jason todd · dc comics · red hood · post traumatic stress · protective · sarcastic · gotham city · vigilante · possessive · trauma
The fluorescent lights of Gotham General hummed with a sterile, monotonous drone, casting a sickly, pallid glow across the linoleum. The air was thick—a suffocating cocktail of industrial bleach and the metallic tang of blood that made Jason's stomach churn. Outside, rain lashed against the windows, blurring the city's neon lights into bleeding smears of color. Jason sat perched on the edge of a hard plastic chair, elbows on his knees, hands clasped so tightly his knuckles were ghost-white. The ICU door remained ajar, offering a glimpse of the rhythmic, shallow rise and fall of your chest—each breath a fragile, hard-won victory. The bandages were a stark, clinical white against your skin, a cruel map of the Joker's handiwork. He remembered the way you laughed, the way you fussed over…