#Chronically Ill Jason Todd

[bluejaysandblackbats]

Bruised Figure

Fandom: DC Comics, Batfam

Summary: Jason aspires to become a figure skater despite obstacles in his personal life.

Chapters: 6/?

Characters: Jason Todd, Bruce Wayne, Catherine Todd, Willis Todd, Dick Grayson, Cassandra Cain

Additional Tags: Figure Skater AU, Chronically Ill Jason Todd, Hurt/Comfort

Chapter Six: Promises

After the doctor ran several more tests, Jason lay curled up in his hospital bed, too tired to speak. It wasn't until late afternoon that a new doctor came to explain something to Bruce in private. Dick tried to keep Jason preoccupied, asking him questions about figure skating. "Do you like the costumes?" Dick questioned.

"Dick?" Jason mumbled.

"What's up?" Dick asked.

"I know you're trying to be nice, but my head hurts... And I don't wanna talk right now," Jason explained before pressing his face into the pillow. Dick bit his lip before speaking. He would've taken offense, but Jason was terribly sick. Dick rubbed Jason's back.

Dick glanced at the monitors and saw that Jason's fever had peaked, but everything else seemed normal. Jason hadn't been this ill in a while. It felt like all his symptoms were so much worse, and it was mortifying to experience his illness while trying to seem okay in front of Bruce. The room stayed silent until Bruce returned, and he asked to speak to Jason alone. Jason turned on his side and opened his eyes. "Hey, how's it going, Champ?" Bruce asked. Jason gave Bruce a weak thumb's up. "Yeah, it's been a tough two days, but you're still hanging in there."

"No more small talk... I can't skate anymore, can I?" Jason questioned.

"I've got good news and bad news. What do you want first?" Bruce questioned. Jason gave Bruce a thumb's down. "Well, you've got a hereditary autoinflammatory disorder called familial Mediterranean fever, which requires you to take medication for life."

"Was there really any good news?" Jason questioned.

"Once this flare-up is over, the medication will prevent flare-ups in the future. They say it's extremely effective... And they said we caught it in time before it could cause damage to your organs," Bruce explained as he rubbed circles in Jason's forehead with his thumb.

Jason didn't react. He couldn't until Bruce told him everything. "You can skate as soon as you're better," Bruce whispered, "I know that's what—." Jason embraced Bruce and burst into tears. "Easy... We've still gotta focus on getting you well again." Bruce patted his back before tucking him into bed. "They'll start you on the medicine today."

Jason smiled and shut his eyes despite the pain he felt in his legs and stomach. "I'm gonna make you proud, Bruce. I promise," Jason whispered. Bruce frowned.

"I'm already proud," Bruce whispered, "You've been so patient with everyone. I don't know if I could've done the same in your shoes." Jason giggled. "What?"

"My feet are too swollen for my own shoes," Jason joked. Bruce smiled.

"Dick's making a run to get smoothies, so you'll have something on your stomach... Think you can stomach a smoothie?" Bruce asked. Jason nodded. "No pressure..."

"Hey, Coach?" Jason asked.

"Yes?" Bruce asked.

"I'm gonna place. I know. You said it doesn't matter, but I'll be great. Wait and see," Jason replied. Bruce grinned.

"You know what? I believe you," Bruce smiled.

Dick returned with four smoothies, and he offered Jason the first pick. Jason took small sips and looked up at Dick. "Are you gonna—?" Jason took a breath and shook his head.

He finally managed to keep his smoothie down. Bruce nearly sighed with relief when he took the empty cup from a fast-asleep Jason. Jason started visibly sweating. Bruce pulled the blankets back and patted Jason's forehead dry with a napkin. "I wasn't a good parent to you," Bruce whispered to Dick.

"You still had some growing up to do... And it's nice to see that you grew up in time to be part of Jason's life," Dick whispered. Bruce frowned.

"I wish I could make it up to you—."

"Be good to him... That's how you can make it up to me," Dick interrupted, "And I'm holding you to it. Our relationship is contingent on how you treat this kid."

Jason covered his face with his hand, still asleep, and Bruce rubbed his back. Dick went to sleep shortly after, but Bruce stayed awake well into the night.

Jason woke up in tears, trying to get out of bed in the dark hospital room. Bruce caught him and tucked him back into bed. "Hey, hey... I've got you. It's okay," Bruce whispered.

"I don't wanna stay here—."

"Jason, I know you're scared, but it's almost over. Once your fever breaks, we can go home," Bruce reassured.

"Can you sleep up here?" Jason mumbled. "Just for tonight, Bruce?" Bruce nodded and lay beside Jason in the hospital bed.

"You know I wouldn't let anything happen to you, right?" Bruce questioned. Jason pushed his face into Bruce's side.

"What if you can't help it?" Jason whimpered.

"Then I'll do whatever I can to fix it," Bruce replied. Jason settled into sleep, and Bruce allowed Jason to stay burrowed into his side until morning. Bruce slept soon afterward.

Jason woke up drenched in sweat, and Dick offered to get him something to drink. Jason sat up. "Feeling sick again?" Dick questioned.

Jason shook his head as the nurse entered the room. "Good morning, Sleepyhead. Feel up to taking your medicine?" she asked. Jason nodded as he took a pill and washed it down with juice. "Thank you... Breakfast should be on its way any minute now."

"Thank you," Jason mumbled. The nurse checked his vitals and left him with Dick and Bruce. "How come you stayed?"

