hi! I love how you write your jason fics, so i was wondering if you could write something regarding the headcanon of his chronic pain. Maybe after a couple of consecutive nights on patrol his body is really feeling the effects of it to the point that he needs to stay in for the night. Where everything is a little fuzzy and the pain too much to take care of on his own, so the reader has to step in.
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You knew something was wrong when Jason didn't argue about you coming over.
"Yeah, sure, whatever," he'd said when you'd texted asking if you could drop by. No deflection, no "I'm busy," no suggestion to meet somewhere else instead. Just easy agreement that set off every alarm bell in your head.
Jason Todd didn't do "easy" anything.
Which is why you found yourself at his safehouse at nine PM on a Thursday, letting yourself in with the key he'd given you three months ago (and pretended was "just practical" and "didn't mean anything").
The apartment was dark except for the blue glow of the TV playing some old movie on mute. It took your eyes a moment to adjust, to find Jason's shape on the couch, and when you did, your heart clenched.
He was lying on his side, still in his tactical pants and undershirt, one arm wrapped around his ribs and the other hanging limply off the couch. His face was pale in the flickering light, jaw clenched tight, and even from across the room you could see the tension radiating through his entire body.
"Jason?" you said softly, not wanting to startle him.
His eyes opened, you hadn't realized they were closed, and it took him a second too long to focus on you. "Hey," he rasped. "Sorry, didn't hear you come in."
That was wrong too. Jason always heard everything. It was an annoying vigilante trait that made surprising him virtually impossible.
You moved closer, kneeling beside the couch so you could see his face better. His pupils were slightly dilated, his breathing shallow and careful. There was a pill bottle on the coffee table, prescription painkillers with a label you recognized from previous injuries, but it looked untouched.
"How long have you been lying here?" you asked.
Jason's eyes slid away from yours. "Couple hours. Maybe more."
"Wasn't gonna happen tonight." He said it casually, but you could hear the frustration underneath. Jason hated missing patrol, hated feeling like he was letting Crime Alley down.
You reached out slowly, telegraphing the movement, and touched his forehead. He was slightly clammy, and he flinched at the contact despite clearly trying not to.
"Where's it bad?" you asked quietly.
Jason's laugh was humorless. "Where isn't it?"
You'd known about the chronic pain for a while now. Had seen him favor his left side on bad days, noticed the way he moved carefully in the mornings, caught him pressing his hand to his ribs when he thought no one was looking. Jason had died violently, been resurrected wrong, and spent years putting his body through hell. The pain was just another scar he carried, invisible but constant.
Usually, he was good at managing it. Had a routine: painkillers, careful stretching, ice packs, the stubborn refusal to acknowledge it was happening. But sometimes, after too many consecutive nights of patrol, too many fights, too much stress on a body that had been broken and badly repaired, the pain won.
"Jason," you said gently. "Have you taken anything?"
"Makes me fuzzy. Can't afford to be out of it."
"You're not going on patrol tonight anyway."
"Yeah, but..." He stopped, jaw clenching again. "What if something happens? What if someone needs—"
"Gotham has other heroes. Crime Alley will survive one night without Red Hood." You brushed his hair back from his forehead, and he leaned into the touch despite himself. "Right now, I need you to let me help you."
Jason's eyes closed. "Don't need help."
"I know you don't need it. I'm asking if you'll accept it anyway."
He was quiet for a long moment, and you could see him fighting with himself, the ingrained need to handle everything alone warring with the obvious reality that he was barely holding it together.
"It's bad tonight," he finally admitted, voice rough. "Like, really bad. Everything's... it's like my whole body's remembering every hit, every break, every... " He stopped, breathing carefully through his nose. "Feels like I'm dying again."
Your chest tightened. "Okay. Okay, we're going to get you comfortable, and then you're going to take your medication, and then we're going to get through this together. Sound good?"
Jason nodded weakly, and you stood up to survey the situation. First things first, he needed to be somewhere more comfortable than the couch.
"Can you walk?" you asked.
