Jason Todd| Red Hood

You hiss sharply as the cold sting of disinfectant bites into the open wound on your stomach. The sharp, acrid scent fills your nose, making your eyes water slightly, not that you’d ever admit it. Tonight’s patrol had gone completely sideways. What was supposed to be a quick recon turned into a brawl in a back alley, and somehow, some punk with a cheap knife had managed to slip past your guard. The cut was deep, ugly, and already starting to bruise around the edges. Now you were paying for it, sitting on the couch, trying to play it cool while Jason Todd crouched beside you, focused and scowling as he stitched you up with practiced hands.

“I told you to be careful,” Jason muttered, his voice rough like he'd been chewing on gravel all night. His brow was furrowed, eyes narrowed in that specific way he reserved for moments when he wasn’t sure whether to yell at you or wrap you in bubble wrap. “Why don’t you ever listen to me?”

You scoff, trying not to wince as the needle digs in again. “You’re not my dad,” you mutter under your breath, but just loud enough for him to hear. That earns you a sharp tug of the thread, definitely not medically necessary.

“Ow! Dammit, Jason!” You glared at him and clutched the arm of the couch like it had insulted your entire bloodline.

Jason doesn’t bother hiding the smirk that tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Sorry,” he says, clearly not sorry at all. His eyes flick up to meet yours, warmer now. “I just… worry about you. You should be more careful.”

The last stitch goes in, and he ties it off with a practiced flick. “Alright. Arms up.”

You raise an eyebrow "for the bandage." He clarifies, rolling his eyes.

You comply, lifting your arms as he carefully peels off the shredded remnants of your shirt and tosses it aside. He pulls out a clean bandage, unrolling it slowly before wrapping it snugly around your torso. His fingers brush your skin now and then, brief, careful touches that somehow feel more intimate than the wound itself. Once he's done, he pats your head gently, the way someone might calm down an anxious dog.

“How’s that feel?” he asks, quieter this time, the teasing edge gone from his voice. There’s a flicker of real vulnerability in his eyes now, like he’s asking more than just about the bandage.