#series: the worst thing about love

[love-bugsy]

meet cut(e) | jason todd

the worst thing about love (two) / (one)

you’re just trying to get through your surgical residency, but this masked vigilante keeps showing up half-dead on your fire escape and reminding you of your dead best friend. oh well, at least he's cute.

tw: allusions to character death, depictions of grief, mentions of blood and injuries, swearing, completely ooc Jason but he’s like my own lil character now and I’m protective, i learned my medical terminology from grey's anatomy don't hate me

only jerks steal other people's writing (just don't repost, mate)

You’re awake when he stumbles into your apartment two weeks later. You stare at him owlishly; knees tucked up against your plush, non-indented couch, glass of Merlot in your hand kept carefully away from the carpet you just scrubbed the bloodstains out of. You set it gingerly on your coffee table, half convinced he’s not real.

“I got… a cut.” It seems strange for this masked vigilante - you may or may not have been doing some tipsy research on the hooded hero - to look so sheepish. All six feet of him stooped in your cramped apartment, one hand clutched to his side, that emotionless mask staring straight through you. You get up from your couch wordlessly, walking down the hallway to rummage through your bathroom. 

First aid kit and isopropyl in hand, you return to his awkward stance in the middle of your living room; his gaze intently focused on your overstuffed bookshelf. His attention snaps to you when your sock-clad footsteps meet the edge of the plush rug separating you. From this angle, you can see the stubborn, brown bloodstain that you tried to hide under the leg of your armchair - little marks… stains or rusting memories… You gesture to your couch, and he sits, taking off his jacket.

Yanking a stool over to sit in front of him, you pull up his shirt, brows furrowing at the slice in his side. He’s undressed the cut you stitched up for him before he should have, and you examine it while you clean his most recent knife wound. Your stitches are far from perfect - the scar bulging in some areas - but for such a high tension wound, it’s healed well.

Your eyes flicker up to his blood red mask for a moment, and it occurs to you - distantly - that you should probably be terrified. I mean, seriously. A part of you screams that this is how people get murdered. Another part of you thinks that this is the most vulnerable he ever gets; his shirt off, gritting his teeth through the pain of 91% isopropyl alcohol. 

Another - buried - part of you thinks this seems familiar.

Your gaze darts back down to his chest, lingering unconsciously on the end of the scar that cuts out from underneath his shirt. Your eyes catch on the ugly bruises decorating the tan expanse of his torso, some angry and purple, others a sickly yellow. He clears his throat awkwardly and your cheeks heat, returning your attention to sterilising his wound. Real classy, birdie, ogling a guy whose face you’ve never seen. He breaks the thick silence first, low voice crackling through his modulator.

“How’s it look, doc? ‘m I gonna survive?” You hide a smile beneath your exasperated look, brows knitted. Still, you can’t fully conceal the amused edge in your dry tone.

“You’re not nearly as charming when you’ve been stabbed.” He cocks his mask; unreadable. For a long moment, you think you might have actually offended him, until he huffs out a staticky laugh.

“Slashed, actually.” You scrunch your nose. Pedantic asshole. 

“Look, I’ve had a long day, which wasn’t exactly made better by having to patch up a freak in a super-suit, so just… save the witty ironicism for someone who didn’t have to clean up baby vomit all day.” You can hear the smile in his voice when he responds, mask’s gaze still fixed on your face.

“Ouch, doc, and here I thought you were happy to see me.” A little pause as you meet his gaze briefly, unable to shake the familiarity… the instinctive fondness that warms your chest. His next words seem more guarded. “So, why’re you helping me then?”  Good question. Your focus never falters from the slow concentric circles you’re rubbing around his wound with an alcohol soaked hand towel. 

“I took an oath.” He laughs again and you quash the little spark of pride that hearing it gives you. You swap the towel in your hand for a roll of bandages and a plaster, applying the latter first before starting to wrap his waist.

“My bad, doc, I thought you were helping me out of the goodness of your heart.”

You scrunch your nose, trying to suppress the smile that tugs insistently at your mouth. Reaching for a clip, you secure his bandages and help him pull his shirt down so it doesn’t catch. You get up from the stool, shuffling it out of the way for your future self to move back in front of your kitchen island. Yawning, you stretch your hands above your head, a little noise of relief leaving your mouth when the tension in your shoulders loosens. You pretend not to notice how his mask tilts, lingering on the sliver of skin exposed as your shirt lifts.

