batmanschmatman | 105 [voice/spam]

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105 [voice/spam]

[Filtered to Anyone Who was Involved in Helping the City]

[Dick sounds totally exhausted and a little hollow, but he can't not say something after everything people did, so for now, he's keeping it simple.]

Thank you.

[Spam for Dean]

[He'd dragged himself away from the other people who'd been brought back, hiding on the other side of the deck to make the message because he was still in costume, and he really didn't love that suddenly everyone knew the secret. But once he'd sent it out, he suddenly didn't know what to do next. He hadn't slept in four days. Everything ached, and he honestly wasn't all that sure if he could stand up again if he wanted to, and it wasn't just because he was exhausted. He hadn't wanted to come back. Yes, Gotham was in relatively safer hands than it had been now that Bruce was conclusively back and there was a cure for Titan, but. It was still in trouble. His job was still supposed to be protecting the city. And it had been so long since he'd been home, and seeing it like that had been hard. Being pulled back to the Barge had been like getting the wind knocked out of him, and he didn't know where he was supposed to go from here.

But he couldn't just sit here forever. He needed to get off the deck and out of the suit, and probably get some sleep. Medical attention could wait, and he just really couldn't deal with other people right now anyway. He could think over what needed to happen next after he'd slept.

He peeled off the cowl, took a slow breath and carefully pushed himself to his feet. His vision grayed out for a few seconds and he blinked heavily, putting a hand against the wall to steady himself, wrapping his other arm around his torso. He'd broken a rib at some point before they got pulled back, and it took a minute for his vision to clear.]

[ooc: If anyone wants to drop in and check on him later, feel free to tag in with spam or poke him via the network. He probably didn't bother with the infirmary and will be spending the next couple days on and off napping.]

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[It's almost familiar, the worn down, boneweary, lay-down-and-sleep-for-a-week satisfaction of a hard job done as well as it can be; it's not the grim victory of four days with a definitive positive outcome, but they'd fought, and they hadn't lost, and in Dean's book he'll take whatever he can get. He's learned he has to, if he's going to avoid getting discouraged with the odds he and his brother face as hunters - it's no real different, he's discovered, for vigilante superheroes.

He's not sure how he feels about that, but then again, that could be because he's reappeared on the freaking deck of the Barge, and that is highly, highly typical of his luck. One minute he's prioritizing a group of three people in a fistfight he didn't hate his odds to win, the next he's realizing that he may be a little late to the party on the... Oh Christ. He's on the deck, and that is completely unfair because beyond the assorted aches and pains and fatigue, now he's freaking nauseous on top of that, and he slaps a hand to the rail and pointedly does not look over it while he catches up to himself.

His communicator is beeping in his pocket, running overtime, Barge denizens checking on each other and checking in; it rouses him back to himself, and Dean keeps his anxiety firmly in check as he sets his jaw and opens his eyes. This is ridiculous. He can do this.

No, wait, what's ridiculous is that Batman is standing a short ways down the deck from him, and then it's not Batman at all, it's Dick, and Dean is about to say something when the other man sways in a way he recognizes immediately. Maybe not the exact cause, but he knows someone overstepping themselves when he sees it.

He's not exactly sure how he gets from where he was to grabbing for Dick's arm, steadying him with a strong grip while he tries to see if it's a visible injury causing the problem, or something more subtle. Either way, there's something Dean has always found useful in these types of situations, and it is always ready to hand: annoy them.]

Easy there, dude, I think you're cut off. No more adventures for you.

[As far as Dick's concerned, Dean came out of no where, and he turned to look at him with confused, tired eyes. When had Dean gotten there? He thought he'd been careful to get away from everyone else, or maybe he'd passed out for a little while while trying to stand up or something. But, well, at least it was Dean and not Arthas or someone, he really wasn't in the mood to get in another fist fight.

He was a little cut up, but there were no gaping holes in the uniform or heavily bleeding stab wounds or broken looking limbs, so really, he was fine. He just needed to sleep. It took him a second to figure out what he wanted to say in response, releasing a deep breath.]