"Yeah, just... give me a second." Jason braced his hand on the couch and tried to push himself up. He made it about halfway before his face went gray and he had to stop, breathing hard.
"Okay, new plan." You moved to his side, carefully sliding an arm around his back. "Lean on me."
"Jason Todd, if you finish that sentence I'm going to be very annoyed with you." You helped him sit up, moving slowly, giving his body time to adjust. "On three. One, two, three."
You got him to his feet, and Jason leaned heavily against you, his breathing harsh in your ear. Every step toward the bedroom was careful and slow, and you could feel him trembling with the effort of staying upright.
"Almost there," you murmured. "You're doing great."
"'M not doing anything. You're doing all the work."
"Then you're doing great at letting me help. That's character growth."
Jason made a sound that might have been a laugh if he'd had the breath for it.
You got him to the bed and helped him sit on the edge. His face was even paler now, a thin sheen of sweat on his forehead despite the cool temperature of the apartment.
"Shirt off," you said. "I need to see what we're working with."
Jason's hands moved to the hem of his undershirt but stopped, fingers trembling. "Can't... can't raise my arms that high right now."
"Okay. I've got it." You found the hem and carefully, slowly, began working the shirt up. Jason helped where he could, but his range of motion was severely limited. When you finally got the shirt over his head, you had to bite back a sound of sympathy.
His torso was a patchwork of scars, some old and faded, some relatively new, all of them telling stories of violence survived. But it was the way he was holding himself that worried you, the visible tension in every muscle, the way his ribs stood out too sharply as he struggled to breathe through the pain.
"Where's the worst of it?" you asked, though you could guess. Jason always held his left side when the pain got bad.
"Ribs," he confirmed, pressing his hand to his left side. "Where the... where the crowbar... " He didn't finish the sentence. Didn't need to.
You knew the story. Everyone who knew Jason knew the story, even if he never talked about it. The Joker. The crowbar. The warehouse. The death that had started all of this.
"Okay. Lie back, carefully." You helped him recline against the pillows, and Jason's breath hissed out between his teeth. "I'm going to get some supplies. Don't move."
"Wasn't planning on it," Jason muttered.
You made a quick trip to the bathroom, gathering everything you could think of, the heating pad you'd bought him last month, muscle relaxant gel, the good lotion for massage, more water. When you returned, Jason's eyes were closed again, his face tight with pain.
You set everything on the nightstand and sat on the edge of the bed. "I'm going to touch you now. Tell me if anything hurts worse, okay?"
Jason nodded without opening his eyes.
You started carefully, your hands gentle on his shoulders, feeling for the knots of tension. Jason was solid muscle, but right now everything felt locked up, his body clenched against the pain. You worked slowly, using just enough pressure to encourage the muscles to release without causing more hurt.
"Breathe," you reminded him softly. "You're holding your breath."
Jason exhaled shakily. "Trying not to... trying not to feel it."
"I know. But holding your breath makes it worse. Breathe with me?" You demonstrated, slow and steady, and after a moment Jason tried to match your rhythm.
You worked your way down his arms, his chest, being extra careful around the ribs. When your fingers found a particularly tight knot near his shoulder blade, Jason made a sound that was half relief, half pain.
"That's a big one," you observed.
"Caught a hit there two nights ago. Thought I was fine."
"You're never fine," you said, but your tone was gentle. "You just get really good at pretending."
Your hands moved to his sides, carefully avoiding the worst of the rib pain, working on the muscles that were trying to compensate. Jason's breathing was starting to even out slightly, the tension slowly, so slowly, beginning to ease under your touch.
"When did you last sleep?" you asked.
"Really sleep? Tuesday, maybe."
It was Thursday. "Jason."
"I know, I know. Just... been a busy week."
You reached for the heating pad, turning it on low and placing it carefully over his ribs. Jason sighed, some of the tightness leaving his face.
"Yeah. That's... that's good."
"I'm going to get your medication now. Don't argue."
"Wasn't going to," Jason said, which was how you knew he was really hurting. The Jason who argued about everything, who insisted he was fine, who never wanted help, that Jason only disappeared when the pain got too overwhelming to fight through.