He settles backwards, leaning his shoulders over the arm of your couch so that his legs don’t dangle over the edge. You watch as he yanks your throw blanket haphazardly over his torso and crosses his arms over his chest. You’re sure he must be keeping you in his peripheral as you startle out of eyeing him warily, but he doesn’t acknowledge any of it. Maybe to save you some dignity. Padding back to the hallway, you make it halfway before pausing, words spilling from your mouth unbidden.

“You can have some coffee, you know.”

“What?” The question comes out slurred, a full night’s worth of adrenaline finally dwindling. It brings back a flash of a near empty coffee pot - last dregs dripping slowly into a blue mug held in lethargic hands. You blink.

“In the morning.” He tilts his mask, and you stumble to elaborate, “When you sneak out. You can have some coffee.” Cautious, you study his reaction, but your vigilante doesn’t move an inch - his mask’s white slits boring holes into you like he’s trying to figure you out. Or waiting for a catch. You think he might trust you more if you give him one.

“You have to wash the mug, though. And the coffee’s old.” If you focus hard enough, you can hear something percolating - the coffee in your makeshift warmer or… the tenuous thread of something like dependency. He shifts on the couch and you suppress a wince at the stress it will put on his injuries.

“I like old coffee,” he hums out blurrily, hushed static of his modulator nearly rendering the words unintelligible. You flinch, turning off the living room light instead of responding.

You’re seventeen, he’s sixteen. You give him shit for being two months younger than you. It’s so late at night you’ll start to call it morning soon, and the two of you sit on opposite sides of a diner counter.

You lean over the counter, arms outstretched, dropping your head into your clasped hands. He reaches over you, pouring out another cup of old, lukewarm coffee. He follows it up with an unholy amount of cream and sugar - just how you like it - nudging it over to you with that wry grin of his.

“Tired, birdie?” You are tired, but not as tired as he is. You think maybe Wayne Enterprises should be funding his college tuition, not this superhero shit. Superhero shit that he never talks about, except. He used to tell you everything. You used to tell him everything.

Because he’s smart. He’s really smart. Smart enough to not risk his life every night. You want to tell him that but you know he doesn’t see it that way. In that mask, he’s infallible. Instead, you hum in agreement, dragging the mug closer and taking a sip. You scowl at the bitterness.

He frowns petulantly, looking at you with tired, amused eyes. “You don’t like my coffee?” You set down your cup, wrinkling your nose at the unexpectedly loud ‘clink’ it makes against the counter.

“You’re so dramatic, blue, only you like day-old coffee.” He gives you a dry look, one that says he’s too tired to mock-argue with you. So instead, you turn on the sink behind the counter, rinsing cutlery to load the dishwasher. You both sit in near silence, broken only by his fingers tapping carefully on the counter and your absent-minded hums. 

~

You spend days agonising over a present as his birthday rapidly approaches, though you know he hates the fuss. You settle on a gunmetal grey lighter, shakily hand engraved with a bluejay. Something to replace his shitty BIC one, with its smudged sharpie lettering that barely spells out ‘JT’. 

Secretly, you look forward to the sardonic comment he'll make about how he thought you disapproved of his cancer sticks. The truth is, you don't think you could stop enabling him.

~

A month out from his birthday, he drops by after patrol with your copy of Wuthering Heights. You ask if he liked it and he says he didn’t. Something, something, overly maudlin. He’s lying. He always gets that little specific crease between his eyebrows when he lies to you.

It feels like all you see lately.

Are the nightmares getting worse?

Lie.

Stayin’ out of trouble?

Lie.

Are we always going to be like this? Am I always going to lose you when you put on that suit?

Lie.

Over and over until you snap, poking a finger straight into the crease and smoothing it out. You tell him you want the truth and he tells you he can’t give it to you. You yell at him for ten hour-long minutes, sweeping angry gestures with your arms. One of them knocks over his half-full mug - blue shards shattering in the slow spill of murky coffee. You wish you remembered what he said to you, but all you remember is watching him leave. The last time he ever did.

You wait two weeks for him to come back, recording apologetic voicemails that he dodges with clipped, sullen phone calls. Then, he stops picking up at all.

His death isn’t reported on the news.

Alfred visits you once after he dies, carrying Jason’s old leather jacket like a sleeping animal that might come alive at any second. You don’t talk - not even when he hands it to you - you don’t know what you would say. You don’t know each other, you have nothing in common, except that you loved the same person once.