"Don't know... Maybe I was curious to see if Bruce was lying," Dick replied, "And then I saw you... And I felt horrible."

Jason finished his juice. "Are you gonna stay to watch me compete?" Jason questioned. Dick nodded.

"I'll come back for your competition... And if you place, I'll get you a cake," Dick replied.

Jason grinned, and Bruce stirred. "Jason?" Bruce whispered. Jason looked over at Bruce. "Still too hot?"

"No," Jason replied, "But I'm still thirsty."

"On it," Dick volunteered.

The room grew silent. Jason yawned. "Do you know why I wanted to coach you?" Bruce asked. Jason shook his head. "You love figure skating. I could tell by the way you skate. You seem like you were born on the ice... That's why I don't care if you place or not. No one can take this away from you." Bruce tapped Jason's chest.

"I love figure skating... But I love you more," Jason whispered. Bruce smiled.

"I love you too, Jason... So much," Bruce replied.

"Thanks for keeping your promise," Jason smiled. Bruce nodded.

"Always... Jason, you can count on me, okay?" Bruce whispered as he dabbed the sweat from Jason's forehead. "Okay?"

"Yes, Coach," Jason answered.

Bruce climbed out of the hospital bed and stretched before tapping the bed. "Can I check to see if the swelling's gone down?" Bruce questioned. Jason nodded and allowed Bruce to roll up the blankets to look at his ankles. Bruce lifted Jason's leg by the ankle. Jason winced. "I'm sorry. How badly does it hurt?"

"Not as bad," Jason answered.

"They're not as red and puffy, so I believe you. When the swelling goes down enough, we can go home," Bruce whispered. Jason lay on his side. "Thank you for being so good about this... And thank you for letting me take you to the hospital."

"Thank you for keeping your promises," Jason replied.

[ky-landfill]

just breathe.

[bet-on-me-13]

Vlad has Pit Rage

So, we all know the idea of Pit Rage. When you are submerged in a Lazarus Pit, you will become insanely mad for a while, and in the Fanon it is permanent.

Well, in Danny Phantom we do know of one other person who was infused with Ectoplasm (aka Lazarus), who had a personality change after his accident, who had years to build up his hatred, who never got the help he needed.

Vald. It's Vlad. Due to a fuckup when making the Proto-Portal, Vlad was blasted with Corrupted Ectoplasm rather than the Pure Stuff, which gave him Pit Rage.

Pit Rage is basically a Chronic Condition, and once Vlad figures out that he needs help while on his whole Redemption Arc (read A Glitch In Time, I beg you), he goes to the Far Frozen to seek their help.

He gets some Medication that helps suppress the Pit Rage, and goes on with his journey of Redemption.

Then, one day while he is wandering through Gotham, he meets a Kid who is seriously I'll. Like, he's almost as Bad as Vlad himself was before he got the Medication he needed!

So, he gets some of his Emergency Medication and has the kid take some. Thankfully it helps him calm down and gets him to stop Shooting Vlad. (He jad been unloading clip after clip into Vlad until he finally calmed down)

Now he needs to take this Kid to Frostbite so he can get his own source of Medication, and the easiest way is to just kidnap him. Not like he was being watched at all, honestly people need to take better care of their Kids.

...

Batman is panicking.

Some Vampire guy just fed Jason some weird drugs that made him calm down significantly and them kidnapped him through a Glowing Green Portal.

Was his son just Drugged and Kidnapped?

[kartsie]

Team “Catherine Todd deserves the world and a nuanced limited series that explores poverty and the broken American healthcare system”

[im-lost-in-ikea]

Sponsored by my MRI results taking forever to get back, you ever think about who's reading the X-rays and MRI's and such for the bat family?

I don't know what it is in canon, but in so many fics Bruce is rich enough to have MRI machines and such in the cave, which I'm sure he is, but who's reading it?

I'm sure Alfred or Leslie could bs their way through an X-ray, but an MRI? A CT scan? No way.

Look I've seen a lot of scans in my day. I've done my best to read them with the power of a god complex and Google. I refuse to believe anyone without an 8 year degree in radiology can read them.

And look, I know their all geniuses. This ain't about genius. It's about experience. That none of them have.

Which leaves us with two options. Bruce is sending them out to some poor private radiology company who's just wondering who TF is paying them billions to tell them just how screwed up their bodies frequently are.

Or, Bruce is stubbornly refusing to believe this, and their all walking around with even more untreated injuries then they think.

This also raises questions about Clark. Sure, he has X-ray vision, but that don't mean crap if you can't understand what your looking at. Is he secretly a doctor, or bsing everyone?

[ihavetraumaandimgay]

The worst thing that can happen to any of Batfam members, that will Absolutely DESTROY them is I think having an terminally/Chronically ill loved one, why?

Because these people are used to solving things with fists, guns, acrobatics, computers and their genius minds but they are completely useless against an illness and not being able to take the pain away from their loved one will destroy them

[spite-and-waffles]

If I see one more fic where the Bats absolutely refuse to take any painkillers even though they're in agony because "they need their head clear", I am actively going to wish you suffer debilitating, chronic, inescapable pain just once in your life so you can see what kind of blithering moron you sound like, and can imagine what life is like for those of us who have to live and work with chronic pain. See how fucking clear your head is working through the fire alarm in your brain screaming.

