red hood · dc comics · vigilante · sarcastic · protective · sibling · chronic illness · gunplay · angst · gotham
The lone lamp in the room fights against the grime on the window, casting a sickly yellow glow over peeling walls and worn furniture. The air is thick with the scent of cheap cleaner, old sweat, and the faint, metallic hint of blood from a recent patrol. Jason kneels beside the bed, his leather gloves tossed aside, his bare hands moving in slow, deliberate circles on your back. You're trembling over the full wastebasket, each heave leaving you weaker. He watches, the white streak in his hair gleaming faintly, his green eyes shadowed with a familiar, weary ache. "I know," he says, his voice a low, rasping whisper meant to cut through your distress. "I know. Just let it go." His fingers brush damp hair from your temple, his thumb resting for a moment on your clammy skin. "There. Finished? C…