Your life shrinks - going through the same mechanical motions for months on end, school, work, home. It feels blasphemous to do anything but stare at the jacket - to lift it from where it hangs on the back of your door, to make it yours instead of his - until, one day, you can’t bear to be distant from him anymore. You put it on, shove your hands in the pockets like he always did, digging around. You find an old hairtie of yours in the inside pocket and a stick of apple pie flavoured lip balm you lent him last winter. 

His lighter is in the front pocket, blue as his pale, dark eyes. Carefully, you place it on your desk, next to the one you meant to gift him. 

Two lighters and you don’t even fucking smoke.

oof okay, this one was a bit of a monster (don't know if it bodes well for this series for me to have struggled with this chapter so much lol) but i hope you guys like it. :) i might have to take a little break over the next month because of my final exams, but rest assured, doc and jay will be back again come november. tysm for reading!

with love, bugsy

[ghostinthetumbchine]

You might be eligible for financial compensation if you too have been traumtised by Rings of Power by being made to spend hours thinking up any possible scenarios to redeem the second worst person in a fictional universe created by a man in 1930s

[heyclickadee]

One thing about Crosshair is that he’s a remarkably intelligent man with a good read of people and situations and emotionally wrecked life decision-making skills. Dude will have some truly perceptive insight into whatever’s happening that hits on a grain of truth, and then that insight will be filtered through so many layers of trauma and cynicism that his conclusion will end up at least 90 degrees off whatever’s right.

[tinycowboybro]

I miss Bad Buddy.

(I miss the specific fantasy of waikorn I have crafted in my mind)

[hotasfahrenheit]

Thanwa, my love, my sweet idiot, you are correct that Peak has misunderstood you but also like you are the one who moved in with your clingy creep of an ex without explaining anything to Peak and expected him to just understand that you weren't actually getting back together with him despite letting Max constantly imply that was what was going on??

like how else is he supposed to react? and i mean like sure yes he should have owned up to his feelings sooner but at least he did when you haven't told him how you feel at all and are expecting an absolute himbo of a man to just understand a bunch of stuff you're explicitly not telling him about any of this. he took the first step in communication with you by telling you how he felt and you literally left him standing there. he needs to resolve the Jane situation, yes, but if you're not telling him what's going on with Max then you can't be upset he isn't fully explaining or dealing with what's going on with Jane.

play stupid games win stupid prizes my dove. you done did this to yourself.

[bonefall]

Thoughts on that one scene where Cinderpelt snaps at Tigerclaw to stop being useless and help revive Stormkit and Featherkit? I really do wonder what was going through his head. At least he waited until they were apprentices to try to murder them lol.

Cinderpelt is a total queen and one of the highlights of TPB

When you actually go back and read TPB with a critical eye, you realize that 100% of the "Oh it's so sad Cinderpelt will never be a warrior" comes from Fireheart's own guilt, and TNP revisionism. She LOVES being a medicine cat.

The opportunity even comes up for her to try and train as a warrior again, but it's pointless, because she's found her calling by helping out Yellowfang.

And she's good at it! Silverstream's death actually rocks her pretty badly, but during the birth, we get to see Cinderpelt at her peak. Focused, confident, assertive. Later, we get to see how she copes and moves on from losing her first patient in such a traumatic way.

She then goes on to be downright sagely to Firestar, as a medcat is supposed to be.

I think what was going through Tiger's head was that he FINALLY had the evidence to get Graystripe for codebreaking, tbh. He's obsessed with crime and punishment. I think it took him by surprise when Cinderpelt was like "shut up and kiss this baby you fucking leaf brain"

But like he's not about to defy a medicine cat right here and now, when he's so close to getting Graystripe for having halfclan kittens.

[allgirlsareprincesses]

The kindest thing you can do on Tumblr is tag your negativity.

I genuinely think it's fine to talk about the fandom stuff you just can't stand, but giving people a heads up and a chance to filter it out is great.

[welcometogrouchland]

I support the "Batman was unfairly biased to Stephanie for XYZ reasons" crowd so strongly bc DC claims that Bruce is a master planner who is able to understand anyone's psychology but he didn't realize that literally every single one of Steph's problems as a teenager would've been solved by her joining a shitty punk band. If he couldn't figure that much out then he didn't understand her for a minute

[koipalm]

the halo tv show is pissing me off so badly.... to take SUCH a dearly beloved show not only in the gaming world but also just in popular media and milk it for fucking views actually makes me like sick to my stomach. and after seeing what the video games industry is doing right now with how projects are cancelled and all the hard work and amazing artistry in them is never seen again i want to fucking hit someone!! and the fucking layoffs going on in the video game industry is insane. projects are shelved forever and devs are kicked to the curb. not only that, but the fucking ubisoft exec that said people should get used to not owning games?? combined the amount of movies coming out that are purely reboots of older media.... and i cant remember who it was but there was someone in the cartoon industry that pitched like 14 fucking things and they all got shot down! fuck! why cant we fucking care about art! why cant execs fucking understand that we WANT people that care about the projects, and we dont fucking want old ideas revamped when the people in charge clearly dont give a shit about the source material! fuck!