Making painkillers and sleeping pills bogeymen adds to a pervasive stigma that is violent and oppressive to disabled and chronically ill people. Not being in pain is not an addiction! Restricting access to pain medication destroys more lives than addiction ever does! Substance abuse is a consequence of depression, stress and systemic issues!

And don't even get me started about them refusing to use crutches or canes because they "don't want it to become a crutch" (???? THAT'S WHAT THEY'RE FOR). Do you know what happens when you don't use your mobility aid?? You aggravate your injuries, increase the abnormal stress on your muscles and joints, do terrible long-term damage to your body and oh yeah, subject you to a WORLD OF PAIN. Do you know how many people, whose quality of life would massively improve with mobility aids, are too ashamed to freely use them because of exactly this kind of rhetoric??

If you want to make your heroes self-harming paragons of toxic masculinity and hustle culture (having needs is weak, suffering is a virtue, subjecting yourself to useless tests of endurance is the triumph of mind over matter) that's your own lookout. Personally I think having the discipline to force down food, sleep even when you're stressed and giving your body the care owed to your primary weapon and tool is much more impressive form of ruthless utilitarianism. But reinforcing this ableist narrative around aids and painkillers is a very real systemic violence. Please trash these tropes and write with more imagination.

[fckbatmanhiskidsareminenow]

Kill me slowly, Baby you know I don’t fucking mind

warnings: vent fic about illness, mildly graphic depictions/imagery of physical and mental illness

tim drake centric

title: life waster by corpse (don’t look at me ok im embarrassed)

word count: 912

beta read and edited by the lovely @vespertilionis

Do not cry. Do not cry.

That’s all Tim can tell himself as he stiffly walks back to his car. He knows how this is going to go, he’s not too sure why he got his hopes up. He feels like an idiot.

Finally, in the safety of his car, he actually looks down at the referrals he has been given. One for a CT scan and the other for an overabundance of blood tests. He didn’t ask for either. All he wanted was a referral to see an ENT, but the doctor hadn’t even looked at him before she started talking over him and suggesting other ideas.

There’s a few things we can do before you see an ENT. It’s been a year since he started feeling like this. All he wanted was to see a specialist, someone who would know what was wrong.

It’s probably not what you think it is. Probably?

You’re crazy, nothing is wrong with you.

Nothing is wrong.

Nothingiswrongnothingiswrongnothingiswrong

He throws the referrals across the car before slamming his fist into the steering wheel and letting out the loudest scream he could.

It peters off into a sob when he realises he can’t hear anything. Well, anything but a high ringing. He sits there hyperventilating in his own version of silence.

He calls the CT place while driving, desperately trying to sound like he hasn’t been crying. He almost breaks down when the receptionist mentions he had the same test done around this time last year.

As he pulls into the driveway of the manor, he takes a moment to calm down. Firstly, because he doesn’t want to talk about it, and secondly, because he feels guilty for being upset. At least the doctor was running tests. Sure, she didn’t really listen to him and suggested tests for allergies and anemia, which he is sure he didn’t have, but she still decided to do tests. Other people have been sick for years and don’t have doctors listen to them, so he should be grateful.

Maybe she doesn’t think he’s crazy.

He tries not to think about the fact that if the CT scan comes back and shows his sinuses blocked, the doctor might put him on his fourth round of antibiotics. Even after the other three rounds have completely tanked his immune system. Or that if the blood tests show he is anemic, she might focus on that instead of the actual problem. Like the horrible constant congestion that makes him feel like his brain is being compressed into a liquid that’s going to explode out of his ears and nose. Or that if he does have the disease he thinks he does, he might lose his hearing. He really doesn’t want to think about that part.

When he enters the manor, he heads straight for the cave. He’s hoping for the perfectly healthy distraction of vigilantism. His hopes are immediately crushed when Bruce turns to him and asks him how the appointment went.

“Oh, uh, it went ok. We’re redoing some of the tests we did last year,” he says awkwardly, wishing for once Bruce would notice he didn’t want to talk about it. Once again, his wishes go unheard as the older man just looks concerned.

“You don’t seem too happy about that.”

No shit, man, no clue how you got the title of world’s greatest detective.

He tries to push away the resurfacing anger by laughing, but it comes out wrong.

“Yeah well, last time the results didn’t really get us anywhere. So, I was kinda hoping she would try something else.” Another laugh. Bruce nods and turns away. Either he finally got the hint or doesn’t know where to go with Tim’s response.

Relieved that the conversation is finally over, he starts heading to the computer when he hears Jason scoff.

“Ya know what I think you need? Some concrete to harden you up.”

Harden you up. Fucking whiny baby.

Harden you up. Ungrateful child.

Harden you up. Nothings wrong with you Tim, you’re out of your mind.

Tim stops in his tracks and turns his head slowly to face the older boy.

“What?” he says coldly, causing Jason to raise his hands in surrender.

“Hey! I was just joking with you.” he laughs, and Tim’s eye twitches.

“No, explain it to me, so I can understand how it was supposed to be funny.” He can feel the anger rising again. Jason lowers his arms, looking guilty for his ‘joke’, but Tim couldn’t care less.

“I just meant that you complain a lot. It’s kinda miserable.” He answers, sounding defeated, but again Tim couldn’t care less.

“Why do you think that is Jason? Do you think I’m complaining because it’s fun?” “No—“ “No! I’m not! I am fucking miserable! I’m exhausted and dizzy and I feel like my brain is rotting in my skull! And I’m sick of people not listening to me and thinking I’m fucking CRAZY!”

