off the floor, “Up we go, come on.”
Stumbling to the bathroom, you nudge the door open with your hip and carefully sit Red Hood on the toilet with you crouching between his legs. He droops in a way you’ve never seen before. Red Hood has always been so confident, holding himself high, but right now, he looks bone-tired, something sleep can’t fix.
He feels raw and broken open, something thick with sadness and tragedy oozing out of him, and that’s not just the blood. You cup his cheek to make him look you in the eyes, “Tell me what hurts, honey,” You say, the endearment slipping out as if you’re talking to a patient. Or someone you love.
Red Hood pushes his face into your hand, making your heart squeeze in your chest, “I think I broke a few ribs, definitely a concussion too,” He lifts his hand, it’s bloody and burned, blisters forming in spots that make you cringe, “And my hand is burned like crazy,” He rasps, “Shot my gun with some shit blocking the barrel.”
“Okay, can you take off your shirt, or do you need help?” You ask, standing up to start running the water and grabbing two cloths made from old t-shirts from the hamper next to your tub. Red Hood shakes his head and pulls off his shirt in your peripherals. Glancing over, his chest looks just as bad as you thought it would, with bruises scattered everywhere. It makes your stomach drop just a little more. At least there aren’t any deep abrasions anywhere.
Once the water warms up enough, you wet the cloths and offer one to Red Hood, resting the other one down on the sink countertop, “Wrap that around your hand and keep it there. I’m going to go get some ice for your ribs,” You say quietly, leaving the bathroom to walk over to the kitchen.
Why was Red Hood even here? He’s the most secretive person you know, and doesn’t he have an entire gang to patch him up? He must have a lieutenant or something somewhere. You grab the towel you keep in your kitchen and stuff it with ice, heading back to the bathroom where Red Hood awaits you. Honestly, fucking one of the most dangerous men in Gotham and a notorious crime lord was not your brightest idea, but patching him up after he got into a fucking explosion? What the fuck.
This isn’t what you two do, especially with Hood being so vulnerable right now. He’s breaking the boundaries he had firmly set completely on his own.
“Hey,” You say, Red Hood’s leaning back against the toilet, his eyes closed, “Wake up, I’ve got your ice.” Thankfully, he opens his eyes and takes the makeshift icepack with his good hand, pressing it against his ribs with a slight grimace. You pull the t-shirt-cloth off the counter and stand in between his legs to clean his face.
Nudging his chin with your hand to make him look up at you, you peel off the domino mask with some hesitation, but Red Hood just closes his eyes. He rests his head in your hand when you carefully grip his chin to nudge his face in the direction you want. Starting to clean the cut on his eyebrow, you think about how familiar he looks. His eyes look like those you’ve seen before, but you have no idea where.
“What happened?” You ask, wiping the blood off his face as carefully as you can. You know he won’t answer honestly, the few times you two had talked about anything close to emotions he had fled or changed the subject as soon as possible.
“I told you,” Red Hood responds like the avoidant fuck he is, “Explosion.”
You tut, whacking him lightly with your t-shirt-towel, and he huffs good-naturedly, “You know what I fucking meant, dickhead.” You scold, but he just shakes his head minutely in response, a furrow forming between his brows.
You swipe your thumb over it, soft in a way you two have never been, “You don’t have to tell me, Red. If this is the best way to help, then I’ll fix you up and send you on your way.”
He takes a shaky breath, and his eyebrows scrunch together more. You’re scared he’s going to stand up and leave your apartment, but he pushes through your hands and presses his forehead into your stomach. He falls apart against you. You can’t tell if he’s crying, but it’s something close.
“Oh, sweetheart,” You mutter, curling a hand into his hair.
You both stay like that until he calms down, the sobs wracking his body slowing to a stop. Cupping his face in your hands, you push until he looks up at you.
You don’t have to push very hard. Wiping away the tear tracks with your thumbs, you smile sadly down at him. There’s a small wet spot on your shirt.
“Come on, let’s get you cleaned up,” You crouch down and start wiping the dirt and blood off his chest, pushing him until he leans against the back of the toilet. Repeating this on his back as well, you try to soothe as best you can with a hand stroking up and down his side with the least bruises.
Once you’re done you pull him around to face you, “I’m going to wash your hair, bandage your hand, and then you’re sleeping for a very long time.”
Red Hood visibly tenses at that, and you level him with an unimpressed stare, “Stay,” You say quietly, resting your hands on his biceps and avoiding his gaze, “I want to watch you if you have a concussion, and I can’t do that when you’re having a seizure in an alleyway because it’s given you brain damage.”
He deflates, but still rolls his eyes, “It’s not that bad,” He argues, “I’ve been through worse.” How bad, he doesn’t say, but from the amount of scars on his chest and back, you can pretty much tell.
You patronizingly pat his cheek, “That sucks for you,” You tease, your hand sliding down to wrap your fingers around his wrist, avoiding the burns on his hands, and gently tug him towards the shower. He follows without protest, and you both sit against the tub as you wait for the water to warm up. It’s calming, sitting beside Red Hood, your sides pressed together.