[tetzoro]

good morning friendz !! i hope everyone has a great monday and wonderful start to their week ^_^ !!

[love-bugsy]

the worst thing about love is… | jason todd (chapter 1)

you’re just trying to get through your surgical residency, but this masked vigilante keeps showing up half-dead on your fire escape and reminding you of your dead best friend. oh well, at least he's cute.

tw: stitches, mentions of blood and injuries, swearing, completely ooc Jason but he’s like my own lil character now and I’m protective, very inaccurate medical terminology and procedure lol

only jerks steal other people's writing (just don't repost, mate)

There’s a dead man on your fire escape.

Well. He’s not actually dead, but his pulse is weak when you drag him into your living room, out of the relentless Gotham rain. Pulling your hand away from under his mask, you crouch down, peeling off the worn leather jacket around his shoulders and unbuckling his pauldrons. You feel around his back, brows furrowed. You can’t feel anything through the padding in his rain soaked shirt.

Hands wandering down to where his front is flat on the floor, you press down on his side, eyes widening when your fingers come back slick with blood. You go into autopilot, flipping him onto his back and yanking up his compression shirt. You might’ve gasped at the knife wound if you weren’t working on instinct. It’s bad. 

Shoving away the doubt clawing at the base of your skull, you steady your trembling hands. You’ve been trained for this. 

Don’t feel, just do.

The cut is long and serrated, and deep as all hell. It slices through the middle of a jagged, Y-shaped scar that chains over his shoulders like a noose. Jesus. 

It’s like he was stabbed and then dragged across the floor, cutting diagonally across his torso. How is he even still alive? Your hands move faster than you can think, completing an internal checklist as you go.

Breathing? Fast and shallow through his modulator, no obstructions. Bleeding? Applied tourniquet to epigastric region - transfusion isn’t even an option… Your brain works overtime, sifting through diagnostics lectures - penetrating abdominal trauma, debrided of devitalised tissue, no visible debris… You trace the edges of the wound looking for inflammation or fluid buildup; signs of peritonitis, but the weapon seems to have missed any internal organs. Lucky. Even luckier that he landed on a surgical resident’s fire escape.

Reaching over to the lamp by your couch, you shift it so that it shines directly over his abdomen. A last check of his wound confirms that there are no external indications that you should conduct a laparotomy. You just have to sew him up and hope to god the knife didn’t puncture anything internal.

You keep a hand planted firmly over his tourniquet, applying constant pressure, reaching for your backpack. Dragging it over, you use your teeth to open your suture kit and your free hand to sterilise his cut with Betadine and alcohol, wiping gentle circles outward from the wound. You dip your needle like Achilles in the Styx, hand and all, into the sterilising liquid, tugging a glove on with your teeth. 

You grip the needle driver in your dominant hand, pickups clutched in the other and take a steadying breath. There’s a stillness to the room, quiet save for your heartbeat pounding in your ears. The wound is large - high tension - so… mattress sutures… horizontal so the tension is spread over the edge of the wound. 

You take your first bite, adrenaline driving your needle into a clean stitch. You reverse it, passing through his cut again, before tying it off with the practised motions of a thousand surgical knots tied on yarn and thread and fraying jeans. You settle back on your knees after the first suture, readying yourself for the stitching to come, and start the next one.

~

Hours later, you haul him onto your couch, sitting him up on the arm rest to take pressure off of his dressed stitches. Frowning deeply at how uncomfortable he looks - even unconscious, you tuck a throw pillow under his scuffed metal mask. 

Leaning close to check his breathing, you hear crackling slow and deep through the helmet’s voice modulator. Bone-deep relief floods your system, a little sigh leaving your mouth involuntarily. Sitting heavily against your coffee table, you press the heels of your hands into your weary eyes. 

He’s stable. For now at least. 