His throat hurts from screaming. He’s hyperventilating again, but he can’t hear it over the sound of the ringing again. It hurts. He shakes his head to try and clear it, but it just makes the world spin around him. A hand reaches out to steady him but he pushes it away.

“Don’t fucking touch me.” God, his voice is always so much louder when his ears are blocked.

He stumbles up the stairs, knowing he’s probably stomping, but he can’t hear that either.

[roanawayspoons]

I've been reading a lot of DC x DP fics lately and while I adore them, and I enjoy the way Danny and/or Frostbite always seem to be able to help Jason with the pit rage and the left over ectoplasm/Lazarus water in him, I would love love love to see some fics where Jason's Lazarus contamination is treated more as a chronic illness, or as something that has lasting effects on his health even if they can purify the ectoplasm.

Some thoughts I've had about it are:

It can be purified by Jason doesn't have a healthy core, it can't make healthy ectoplasm on its own, only contaminated ectoplasm. So to purify it he has to take meds/consume pure ectoplasm/wear some magic thing that filters it.

Could need regular check ups with Frostbite to track health

Maybe things that trigger pit rage also cause more contaminated ecto to be made/be released into him, so he has to be mindful of triggers even if all the ecto in him atm has been purified

He has faster healing bc of it, but healing is exhausting so having to manage getting hurt not because he can't survive it, but because it'll cost him recovery time/could make him bedridden sometimes

The body often ignores all of the less serious issues when there's a bigger problem, so if the contamination gets fixed maybe it reveals other issues with his health that were hidden by the pits. Like memory/sensory issues, fatigue, etc

There are so many ways it could go, but I just would really love to see it given less of that Magical Cure and more of a chronic/invisible disability feel. We can always use more rep :P

Anyone can use these, but pls pls lemme know if you do cause I'd love to read it!!! I'm also so so down to chat about it!!

[msfcatlover]

Fisher King!Damian discovering chronic illness immediately after Bruce “dies” and being like: “HOW CAN I BE BATMAN NOW?!?!”

Tim, with horrible insomnia and enough mental illnesses to make a therapist cry: “HoW cAn I bE BaTmAn NoW???”

Cass, with her selective mutism & more scar tissue than not: 

Dick, with his connective tissue disorder & multiple head injuries: “…………Why is this my problem? Nevermind, nevermind, I’m fixing it…”

(Jason, just a mess: *laughing at them from his apartment; he’s not dealing with this*)

[versasfanficwastedump]

chronically ill fic writer like hm. this character has medical trauma now. bc i said so.

[bluejaysandblackbats]

Bruised Figure

Fandom: DC Comics, Batfam

Summary: Jason aspires to become a figure skater despite obstacles in his personal life.

Chapters: 1/?

Characters: Jason Todd, Bruce Wayne, Catherine Todd, Willis Todd, Dick Grayson, Cassandra Cain

Additional Tags: Figure Skater AU, Chronically Ill Jason Todd, Hurt/Comfort

Chapter One: Proper Fall

The first time she took Jason to the ice rink, he was five years old. Jason held onto the railing for dear life, and he refused to look at the seemingly vast ice ahead of him. Catherine giggled as she gently tugged at his hand. "Jason, look at me," she whispered gently. He swallowed hard and looked up at her smiling face. "Have I ever let you fall without picking you back up?"

Jason shook his head, and he loosened his grip on the railing. It took him a little bit longer to let go. When he did, Catherine looked down and shook her free hand excitedly. "You're so brave," she whispered, "I knew you could do it. Look at me."

As long as Jason kept his eyes on her, he kept his balance. He was so excited to see Catherine cheering him on that he almost forgot he couldn't skate. Catherine let go of his hand and started skating backward to move him forward. Jason panicked and sped right into her arms. Catherine held onto him as he accidentally knocked her to the ground, and she let out a laugh. "I'm sorry, Mama," Jason apologized as he pressed a kiss to her forehead. "Are you hurt?"

"No, bubba. You did it. You came to me by yourself," Catherine smiled, "You were so brave!"

"I was?" Jason asked. Catherine nodded.

"Wanna try again?" Catherine asked. Jason looked up at her and nodded. "Okay, we're gonna learn how to stand and fall." Jason giggled. She showed him how to stand up, and she stood back, allowing him to stand on his own two feet.

Jason wobbled at first, but he wanted desperately to make Catherine proud. She went a few paces ahead of Jason and demonstrated how to fall in slow motion, and Jason laughed. "Okay, now you try," Catherine smiled.

Jason bent his knees as she showed him, and he wobbled and wavered before putting his hands out. After he fell down, Catherine applauded him. "Now, let's get up," Catherine coached him through as Jason stood up. Jason reached for her hands, and she continued to skate backward while he tried to catch her. He laughed once he figured out she was playing with him. His watch beeped, and her face changed. It was time to go home and make dinner.

Catherine took his hand and led him back to the bench to take off his skates and return them before getting his shoes. Jason quietly put his shoes on by himself before tugging at Catherine's sleeve. "Is Daddy home today?" Jason questioned. Catherine nodded. Jason screwed up his face, and Catherine shook her head and showered him with kisses.