Once the water is at a heat you deem acceptable; you pull down the showerhead and maneuver Red Hood to kneel over the tub, still icing his ribs, and start washing his ashy hair with generous amounts of shampoo and conditioner. You can feel his breathing slow next to you as you massage his head with your hands, suds falling into the tub under him.
You wring out his hair with a towel and push him back up into a sitting position. Kneeling on the ground, you lean over to pull open the cabinet under your sink and carefully take the first aid kit from its precarious balance on top of your medicine hoard.
Wrapping his burn is easier than you thought, Red Hood pliant and willing under your hands. You do a once over of him and judge him fit to sleep. You lead him out of the bathroom with a hand on the small of his back.
“Sorry, I don’t have any underwear for you,” You whisper, scared to break the quiet vulnerability you two are sharing.
He smiles at you for the first time since he arrived, which really means it’s the first time ever. It’s soft around the corners with exhaustion, and he looks at you for a little while before responding, “It’s okay, I didn’t expect you to,” He whispers back, just as hushed as you.
You chuckle at his late reply, “Your concussion must be pretty bad if it takes you that long to process words,” You goad, slipping under the covers. Red Hood goes to follow after setting his icepack down on the nightstand, but you hold out a hand to stop him, “Pants. Off. I’m not getting your grime and soot all over my clean sheets.”
He smiles brighter, “Well, you could’ve asked nicer,” He huffs, unbuckling his utility belt and letting it fall to the floor. He undoes his real belt and kicks off his cargo pants, nestling down into the sheets with a groan that’s half pain and half satisfaction.
You’re lying on your stomach, your face smushed against the pillow facing Red Hood, who’s lying on his back, as he fucking should, staring up at the ceiling, “Good?” You mumble, more at the pillow than the man beside you, and he laughs slightly, turning his head to look at you.
“Yeah,” He whispers like a secret in the dark of your bedroom, “It's good.”
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What’s in a cape, but the hopes and dreams of the one who bears it?
What’s in a cape, but shelter and warmth for those that receive its protection?
What’s in a hero suit, but a person that’s determined to die in it?
——
Long before Danny Phantom died in his hazmat suit, Bruce Wayne donned his cowl to dive between Gotham and the bullets with faces engraved on them. His cape began to signify fear, for those that harmed Gotham knowingly. But for the rest, it became a sign of protection, of promised vengeance against the crime committed.
And for a select few, the cape was a shelter during cold and rainy patrols. For Tim Drake, the third Robin, it was a warmth he’d never experience past those moments.
When Danny Fenton became Danny Phantom, he’d had wanted to have a cape like the crusader.
Danny wasn’t sure if he wanted to shelter or be sheltered.
But eventually, as things escalated and Danny found himself with less time for normal, personal things, that wish shuddered to an ember. After all, Danny had learned that he doesn’t get the luxury of protection. Not anymore. Which meant he had to be the one doing the protecting. A thousand miles away, as Danny came to terms with it on a clear Amity night, Robin was huddled beneath Batman’s cape to shelter from the pelting rain that came often with Gotham’s gloom.
When Danny got pulled along, invisible and attached to Robin’s side as the vigilante got thrown into a prison, he witnessed Robin talk to his evil older Batman self.
He’s visible again before he knew it, startling the two versions of Robins. Ice slammed into the Robin that became Batman as memories rung through Danny’s head. Where Robin was, stood himself. Where the Evil Robin Batman laid on the floor, covered in glowing ice, was Dan.
Danny died, and became a hero. He just had the unfortunate luck to live to see himself become the villain.
He would never allow Robin to go through it alone, not when Danny had his family and friends to fall back on. Robin, in this cage, ripped away from his team and in the midst of an argument with Batman, was painfully so.
“I’m Phantom.” Danny introduced himself. “Looked like you were in a bit of a spot. I’m sorry for butting in, if you wanted to take care of him yourself.”
“Robin.” Robin was wary. That’s okay. “How are you here?”
“That one’s on you, actually.” Danny glanced around. “Let’s get out of here before edgy future you wakes up. The ice won’t melt, and it’ll be hard to break, but I honestly don’t want to stick around for him to wake up.”
“Can you move him?” Robin eyed their cell contemplatively.
“Sure.”
——
“That seemed personal, earlier.”
Danny nodded. “Yeah. Had the displeasure of meeting an alternate evil version of myself that lost everyone I loved. Kind of hit a sore spot there.”
“…right.”
“No worries, you’re good. My friends and family promised to stay away from explosive sauce.”
“That’s good. So… where do you live?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know, weather boy?” Danny somersaulted in space next to Robin’s jerryrigged space ship. “Anyways, we’re friends now, so I’ll make sure you don’t live to see yourself become a villain.”
“See, that sounded like a threat.”
“It’s not! I don’t kill! And besides, if you were dead, you’d probably be a ghost, and you’d kick my ass for killing you!”
“Are you implying you’re dead?”
“Not an implication. I’m dead. Kind of. Half. I’m still breathing even if I kind of don’t need to. So, where are your friends?”
Danny will be damned before he let his new friends die in their suits, even if they make the job incredibly hard for him. After all, there’s only room for one dead hero on the team, and that’s him.
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