Head bumping against the edge of your couch, you breathe in deeply, fighting the anxiety twisting in your ribcage. The couch smells like rubbing alcohol, stinging your nose so badly your eyes water. It’s followed by something familiar - underneath the heady scent of petrol and metal - like… if you mixed Gotham up into a single smell; rain and smoke and wet pavement. He… he smells like-

“Jay!” 

The faulty fluorescent lights - courtesy of your parent's small family diner - seem to flicker in tandem with your strident yell.

Your best friend looks up at you through a mop of dark hair, collarbones poking out of his thin t-shirt, second-hand leather jacket chucked haphazardly on the other side of the booth. He’s stolen your copy of Jane Eyre, flattened with one hand next to a plate of old fries you’d scrounged for him.

You tug your book from his grasp, tucking your pen into the pocket on your apron. He looks up at you with a mouth full of fries, infuriating confusion written across his face.

“What? You promised I could read it.” You sigh in exasperation.

“When I’m finished! And-” A dramatic gasp rips from your mouth when you examine the book. “Are these- grease stains?” You take the book in both hands, swatting Jason with it.

“What so it’s okay to hit me with a book but not get grease- fuck, jesus, okay, okay!” You raise the book over your shoulder with both hands.

“Do you yield?” His mock-angry expression almost makes you laugh, a hand held up near his face to shield from your attack. There’s a soft twist to his frown, like he’s trying to stop his mouth from pulling into a grin. He raises his hands in surrender, and you relax your hold on the book.

Rookie mistake.

Jason darts forward, faster than you can blink, grasping your waist with both hands and dragging you towards him. He yanks the book from your hands and lets you go, grinning childishly at you with the book in his hands. The cat with the canary.

You throw your hands up in exasperation before planting them on your hips like a disappointed mother. The admonishment on the tip of your tongue turns into a weary sigh when you hear your parents calling for you from the diner kitchen. “Fine. But you actually have to try to not spoil it this time.”

Jason crosses his fingers over his chest, “Scout’s honour, birdie.” 

You try not to flush at the nickname, just like you do every time he says it. Still, you fold like a stack of cards.

(He spoils it the next day.)

~

When you wake two hours later for rounds (at the ass-crack of dawn), he’s already gone. You pad quietly around your kitchen making coffee from day-old grounds, cautious not to disturb the sanctity of the early morning (or the ghost of his presence).

The only evidence of him is alight in the dim light that spills over your kitchen counter and into your living room - the deep indents in your couch and the bloodstains on your carpet… The rain on your wood floors, from the fire escape window you’re sure you didn’t leave open.

hi, hello, uhh this is the first fic I've ever posted so bear with me. if anyone actually sees this, i do apologise for the inaccuracies and lengthy prose. also, this will be a series so stick around if you like slow updates, slowburn and second chances. thanks for reading my rambles.

with love, bugsy

[steelthroat]

I think the perfect man is actually the weird mix between Spencer Reid and Patrick Jane, with a hint of Castle playfullness.

Yes.

[comradecowplant]

Huh. So that's the end of the Umbrella Academy I guess.

[killherfreakout]

i’m scared and i’m angry and i’m alone and i’m just. everyone has their shit together but me! look i’m sorry. i’m sorry.

[imavikingo]

I have this stupid idea that Bucky knew that “old Steve” wasnt his Steve because of the color of his eyes. And he just… got tired of it all and just went with the motion.

Because he cant have anything good, right?

“He wasn’t Steve, Sam”

“What do you mean? Oh… Do you mean your Steve, because of….?”

“No, I mean that THAT PERSON wasn’t Steve, his eyes were too blue, too perfect”

“Well yeah, Steve had blue eyes Bucky. I don’t understand”

“He had some green in them too, the eyes of that person were just blue, nothing more”

[slingbats]

I am going to need that rewrite on my desk by tomorrow, 12 point font, times new roman, double spaced

noOOOOOO IT'S TOO MUCH WORK!!! I DON'T HAVE TIME AND I DON'T CARE ENOUGH........ girl help!

my rewrite where uhhhhhhhhhh. everything is the same except the writers actually care about female characters. a lot of decisions were made because of actresses no longer being available so plotlines like fish's are more or less the same but like, Ivy either gets to grow up normally or is never a child at the beginning to start with (you can go the weird plant body route if you have to keep her relatively younger since this is a prequel ig), and I don't... even know what to make of KK or Isabella, and Sofia should just be fucking. dont tell me there isn't a single female italian bodybuilder who can act, I don't believe you. let her be buff. let her take up space. let her be huge and wear vintage fashion.

also Oswald is fat and trans