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Jason was screwed.
In fact, he can feel panic seeping into the open wound right in front of him, especially how the blood continued to flow out of his body.
Fuck, Fuck, that’s not good.
He whimpered, frantically grabbing tissues as warm red liquid dripped from his thigh. Jason gently dabbed the blood flowing from his cut to no avail, this bitch just wouldn't stop bleeding. The weapon of choice, a fancy new razor blade that he should've been more careful with, lay innocently on the table next to him, unaware of the panic he was facing. He should've thought twice before cutting deeper, and maybe, used at least one brain cell to realize that a new knife can be sharper than a dull one.
See, he was used to bleeding out, hell, he died before he could comprehend the warm blood pooling under his gradually colder body when he was Robin. But for some reason, self-inflicted wounds scared the fuck out of him.
Clearly, he needed some help. Both mentally and physically, of course.
“Shit, Shit,” he mumbled, throwing the used, bloody tissues into somewhere in his safe house. Beyond the crimson, the wound was a bubbling orange, yellow and the edges of the cut were white. It lay there, glaring at Jason as if to punish him for being stupid enough to think that he should cut deeper after the first one.He had never cut this deep. Contrary to popular belief, Jason was a coward. A pussy, Tim would say under his breath when he saw certain criminals. And when he looked at Jason, he could feel the words gurgling in his throat, just waiting to be said. Well, jokes on you Tim, I already know I’m a pussy, he chuckled somewhat deliriously.
Jason had only cut thin, light slices on his skin. It was easily hidden by armour and clothing, and also easy to brush off as scars from his time before coming back to Gotham. So woopee, for him.
Sometimes when he looked at his skin, those light scars that were barely visible even when uncovered, he thought about how stupid he was for thinking that anyone would care to look closely and notice imperfections.
Because the Red Hood would never dare hurt himself, but no one would think to ask Jason Todd if he would. If anyone knew that better than Jason himself, it would be Batman.
Jason blinked, coming back to his senses and glancing at the wound on his thought. The wound was still bleeding, but sluggishly now, and clear liquid began to make the cut glossy.
The world continued on, despite Jason’s pain, The rasping tires from an old car creaked and moaned loud enough to pierce his paper-thin walls. Crickets chirped and hummed, unaware of the savage humans that coexisted among them. He could hear the damp whistle of wind, and even beyond his tightly shuttered windows were the navy midnight light of Gotham. People said it was hard to tell the difference between the sound of winds, and the desperate cries of the ghosts that haunted Crime Alley’s walls.
Jason didn't remember when this habit had turned into an “addiction”.
When he was a kid, Batman used to cover his wounds whenever he had been hurt as Robin. Distinctly, he can still smell the scent of rubbing alcohol, the warmth of his father’s calloused hands gently applying bandages, and the taste of the sweet cookies Alfred would bake for him after patrol. Maybe then, he wanted to feel that same warmth as an adult. Wanted to feel love and the same attention he had gotten when he was fifteen. All he could remember was the feeling of betrayal and the sharp pain that came from his throat when he looks at his father now. The Joker’s laugh when he realized he won, the warmth of the exploding building unlike anything that Bruce would give him-
Jason had hurt himself for the first time after his father had slit his throat. Even now, he could feel the drum of invisible slashes he had inflicted on himself that night, and how it hurt more than the bleeding wound on his throat. It really did just start with one bad night and a dull utility knife. Now, he can't go more than a month without wanting to run a blade over the thin skin of arms and thighs.
Jason wonders if anyone in his family had noticed, but decided not to say anything. (He deserved it anyways)
His hands shook as he shoved his face into his palms. The pitch black of his view was replaced with the same video of the wound being sliced open, the panic bubbling up, and the abnormal amount of blood that flowed unlike his usual self harm cuts.
He needed to get all this emotion out. Jason squeezed his eyes in hopes of pricking tears, but nothing. The ugly emotions swirled around his gut instead, making him nauseous and tired.
God, he really was a mess wasn't he?
He heaved a shaky sigh before reaching for the thin bandages he had stored in the dusty corner of his rooms. Gently, he sloppily placed the bandages haphazardly across his thigh.
-
“Master Jason, stitching is very important, you mustn't forgo it just because you dislike it,” Alfred scolded.
Jason had known Alfred was right, but c’mon, needles were worse than the large, gaping wound on his back. He felt his face form into a pout and crossed his arms defensively across his chest, fuming at the silver needle in Alfred’s hand. Robin was strong, but not Jason Todd it seemed. Seriously, needles hurt and reminded him of his mother, so he was sort of justified, okay?
Memories of her laying on the floor with a needle stuck to her skin flooded his vision, and all he could think about now was why she couldn't just fucking stop taking those stupid drugs.
Alfred sighed, and placed the needle on the metal tray.
“Master Jason, I know this is quite difficult for you, but without stitches you are prone to infection.”
Jason’s bottom lip wobbled dangerously close to a sob, and he stared at his muddy, green shoes. Robin was strong. Robin could fight crime without fear. Robin had a fear of needles.
He turned around stiffly, squeezing his eyes shut when he felt the first needle stab through his skin and out.
-
Who’s getting an infection now, Alfred?
Well, probably him. But that was an issue for him in the future, if he ever died from the wound getting infected. Because trust me, he would rather die in a ditch than ask Batman for help ever. Jason would rather wallow in bed of his safehouse, depressed and in pain sure, but safe from rejection and those cold glances underneath the cowl.
He collapsed on top of his sheets, too exhausted to drape them over the armour and clothes he hadn't bothered to take off after patrol. Jason could feel the aching pain from the cut, overwhelming any other cuts and bruises he had received from patrol. There was something comforting about that pain, and how it wrapped around him like a cold imitation of one of Batman’s embraces.
The pain accompanied him as he drifted off to sleep, comforting him when his eyes slipped shut and all he could see was the familiar, soft gaze from his father.