"No, no crying baby... Okay?" Catherine asked. No answer. "Jason, I promised you hot cocoa for being a big boy, didn't I?" Jason nodded and sucked up his tears without letting a single one fall. "And who knows, Daddy might be excited to see his big boy." She shook him up playfully, and he tried to smile for her.

Jason took her hand, and they went to the cafe to buy cocoa. Jason held his little cup of cocoa in one hand and Catherine's hand in the other. Jason blew into his cup, and Catherine looked at him. "Does Daddy know my teacher wrote a letter?" Jason asked. Catherine nodded. "Did he read it?"

She chuckled and shook her head. "I just got it from your teacher when I picked you up, silly," Catherine teased before taking a sip of her cocoa. "But I think he'll be excited to see how hard you've been trying. It's really paid off."

Jason took little sips of his cocoa to keep warm as they walked. "Mama, it's snowing on me," Jason announced. She noticed the little bits of fresh snow falling from the sky. They stopped to take in the beauty of the snowfall before entering their apartment building and taking the stairs. Catherine let Jason into the apartment, and Willis laughed and slapped his knee. It startled Jason and Catherine, but Jason approached Willis to keep the peace. Jason set his cup on the coffee table and let Willis bounce him on his knee.

"Jason's teacher wrote us a letter about what a great student he is," Catherine announced as she opened Jason's backpack and gave Willis the little green folder.

Willis opened the folder and read the letter to himself before messing up Jason's hair. "Excellent fluency? Diligent? A joy to have in class? That's my boy!" Willis exclaimed as he stood up and tossed Jason in the air.

"She also said he was intuitive and compassionate when I picked him up from school," Catherine added. Jason wrapped his arms around Willis's neck in an embrace once he felt comfortable, and Willis rubbed his back.

Jason didn't usually hug Willis after a month away from him, but he had to admit he missed him this time. "What does intution mean?" Jason questioned. Willis put him down and chuckled.

"You're intuitive. It means you're a thoughtful person," Willis replied. Jason nodded.

"Okay, thank you, Daddy," Jason smiled before leaving his parents alone together.

Catherine washed her hands and put on two cans of soup for dinner. "Do you want bread with your soup, Willis?" Catherine asked. Willis nodded.

"He missed me. Did you see that?" Willis grinned.

"I did," Catherine answered. She buttered the last of the bread and tossed it in the oven.

"What's all that stuff about a lack of confidence?" Willis asked as he lifted the folder up.

"It's okay. I'm working on that by having him try new things. Today I took him ice skating," Catherine replied, "I think he liked it."

Willis knit his brows together, and Catherine tensed up. "Besides, when he gets big enough, he could try out for hockey," Catherine lied. She had no intentions of putting Jason in contact sports, but she didn't want Willis to take ice skating away from Jason. Willis grinned at the thought of Jason in hockey, and he lay back into the couch pillows.

"Good thinking," Willis commended her as he finished off Jason's cocoa. "He still afternoon class?" Catherine shook her head.

"No, I had to switch him to mornings because I was working mornings," Catherine whispered, "I don't think we should switch him back. He's doing much better in this class."

"Okay," Willis replied, "Things are gonna be different. I mean it this time."

Catherine crossed her arms as she turned to face the stove. She turned the soup off and opened a pack of crackers for Jason. It was the eighth declaration of change he'd made since Jason could walk. Jason came out of the bathroom in his pajamas, his cheeks rosy from the warm water, and Willis knelt down and checked behind Jason's ears and looked at his fingernails. "Look at you! Clean as a whistle," Willis smiled.

Jason smiled, revealing his missing bottom tooth. "I lost a tooth. It fell down the sink," Jason whispered. Catherine rushed out of the kitchen and looked in Jason's mouth.

"You still have the most handsome smile I've ever seen," Catherine complimented. Jason embraced her, and she picked him up. "It's a good thing I made soup and not something crunchy, huh?" She kissed his cheek.

[ky-landfill]

[greenunoreversecard]

Having physical ailments is like;"I'm gonna do shit!" While feeling shitty and then wondering why the shitty feeling is getting worse

( I say this because I stood up to fast while my head was already pounding them proceeded to almost pass out while cleaning my room)

[ealawithanaccente]

Jason Todd but he's left with chronic illness from the pit and has built in compression wear in his suit to help with the pain but the thing is he never actually told anybody he had this problem?? They just..

Eventually find out?

Bruce is the last to know to his own horror, and Jason doesn't even TELL HIM, he just figures it out because hey, suddenly my kid has a lot of compression clothing and is taking a lot of ibuprofen and oh look, he's making that grumpy face when he stands up again. And of course Jason denies it but Alfred rats him out almost immediately because of course he knew.

[luvrodite]

lover, be good to me. jason todd [3.4k]

synopsis. in the third summer of your love, you get sick.

cw. gn!reader, sickfic, mental health issues, descriptions of weight fluctuation, angst, hurt/comfort. medication. this one is a bit heavy so please exercise discretion. written from the perspective of chronic illness but nothing is specified beyond discussion of mental health symptoms.

There’s a ghost that lives in your home.

This thing lives between you and Jason, a haunting in every room, a presence you can’t not feel. You feel its baleful eyes on you in dreams and upon waking, strongest in the winter, when the East Coast chill sinks its teeth into your arms hard enough to reach bone. 

It goes like this: sometime in the third summer of your love, you get sick. There isn’t anything to point to what it is exactly, only that one June morning you don’t get out of bed. It’s nothing until it is, the next several weeks spent making a home in the four walls of your shared bedroom. 