Thanks. [He was feeling a little more steady, but didn't move to pull away from Dean or the wall just yet, giving him a visual once over too.]

You okay?

Of course. [It's standard and immediate and he would say it regardless of what the real answer was, but this time it seems to have the benefit of being true. Dean, truth be told, isn't looking a lot better; there's a wide, dark bruise spreading from temple to cheek to jaw on one side of his face, what looks like a scrape from landing facefirst on cement on the opposite side, and a thick trail of dried blood weeping down from a cut hidden in his hairline; his knuckles are split and bruised, his back aches, and he is tired down to the ground, but he's in one piece, which he hasn't stopped to marvel at yet. There are bigger fish to fry, and though Dean is entirely familiar with the fried-out, hollow-eyed look Dick is giving him now, he doesn't have to like it.

He doesn't move his hand, but neither does he try to move the other man away, yet; he's going to. He's already trying to decide which bed is closest to shove Dick into because that's the remedy for this: rest. Uninterrupted, drug-assisted if necessary, rest. And probably a Winchester escort to wake him every couple of hours to make sure he's not concussed, unless someone with the ability to kick his ass out of the room - or a bigger emergency - shows up first. Only a lifetime of downplaying the severity of any given situation lets him not frown, keeps his voice light when he continues.] C'mon man - let's get you sat down somewhere before you fall the fuck down.

[Dick's tired, but he's not blind, and there's enough spark left in him to manage a:] You don't look okay. [He can imagine what Dean's last four days were like, and while he was maybe arguably doing less physically demanding things, and it was less personally stressful, he's pretty sure the other warden could do with some uninterrupted sleep and medical attention, too.

But he's too tired to push the issue, really, and on top of that, he could easily have the you're being a massive hypocrite card played against him right now, and he knows it. So instead, he just carefully lets go of the wall and gestures limply at his uniform before dropping his arm to his side again, not really looking at Dean anymore.]

I just wanna get this off and get some sleep. [And his room wasn't that far, thank god. He could probably (maybe) even handle going down the stairs, it was just one flight. But he was already kind of fantasizing about just getting out of this costume that had felt kind of too much like a shroud or something and curling up for a few hours of sleep. He could rehydrate and shower and everything later.]

[Dean doesn't leave much room for him to push the issue either way; fact of the matter is he's already shifted modes and, after a quick glance around, he just goes ahead and does what he does best. He doesn't wait for Dick to agree or protest or anything - he shifts his grip down to the other man's wrist and in one smooth motion ducks his head under Dick's arm, slings his own free hand around his waist to hook a thumb in what, on something other than the freaking Batsuit, would be a beltloop. Normally he'd probably be weirder about it, keeping people at arm's length, especially other, basically strange men. But there are times when socially awkward doesn't cut it, and Dean has dismissed it completely now.]

I hear ya. Although I don't swing that way so you're gonna have to do your own undressing. [It doesn't seem to matter to the hunter whether or not Dick really needs quite that much help, it's just easier in the long run, and Dean is perhaps surprisingly good at noticing the tender ribs quickly and avoiding putting undue pressure on them as they cover the distance to Dick's door. He doesn't really try to talk, though he does fill the space with inane, rhetorical comments - We're gonna have to have a zombie-killing seminar at this rate, aren't we and You hear the way she was shifting? Your car needs an oil change. and They should advertise photo ops in the brochures - just to reassure in his own way that Dick doesn't have to find anything to say and to distract from any potential arguments. Dean is an old hand at simply assuming the responsibility for others, brooking no arguments and taking no backtalk; and even if he doesn't know the details, he recognizes a fellow battered soul on an instinctive level that doesn't even require he acknowledge it.

