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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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.]

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105 [voice/spam]

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