A flip switches seemingly overnight, and you’re further from your lover than you’ve ever been. 

Jason - and the part of you that knows better, dormant now, buried beneath the rubble - watches in mute horror as you bring yourself to ruin. The desire to be good, the control you’ve held over yourself, slips free of your grasp in seconds. Invisible threads are picked at until you’re frayed at the ends and your beloved home, this reprieve the two of you had as good as built from the ground up, falls victim to it. 

You pick fights. You slam doors and hide in the bathroom for hours on end. You want to scream yourself hoarse, your fingers itching for violence, longing to shatter something if only to give life to this sickness that lives in you, as if by breaking, you’ll cast it out. The exorcism does not come, but a cloying feeling sits beneath your skin, strangling, blood sitting stagnant in your veins and rotting. 

There are moments of clarity, when you lift your head from the haze and the gravity of all you’ve done barrels into you like a freight train. Those do not last long, invisible hands pulling you back under before you can correct your course. It's as though you take the backseat, replaced by something entirely that takes the controls, watching in mute horror as you destroy everything around you.

Jason gives it back just as good but even then, even in the anger, there’s something else in his eyes. You catalogue it, feeling as though your very soul has split – it’s the you from before that weeps at this, reaching out for your lover in prostration, begging for forgiveness. The being that lives in you now, volatile, ever shifting like a burning flame, burns too bright to feel shame. He is there, and he loves you – enough to bear the brunt of your pain, apparently. Shards of shrapnel, your anger is explosive and shatters everything in its wake. It cares not for sentiment, for history and love. You hurt, and it is blinding. 

The doctor’s appointment is booked far later than it ought to be, after weeks of tumultuousness that have left a dour cover over your home, seeping through the cracks in the walls and into the surrounding apartments. Your neighbours must loathe you. You’re too detached, too selfish to care.

The night before is the most clear headed you’ve felt all month, haze lifting as if to show you – look what you’ve done, look at all you’ve wrought. The devastation floors you, the grief you’ve caused to the one you love most curdles your blood and you weep in Jason’s arms. Knelt before him, you press your wet face into his lap. 

I’ll be good. I promise, I’ll try to be better, I’m sorry. 

You can barely breathe through your tears, broken hearted, sure you must be dying. Has anyone ever felt such grief, you wonder, and the thought is immediately followed by a tidal wave of self loathing. Selfish, so focused on your own misgivings. This is no way to live.

He tells you he loves you and it feels like a kindness you don’t deserve. Too good a man for you, an exhaustion from the last month lines his features. The thought terrifies you, that you’ve veered too close to the precipice of forever splintering him, that under your hand he knows other, less gentle things. Yours has not been a peaceful love as of late, and you wonder if this will be the straw that breaks his back.

In the waiting room, his hand finds yours. A good man, one you do not deserve. He doesn’t let go. Not when your name is called, not when you tell your doctor what’s been happening.

You hope, foolish, desperate thing that you are, that they’ll offer a quick fix. It’s laughable, but the soft turn of the doctor’s gaze makes your stomach twist. So begins the year of doctor’s visits.

You become very familiar with waiting rooms, sterile rooms and the low buzz of the news channel playing on TVs, pale walls and water coolers, paper cups shredded in your lap. 

The first shrink you talk to is, at first, the answer to all your problems – Jason balks at it, in the beginning, and you hear him muttering to his brother on the phone but he doesn’t breathe a word of it to you. If it helps you, that’s all that matters. The man listens. He understands how hard things are and how your hurt is poisoning you. He makes the right noises and his cardigan lends him an air of sincerity, brown eyes framed by thick glasses that in the glare of the light feel kind, almost like kinship.

You’re desperate for a solution, even if it means taking the prescription pills that after about a week, leave you with hands that shake violently anytime you raise them, shedding too much weight, way too fast. The insomnia comes next, and then the pills that are meant to fix that. Orange, smaller than the nail on your little finger. The tremors do not go away, but in settles a new drowsiness, bringing with it vivid dreams that feel terrifyingly lifelike. You wake in a sheen of sweat to the already awake gaze of your boyfriend, eyes wide and wary, hands finding yours in the dark, whispering reassurances when you cry again. 

How many tears have you spent this year, and how many have you subjected him to?

His kindness feels like a balm over your jagged edges, and you shake your head when he first tentatively suggests that the medicine isn’t working. You’re determined to stick to your vow. You love him, you need to get better. You can’t keep living like this, can’t do the fits of rage, can’t do the mood changes. You can’t keep hurting the both of you.

Still, sleep evades you, a cruel thing dancing out of reach even when you’re told to double down on the dose. The dreams only worsen, virulent hues of fluorescent greens and red, blood and viscera on your hands. 

It feels like a condemnation when Jason mutters one night, after you’ve woken from yet another dream, body stiff with fright and reaching out for him, less hesitant now in the face of your tears, “This isn’t working.”

Bitterly, you find you can’t argue with him. Worse, you’ve shelled out a horrifying amount of money simply to vent to a yes-man. The pills are disposed of in the morning and another appointment scheduled.

Back in the waiting rooms, back to discussing other, not-shrink options, Jason’s hand finds yours once more. You watch the news, watch tired parents wrangle their sick children, watch the colourful plastic toys. 

“I hate this,” you whisper, leaning into his side. 