Even when he's managed, somehow, to juggle the door to Dick's cabin open without dropping the other man, Dean shows no intention of leaving. He sidles them both through the doorway and heads for the couch, after a brief, confused moment of searching for a light switch until he realizes the open door has triggered a slow rise in the room.] Nice. Sunrise on command. [He's still joking, still putting one foot in front of the other until he can push Dick gently but firmly at the couch he'd full-body flopped on himself a little over a week ago, finally letting go, but staying close.]

[Dick hissed in pain as Dean repositions his arm over his shoulders but doesn't complain. He's used to broken ribs, and this isn't even the worst he's ever had, so he's not going to waste energy whining about it. He does manage a breathy laugh at the comment about changing and nods once.

Walking was about as bad as he'd figured it would be. He was sore and tired, and probably wouldn't have managed it without being able to hang onto Dean as a human crutch, but it was manageable, and the promise that he was going to be able to sleep soon, without needing to worry about the city burning to the ground. Dick appreciates the chatter more than he can really say right now. It was distracting enough that he need to focus on that, walking and his own complicated feelings about what had happened, and picking two and ignoring the other was easy. He could have a crisis about what the hell he was still doing on this stupid ship later.

He manages to hold in his sigh of relief until he's being pushed onto the couch, although it's coming out as more of a groan because every muscle in his body is apparently deciding sitting down is a good idea and this is all they ever want to do ever again.]

Thanks. [He allowed himself a couple seconds of rest, panting shallowly, before sitting up again and starting to wrestle with the Batsuit. He detached the cape first, shoving it off and more carefully removing the rest of the cowl and stripping the gloves off, wincing again as he pulled at a scrape on his arm, examining it briefly through the tear in the kevlar.]

Edited 2012-06-01 05:56 (UTC)

Dude, I was kidding - stop squirming, just gimme a minute. [Dean's voice is firm and annoyed, but there's no heat in it; he swats at Dick's clumsy hands on the various pieces of the uniform, but has to step away himself for a moment to sling his weapons duffel to the floor. He doesn't bother asking about shucking off his own jacket, either, halfass folding it and draping it over one of the chairs before returning to crouch in front of Dick. His own muscles are pretty much in agreement, but he's intent on the other man, collecting and tossing the cape and cowl and gloves further out of both of their way, eyes ticking over to the scrape in question the moment Dick reacts to it. Everything about him is confident, ready to push away how severe anything might be, though he stops joking for the time being; businesslike and efficient. Comfortable.]

Alright, let's hear it. Got any holes in you I didn't see? What hurts? And don't say everything - gimme a scale. [Dean gently but firmly pulls Dick's hand away from the tear in the suit, a practiced motion from years of corralling Sam, herding John, holding the edges together. He hooks a finger under the material and pulls it out of his own way so he, too, can see, just as a point of reference, and then reaches to help pull Dick's shirt off just because he remembers the wince from moving his shoulder and is uninterested in trying to cut the damn thing off if Dick gets stuck halfway out of it.]

[Sorry, Dean, the suit had gone from feeling weirdly comforting to vaguely suffocating a while ago, and Dick really just wanted to get it off. It was better now that the cowl and cape were gone - it felt more like what he was used to wearing - but he'd still been wearing it for almost four days, non stop, and he was ready to change into pajamas or something.

He didn't try to tug his hand away as Dean went to inspect the injury, vaguely noting how at ease he was with the whole situation - and maybe making a note that Dean was a decent person to have around in times like this, since he wasn't immediately hauling him off to the infirmary or calling in McCoy to come in and yell at him for being reckless - and wondering distractedly what he was going to do with the suit now that he had it on board.]

Nothing serious. [And for once, he's not lying. He's sore all over and there are a couple things that probably need stitches, but it's nothing major. He doesn't comment as Dean helps tug the shirt off, any potential awkwardness shoved aside in favor of ignoring his sore ribs and trying to figure out where else he was hurt.] I broke a rib maybe an hour ago in a fall, maybe bruised another one. The suit absorbed most of the shock. [Which still meant he'd hit the side of the building pretty hard, all things considered.] Doesn't feel too bad. Could have been a lot worse.