You returned with two pills and a glass of water. "Can you sit up a little?"
Jason tried, but the movement pulled at his ribs and he had to stop, breathing hard. You slid an arm behind his shoulders and helped him up just enough to take the pills, then eased him back down.
"They'll take about twenty minutes to kick in," you said, settling back beside him. "Until then, we're just going to focus on breathing and staying comfortable."
Jason's hand found yours, gripping it tighter than necessary. "Thank you," he said quietly. "For coming over. For... for all of this."
"You don't have to thank me."
"Yeah, I do. I know I'm... this isn't fun. Taking care of someone who's... "
"Jason." You squeezed his hand. "Stop. This isn't a burden. You're not a burden. You're someone I care about who's in pain, and I want to help. That's it. No score-keeping, no debt owed."
Jason's eyes were bright, and you pretended not to notice the wetness at the corners. "I'm not good at this. At letting people see me like this."
"I know. But you're doing it anyway, which is brave as hell."
"Doesn't feel brave. Feels like... " He stopped, jaw clenching again. "Feels like being weak."
"It's not weak to need help. It's not weak to be in pain. It's not weak to be human, Jason." You brushed his hair back again, and this time he actively leaned into the touch, seeking comfort. "You've been fighting alone for so long. You don't have to anymore."
Jason was quiet for a moment. "What if I can't stop? Fighting alone, I mean. What if that's just.. what if that's all I know how to do?"
"Then we'll work on it. Together." You glanced at the clock. "Medication should be starting to work soon. How are you feeling?"
Jason took a mental inventory. "Fuzzy," he admitted. "But the... the sharp edges are getting softer. Not gone, but better."
"Good. That's good." You adjusted the heating pad, making sure it was positioned correctly. "What do you need right now? More water? Different position? Distraction?"
"Just... " Jason's grip on your hand tightened again. "Just stay. Please. I don't want to... don't want to be alone with this."
Your heart broke a little at the vulnerability in his voice. "I'm not going anywhere. I promise."
You stayed beside him, one hand in his, the other gently running through his hair. Jason's breathing gradually evened out as the medication worked its way through his system, the lines of pain in his face slowly smoothing.
"Tell me something," he murmured after a while, words starting to slur slightly. "Something normal. Something that's not... not this."
So you talked. You told him about your day, about the weird customer at work, about the stray cat you'd seen on the way over. Mundane things, boring things, the kind of everyday life that Jason rarely got to experience. And you watched as the normalcy of it, combined with the medication and the warmth and your presence, finally let him start to relax.
"You're good at this," Jason said quietly, his eyes half-closed now. "The taking care of people thing."
"Liar. I'm a terrible patient."
"Okay, you're a terrible patient," you agreed. "But you're trying, and that counts for something."
Jason's eyes drifted closed fully. "Stay?" he asked again, voice small.
"I already promised I would." You shifted to lie down beside him, carefully, making sure not to jostle him. "I'm right here. You can sleep."
"What if I have nightmares? Sometimes when I take the meds, I dream about... about the warehouse."
"Then I'll be here when you wake up. We'll get through it together." You pressed a kiss to his forehead. "You're safe, Jason. I promise you're safe."
Jason's breathing was deep and even now, his body finally surrendering to exhaustion and medication. His hand was still holding yours, and you settled in for the long haul, knowing he'd probably wake up a few times during the night, knowing the pain would likely be back by morning even if less intense.
But for now, he was resting. The tension had left his body, the pain temporarily managed, and he'd let you help him, had trusted you enough to be vulnerable, to admit he couldn't do this alone.
It was a big step for Jason Todd, who'd spent so long believing he had to carry everything himself.
You watched him sleep, his face peaceful in a way it rarely was when awake, and made a silent promise to always be there when the pain got too bad. To remind him that needing help wasn't weakness, that his body's limitations didn't make him less of a hero, that he was allowed to rest.
Jason stirred slightly, his grip on your hand tightening in his sleep, and you squeezed back.
"I've got you," you whispered into the darkness. "Always."
And for once, Jason Todd let himself believe it.
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