You’ve been unwell for a month and then some, by now. The waiting room feels like a taunt – you are sick, you are suffering. The sickness festering in you, the rot you can’t explain, makes you feel smaller than ever, frail in a way you haven’t known before. 

Before, you used to like that Jason was so much bigger than you, that he could protect you. This, though, he cannot save you from, a fact you’re sure frustrates him just as much as your weakness does you. There is the anger, of course, but there is also fear. What is to become of you now? Your life, through your failing health, has been torn from you. You feel robbed, feel a distinctly you-shaped loss in your frame that leaves you teetering on a precipice. How quickly things had taken a turn, and there was nothing you could do about it.

Jason sighs, turning to press his mouth against your hairline. “I know. I know, baby.”

You’re sent off with forms for another blood test. Maybe it’s something different, and there burns a beacon of hope. It is also entirely possible you’ll spend another six months on medication that doesn’t work. 

You don’t care for this. There is a hopelessness and vulnerability to feeling sick that you do not care for, catching sight of yourself in the bathroom mirror and doctor’s office scales and fluctuating weight – you begin to turn your head away from the numbers at this point like you're being stuck by a needle, meeting your lover’s eye while the doctor takes his notes and finding comfort in teal irises, in the small grin he gives you when you’ve done something he thinks to be brave. You don’t care for any of it, but you must. For him. 

He hasn’t breathed a word of contention to you – a good man – but you know it weighs on him. You’ve woken once or twice in the night to find him watching over you, something in his eyes like he fears you’ll slip away, a hand always in yours, or holding you close to him. 

Guilt, ever-cutting, roils in your stomach. The anger cedes these days to make way for it, and your eyes burn, shame becoming a familiar friend.

“I’ve put you through the wringer, haven’t I?” you whisper on one of these nights. He blinks, unaware you’ve woken, and it speaks to how tired he must be that he’d not noticed, too lost in his thoughts to feel your eyes on him.

He cradles your jaw tenderly with one hand, kissing your temple. “No more than I’ve worried you.”

It’s true that you’ve faced your own set of troubles with him. Still, it feels distinctly different – his anger had been the product of fear, a genuine terror at the thought of letting you get too close. There’s decay in you, one you aren’t sure has entirely left, despite your placidity these days. 

“I’m sorry.” You apologise and he narrows his eyes, but you reach for his hand, intertwining your fingers. “You’re a good man.”

“Don’t be stupid,” he grumbles. “Obviously I’m going to fuckin’ look after you.”

Do I deserve it? You think.

“Wish you’d let me do the same for you,” you whisper, instead. It’s a truth you’ve often spoken, but feels like a lie in this moment, a deflection of your feelings. Guilt, once more, settles on your tongue, cloying against your tastebuds.

He kisses you sweetly, and you wonder if he can taste it. Something in the slant of his lips tells you he knows. How could he not? Once, twice, he brushes his mouth over yours. Chaste, loving. “Just get better. Then, maybe. I’ll consider it.”

Your eyes burn, fear like the tide, washing in once more. “What if–” your breath hitches, a lump forming in your throat.

“What?” His voice is soft, encouraging.

“What if it isn’t–if I don’t–” you can’t make out the words. The pad of his fingers brush over your lips.

“You will,” Jason whispers, voice thick. His eyes are bright in the dark, you realise, horrifyingly, sapphires covered in a sheen of liquid. “You will, ‘cause you promised me. And I’m holding you to it.”

You hear it for what it is – I’m here. I’m here and I’m not letting go of you. Don’t let go of me.

He’s asked for so little. Good men are rare to find in Gotham and you’ve got the best of them. You reach up and clutch his wrist, hands turning until your fingers slot comfortably between each other. 

“Okay,” you tell him, and you know he knows. I’m going to get better. 

The diagnosis comes eventually. In your relief, there is also bitterness. Another step forward, it still feels entirely too late. It should have come before, you think. Before you’d taken a sledgehammer to your love, before you’d fractured yourself and Jason from the inside out, before you’d put scars where there had been none, invisible lacerations lining the walls of your chest.

The medication – pills, pills, always pills – is difficult to adjust to at first. It leaves you short of breath, and more anxious, reaching for Jason to ground you. You cry a lot and though it isn’t anything new, there’s a misery in Jason’s eyes that only makes you weep more. You want to be okay again. You want to smile at him without the weight of all you’ve done, without knowing you’ve made him cry when he thinks you’re asleep, tears bleeding silently into the space of the pillowcase above your head. You want to go back so bad it makes your hands shake.

You lie awake, staring at the ceiling. Jason, on his side, brushes a finger over the swell of your cheek.

“Can I say something.”

You hum, sliding your eyes over to him. He gives you a tentative smile - the barest quirk of his lips. 

“Maybe I’m being hopeful, I don’t know,” he mutters, eyes tracing the slope of your nose. “Tell me to shut up if I start talking too much.”

This bashfulness makes you laugh a little. It’s so much like before, and you ache for it. For a moment, you can pretend nothing bad has happened, that the two of you are just in love and home. 

(You wonder if you will always be reaching for before. If you’ll ever get it back, if you’ll always long for it. You wonder if Jason does too.)

“What?” you breathe out.

“Think the meds are working.”

Your breathing shallows and you blink at Jason. Hope is a fickle thing, and it feels tremulous, dancing just before your fingers, as if coaxing you to reach out. You trust him more than anyone in the world, but you’re scared to hope. “What?”