[There's nasty bruising around his right side from the impact, and there's more bruises and scrapes basically all over his arms, back and chest, some that looked vaguely in the shape of the kevlar plates in the uniform stamped into his skin. The cut on his arm probably needs stitches, and he rotates the limb carefully to get a better look at it.]

[Dean is in pretty awesome shape himself; he did manage to swap out jeans somewhere along the way so he's only been wearing these for two days, but it was two days of chaos and desperately trying to keep up with the superpowered people around him accustomed to dealing with these kinds of crises. Also he has new boots as his old ones pretty much bit the dust somewhere in the ice and snow, but that's neither here nor there; his black t-shirt is dirty and torn at the hem on the side and his dark green overshirt has blood on it, and he's not looking at any of it. He's whistling, low and appreciative, at the lovely display along Dick's ribs.]

You know you're s'posed to dodge that shit, right? [He teases, but he's got an idea of the damage now, cataloging the bruises, the scrapes, the cuts, and what each will need. He pushes himself stiffly to his feet and heads for the kitchen, finding a couple towels to wet with warm water, stuffing one with ice; he stops to deposit the one with the ice twisted into it in one of Dick's hands.] Here. Put that where it hurts most. [And then he's moving to crouch at his duffel, hauling out both his own somewhat depleted emergency medkit and the one he'd given Dick. The latter has been used, too. He returns with both to his original position, dropping them to the floor, and folds one of the wetted towels in his hands.]

We'll get some of this cleaned up and then you can work on your beauty sleep, because damn. [His hands are steady despite how tired he is, one reaching to steady Dick's elbow, the other beginning to wipe up the fabric remnants, debris, and blood stuck to the man's skin. He's always been good at this part. He doesn't look too closely at what that says about him.] You hit your head at all? Any reason to think concussion? Don't lie - don't dick around with that shit.

[Dick lets out a hoarse laugh, but doesn't elaborate. It's a long story they could get into later if Dean wanted once they'd both slept and given themselves some time to process what had happened.

There was a moment where he almost felt himself dozing off while Dean got his hands on some towels, but he forced himself back to what was going to have to pass for alertness for now, accepting the makeshift icepack gratefully and tucking it against his ribs.] Thanks.

[He watches him sleepily, and kept his arm still as he started to clean up the injury, barely flinching as he considered the question. His head was pounding, but he was pretty sure it was just because he was exhausted and really needed to crash at some point before lack of sleep literally killed him. He'd been knocked around a little, but nothing that made him think yep, part of this headache is coming from when I almost busted my skull open.]

Nah, I'm alright. [And he forces a tired smile.] Believe me, I might have crashed into a building earlier today, but I'm not stupid enough to mess around with something like that.

[He was quiet for a relatively long moment before speaking again.] Thanks for coming down into port. I appreciated your help.

[It's perhaps telling - about Dean himself, about the family he comes from, about both - that he both feels the need to keep reminding Dick to be honest about declaring his injuries, and flicks his eyes up to meet the other man's when he answers. He takes a moment to silently muse how much easier bright blue eyes are to gauge the pupil match on than dark brown or medium hazel, but nods. He refolds the towel, presses it to the next scrape but leaves it there when he turns back to the medkit and digs around in it, shrugging dismissively.]

No big. It's not like I could just kick back up here and let you guys get your asses kicked. [He's joking and he's not, but he's also not lingering, straightening up and passing an assortment of pills along. You sure you don't want McCoy back, Dick? Dean is being pretty liberal with whatever he's pushing into your hand.] Here. You're gonna want it by the time you wake up again.

[He doesn't wait to see whether Dick is going to take the painkillers or not, he just fishes out a few more supplies and the next time he straightens up he's got an iodine swab in one hand and the needle and thread from a suture kit in the other, and he doesn't hesitate with either. It's going to hurt either way, so Dean just swipes the iodine over the gash, drops the swab so he can line up the edges with his free hand, and smoothly pulls the first stitch through. The rest will follow in deft, efficient moments, the hunter's eyes intent and focused. And as usual, at the same time, he's yammering to distract.]

I ran into a building one time. This kid I knew in the third grade, Billy Pike, he had a mountain bike and he used to let me ride it, sometimes, as long as neither of our dads saw. Anyway. So I'm pretending I'm like, a fire engine, or something, and I'm running to this fire only I don't see the gravel on the sidewalk? And boom - slid into a wall and took a header right into the library's flowerbed. Fucked up the front wheel and chipped my front tooth, and all Sam would do was holler about how I'd said a bad word when I went airborne. [He's talking and not thinking; he paves over Sam's name and the memory like he's reading a phonebook, the cadence of his voice even and constant while he works. He's done this a lot.] 'Course, Billy's dad threw a shitfit and then my Dad told him where he could shove that, and I had to mow their lawn the rest of the time we were there.

Edited 2012-06-01 07:16 (UTC)

[It's for the best, really. Dick was totally not above lying about how badly he'd fucked himself up, so being asked more than once what had happened was totally legitimate. As is though, he's too worn to bother lying, and he tried to find the words to explain how much he appreciated that he'd come down because he'd asked. He didn't have to, and he certainly didn't have to have listened to him, or be here right now helping.

Maybe once the buzz brought on by exhaustion was gone, he could focus properly and explain better. Or maybe he should just leave it at that. Either way, he was glad he had his back, and was definitely going to have Dean's next time the situation called for it.

He hesitated for a long moment before dry swallowing the pills, squeezing his eyes shut for a minute when Dean started cleaning and tending to the gash. The story was appreciated, and gave him something to think about other than getting stitches without a local anesthetic. It was kind of weird, to be on the other end of this sort of treatment, and he chuckled a little when he was done, flashing a grin.]

That's one hell of a war story?

[Dean doesn't think in terms of what he does and doesn't have to do, generally; he thinks in terms of what he can and can't do, and as often as he can, he tries to do a little from both columns. Obligation is a funny thing, at once unwavering and adaptable, and the hunter goes where he needs to, does what he needs to, in order to meet it.

Dick needed someone to help him, Dean could, so Dean did. It's as simple as that. He's grinning back now, carefully tying off the knot and reaching for the fingerscissors to clip off the excess suture.] Damn straight it is. Here. [He reaches next for the makeshift icepack, pulls one of the folded edges out of the way long enough to get a single ice cube out, presses it slowly to the newly sutured gash; he probably should have done it first. He forgets, because John had never had patience for it and he learned everything he knows about triage from his old man; the aftermath though is all Dean, and he keeps talking while he puts away the needle.]

Wasn't that bad though. Crashing a bike's got nothin' on crashing a motorcycle, and holy shit did THAT make Dad mad. I stole one when I was fifteen, just for shits and giggles, you know? I was gonna give it back...

[He's taken the towel back up, wiping the skin around the various bruises and abrasions so he can get a clear look, but there's not much else he can do for anything else except take quick, efficient passes with more iodine swabs and wrap the worst in gauze. Rest will do the most good, but there's one more thing. The hunter collects the soiled towels, leaves the one with the ice, and pushes back to his feet to head for the kitchen.

He comes back with a glass of water, holds it out in front of Dick while setting down the second one on the table nearby.] Here. All of this, and then lay your ass down. Or I can help haul you to the bedroom, but I don't see why the couch isn't just as good.

[If he'd been feeling less beat, and Dean was someone like Babs or Alfred, he might have been making more of a fuss, but as it was, he just sat still, flinching a little when Dean pressed the ice cube to the wound, but otherwise not moving. It hurt, but the ice was helping and the painkillers were starting to kick in a little, or maybe he was just so tired he didn't care anymore.

So he didn't complain, focusing on what Dean was saying and not what he was doing, barking out an understanding laugh at the comment about motorcycle crashes. Never fun.