His knuckle brushes over your cheek. “You don’t look as tired.”

You avert your eyes. “Maybe I’m just sleeping better.” Tell me. I’m selfish, I know, but tell me I’m doing better. I need to hear it from you.

He shakes his head, and you quietly marvel at the bloom of pleasure in his face, a contentment you haven’t seen in months in the crease around his eyes. “It’s not that.”

The doctor confirms this when you go back a few weeks later and Jason, so like himself for a brief moment, meets your eyes over the man’s head and mouths, I told you. You bite back a grin, still wary, barely out of the woods. 

“You’ve gained weight,” the doctor says when he gets you on the scale, and he sounds so pleased the sound shoots straight through to your heart, flintstone striking a light, kindling hope for the first time in months. You look down to the numbers flashing back at you, to your lover – but he’s already watching you, eyes creased in silent pleasure. 

You are the last to accept this tentative beginning to peace, to healing, but he waits for you at the threshold, hand outstretched. 

There is no tangible evidence of the destruction you’ve wrought in your home but it lingers, even as you begin the slow crawl out of the woods. You see it in the lines of your lover’s face. There are corners of the room you cannot bear to look at for the first few months following your appointment, too reminiscent of words you’d bellowed in a rage induced haze, captive to your own body. 

This history is one too fresh, too tender to accept just yet, wounds still pink and raw. You cannot face yourself yet. There is too much to do, too much work to do, too much at stake to jeapordise if you slip and fall now.

But Jason is a good man. Much better than you think you deserve – but he’s said the same about you, so perhaps…just maybe…you think it might even out. 

He doesn’t shy away from the worst bits of you, the ugliness you’ve bared to him does not run him off, not like how you flinch from it. You made a promise. I’m holding you to it. He’s hard to shake off, but you don’t want him to. You’re thankful, even, for the dog teeth he’s sunken into your forearm, bound together in blood.

There is grief in beginning to heal. 

Perhaps heal is not the right word, and yet there is no other for this, overcoming the last few months feels like it ought to be called healing. But this is a forever thing. You will know this deficiency for the rest of your life, will know doctor’s appointments and bloodwork – strictly cautionary, we need to make sure the dose is right so we can adjust it accordingly. 

There is grief in finding your footing. It lingers, the horror of falling victim to a biological response – that your mind should so easily be lost, it feels indicative of something greater, a weakness you need to cut out at the root. Jason shakes his head when you voice this one night – you are only ever honest like this under the cover of darkness, sleep softened and gentle enough to be frank with him. 

“You’re not weak.” He says this with love in his voice, but a thread of steel weaves through his words. “Don’t fucking say that. You’re here. That counts for a fucking lot.”

He tugs you closer and you feel it again, that fear that grips his heart. Like you might dissolve in his arms in the middle of the night. 

“I feel better–than before,” you tell him, peering up at him, eyes burning. You press a hand to your heart. “But I still feel it. It’s still here.”

He presses his forehead against yours. “I know.”

And you suppose he would know. “Is it gonna be like this forever?”

He takes a moment to think, and you have to tuck yourself into his neck to hide your tears. Raw – this year has left you raw. You’ve spent a fountain of tears, but they’re yet to run out. You find solace in the hollow of his throat; if you could, you think you would attach yourself there permanently.

“Yes, but no.” You make a questioning noise and he smooths a hand down your back. “‘S gonna be different, now. Not always going to be bad, or good, just – different.”

“Different.” The word fits oddly in your mouth, and whether it’s the late hour or your grief, you can’t make sense of it. He shudders out a breath, weary, and you press closer.

“Yeah,” he whispers into your hair. 

“I just–” you swallow with some difficulty, a lump in your throat. What is there to say that you haven’t already? “I hate this.”

His lips twitch into a tired, sympathetic grin. “I know, baby.”

Silence follows his words, where you mull over all that there is to say, sorting through the jumble of words in your head. You shift until there’s a little room between the two of you, looking up at him.

“Hey.”

He hums, and you feel his hand raise from your back to cup the back of your neck, thumb sweeping over your nape gently. 

“I’m gonna –” your breath hitches, stumbling over the words. “I’m gonna be good, I’ll – I’ll be better. I promise.”

And he knows you’re not talking about your health. This is a forever thing, after all. Your words point to the hidden cracks in the walls, the foundation of your home and heart – I’ll be better. 

Tourmaline eyes crack open a little wider to look at you, tired, but hopeful. “I know, baby. We’ll be alright.”

Ah. Of course he knows. You grin tremulously up at him and press forward to smudge a kiss against his jaw, breathing your promise once more against his skin, hoping it takes root. 

Jason waits at the threshold of your new normal, arm outstretched, knowing you’d join him eventually. He’d known, of course he had – every inch of your soul was his. He holds his hand out. 

Out of the woods, you take it.

fin.

this fic has been in my drafts since 2022 and it always felt too vulnerable to write and finish. like there needed to be a big ceremony about it. this fic is incredibly personal to me, and i always thought i had to be 'ready' to finally finish it, whatever 'ready' means. but it's a sunday night and the semester begins tomorrow, and i'm writing this in bed listening to whatever my spotify plays for me. i'm not sure if this will make sense to anyone but i hope it makes you feel something regardless.

this is a love letter to myself first and foremost, because i'm no longer afraid of reopening an old wound!! i carry her with me always and i love her and i'm taking care of her. i love her and i love you.