Dick blinks at the glass of water for a good five seconds or so before carefully taking it and drinking it quickly. He hadn't even realized how thirsty he was until that moment, and shakes his head a little at the mention of the couch.]

I can walk. [Maybe. He wanted to, so he probably could. He knew he'd sleep better in bed than he would on the couch, and it wasn't that far of a walk. Sort of.] It's not that far.

[Dean patiently waits for Dick to take the first glass, wagging it a little to get his attention when the seconds drag on but he's done this before. He stays where he is, and when Dick finishes the first, Dean smoothly switches it out for the full one and steps back. He'll refill as many times as necessary, but he'd really rather just sit the eff down about now. His own bruises are starting to complain. Not that he will follow suit, of course, because that would be too much like sensible.

He doesn't, quite, frown at Dick's insistence, but he doesn't approve, either. It's a fine line, one he's had a lifetime to practice, dealing with much more prickly and much less cooperative... patients.]

Yeah, well, doesn't matter how far it is if you fall on your face and actually break a rib this time, or rip out those stitches first thing. Just take a knee where you are, man, I won't tell anyone.

[Dean doesn't really move away from where he's stationed himself, waiting to see if Dick will go along with it or require a human crutch for the couple yards to his bedroom if he's going to be stubborn.]

Of course. Have you even slept yet, Dick?

[She's concerned.]

[It takes a couple hours to answer, because sleep was pretty much priority number one once he got out of the uniform.]

I have now.

[Tiny grin of relief.]

Good. Now I get to thank you. You were amazing back there.

Thanks. [He doesn't really feel amazing, he was just doing what needed to be done. And he still feels like he didn't actually do much. #self worth problems]

[When Dick gets back to his room there's a vigilante lurking in the dark. Sorry? He wanted to chat. Or something.

...he also wanted to raid your cabinets. Because clearly he's too cool for the actual cafeteria.]

[It takes Dick a while to show up to investigate. Once Dean had patched him up and helped him spill into the nearest bed, he'd been basically dead to the world for a good long while.

When he finally woke up and had the energy to drag himself out of bed, he still looked pretty shitty, and he'd honestly been planning on just grabbing something to eat and going back to sleep, but. Rorschach raiding his cabinets and hanging out in his kitchen was sort of throwing a wrench into those plans.]

... Hi.

[Buffy arrives at Dick's door dressed in sweatpants, slippers, and a t-shirt. It's lazy day, okay? Everyone's exhausted. She knows Dick must be beyond exhausted and if he's anything like her or Dean, well..

So she's brought some caffeine-free herbal tea and cookies.

And maybe a first aid kit. Okay, definitely a first aid kit.

Buffy's nursing only minor scrapes and bruises. A slice on her forehead already closed, a claw-like scratch on her left arm, and a couple of tiny bruises scattered throughout.]

[Dick had spent the first fourteen hours or so after port dead asleep, and it had taken another hour or so before he felt up to actually being up and around in any sense of the phrase. Buffy had the good fortune of dropping by while he was mobile. He'd showered and thrown on a worn out Hudson University t-shirt and sweatpants, and had been considering crawling back in bed when he hears someone at the door.

He opens the door, and manages a genuine smile when he sees who it is. He still looks exhausted and battered, but he's in one piece, so that's something.]

Hi.

Rumor had it he was dying. Poisoned by the afteraffects of excessive Titan use. It would account for the erratic behavior of his underlings.

[She sounds grimly satisfied rather than pleased, per se.]

Edited 2012-06-02 10:57 (UTC)

[lol that. Should not. Feel this good to hear. >>]

You couldn't find him? [Because he couldn't either and that is just :\]

No.

Thanks for letting me know.

Are you alright?

Fine. Just tired.

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105 [voice/spam]

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[ Spam ] lawl HE WOULD HAVE WRAPPED DICK'S RIBS TOO OKAY

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Private - I know she can't see any of this but it saves me posting just for Dick >>

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