batmanschmatman | 026 [audio] backdated to last night

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026 [audio] backdated to last night

[Private to the Admiral]

Bring him back.

[Private to Tim]

Can I ask a favor?

[Private to the Admiral, added later.]

Since it seems like this 'inmate crashing with me for a while' arrangement is going to start being a regular thing for me, I think I'm going to need a new cabin. Change it to one of the penthouses in Gotham, I don't really care which one. Just something bigger with somewhere to hide my gear.

[Spam for Costigan, about 12 hours after the fact.]

[Dick hadn't left the infirmary since he'd brought Costigan up there. He'd changed out of the bloodstained shirt, paced, asked questions, generally gotten under foot and had finally had to been instructed to sit down or leave. Apparently his constant hovering was frustrating people, and although sitting still when he was this upset was almost impossible, he really didn't want to leave. He could go for a run or get someone to spar with him once he was sure Costigan was awake and more or less okay. This had shaken him up pretty badly, because while yes, death was something he dealt with a lot back home and here on the Barge it wasn't even permanent, that didn't change the fact that someone he cared about had gotten hurt and he should have been able to do more to help, and it certainly didn't change the fact that finding someone - especially, especially someone you knew - in that state was always brutal. With strangers, it was possible to have some level of disconnect sometimes, like when he'd helped bring Hoffman in here, but when the victim was someone you knew, it never got easier to feel less like you should have been able to save them.

So he just sat there, hands clasped loosely together, elbows resting on his knees, one knee jiggling up and down almost uncontrollably as he tried to contain the urge to get up and do something. That could wait. He was going to be there when his inmate woke up.]

[This is obviously following the events of this log.]

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Yeah, sure.

Can you grab me a t-shirt or something from my room? I'm in the infirmary.

[Inner alarms. :|] What happened?

Costigan got killed. I brought him up here.

[Fuck times a thousand.] I'm on my way. what happened?

It'd be easier to explain in person.

One minute.

[Aaand Tim is there a few seconds later, because only losers need whole minutes. He walks into the infirmary and searches Dick out, handing over the clean shirt.] Well?

[Dick stood up as soon as Tim approached and managed a small smile as he took the shirt. He's washed off the blood on his hands and arms, but the shirt was pretty filthy, and he changed out of it quickly, tossing it back over the chair he'd been sitting in next to the bed without really looking at it.]

Thanks.

[He ran a hand through his hair and looked over at the unconscious inmate for a moment before turning back to Tim.] Mal Cobb thought Costigan was her husband. She wanted to try escaping the Barge with him and thought death was the way to go, so she cut his throat and hung herself. Her warden and I found them and... here we are.

[...Well. That was not what Tim had been expecting. Jeez. He ran a hand over his jaw, looking at Costigan and shaking his head.] Man. Is this his first time dying here?

Yeah. [It's also the first time Dick's had to deal with someone he knows particularly well dying, and although it seems like he's keeping it together pretty well, it's actually bothering the hell out of him, and anyone who knows him particularly well can likely tell.]

This might sound like a dumb question, but does it ever get easier? Or, I guess, less weird, seeing people like that and then they're just... fine? I mean, not that I'm complaining, but.

[It isn't obvious, but Tim can see it. He doesn't answer at first, then just shakes his head, before reaching out to put a hand on Dick's shoulder. Like hell it got easier. He beat the Joker while he was detained for killing Shego, he almost flipped a shit when Sylar was killed - how could this kind of thing ever get easier?]

[Dick just nodded. It's not like he didn't know the answer anyways, and in some ways, he didn't want it to get easier. Still, he appreciated the gesture, and managed a small, grateful smile for his younger brother, reaching up to put a hand over Tim's.] Thanks, Tim.

No problem. [He let his hand stay there for a few seconds before pulling back; he was all for shows of solidarity and comfort, but he wasn't a tactile person at heart.] You gonna be okay? [Mentally. Physically, Costigan's life would suck for a while, but he'd get by.]

Yeah. I'll be okay. [More or less anyway. He's repressed worse stuff before. And clearly talking about stuff that's bothering you is for losers or something, so...]

[Totally for losers. So Tim nods. He doesn't really believe it, but it's always been other people that call their bluffs.]

Let me know how he is.

Of course. I'll be here if you need me. [It's kind of like a joke but. Let's face it, it's not. :|]

[Yeah it totally isn't. :| Tim nods, though, and pats Dick's shoulder lightly before heading for the exit.]

If you need anything else, let me know.

Costigan's fade to consciousness was slow and steady. His hearing began to come back first as he slowly became aware that there was noise, muffled, going on around him. As it began to clear, he could hear the sound of the instruments and knew he was not in his room, but couldn't yet understand where he was. Hell, he didn't even remember yet where he'd last been or what had happened.

The inmate let out a soft grown as he shifted to sit up just a little on his elevated bed, eyes finally struggling open to blurred light. He lifted a hand to dim the light while his eyes adjusted, finally beginning to make out objects in his peripheral. Then he moved his hand and the first sight awaiting him was the overeager warden at his side.

He groaned and let his eyes drift closed again. His brain was having trouble catching up, but he knew his throat hurt like a bitch.

Dick jumped to his feet as soon as Costigan started shifting, but didn't try reaching out or talking for a few moments, letting the inmate get used to being back among the living on his own terms. A wide, relieved smile stretched across the warden's face, and when he finally did speak, he immediately slipped into sickroom register. "Hey. Nice to have you back with us."

"Real fucking nice," he grumbled, though it was entirely without the usual Southie accent that accompanied his profanities. Costigan was really born and raised on the North Shore and he'd always been closer to his mother, so that plain voice, almost without accent, was much more natural for him than the Southie one he'd first learned during weekends with his father, then working with Costello.

It took him a little while for his mind to catch up, eyes still closed. He lifted his arm to lay across his eyes, trying to focus on his thoughts. His throat was dry and it hurt, but not as much as he felt like it should. He'd been injured somehow and he'd been having trouble breathing-- that explained the pain in his chest now. But he couldn't quite remember the rest.

Dick wasn't about to jump into explaining what had happened or why they were there, more concerned about making sure the inmate was as okay as he was going to get, considering the circumstances. He hadn't told the infirmary staff not to give him anything for the pain - which would no doubt come back to bite them in the ass later on - but he was probably still in a stupid amount of pain, and the vigilante wished there was something more he could do to help.

"Need me to get you anything?"

"Drink." Costigan stated before dropping his hand away from his eyes. He slowly opened them again and took a moment to readjust. Then the inmate started to slide himself up on the bed, trying to ignore most of the fatigue and nausea biting at his consciousness. Something in the back of his mind told him to fight the fatigue, that he had to stay awake for something important, but he wondered if it was a residual effect from whatever had happened.

After the inmate had adequately propped himself up a bit, with the help of the bed, he swallowed roughly. His fingers lifted to gingerly touch at his throat and his neck, feeling nothing but smooth skin there, which could mean only one thing: he had died. Then the inmate glanced down to his arm to find the scars from his withdrawal fiasco still there. Apparently the Admiral decided he had liked them.

"Pen and--" He began, but cut off. It hurt just to breathe, let alone trying to talk. In place, he shifted his hands to try to mime writing, hoping Dick would get the hint. It would be easier overall and certainly better for his recovery.

"Sure." He got the message, and sort of cautiously reached over to put a hand on the inmate's shoulder, squeezing gently before pulling away. Whether the gesture was supposed to reassure Costigan or himself was sort of up in the air, as the images of the scene he and Mal's warden had stumbled into were still fresh in his mind, and while it was still definitely incredibly surreal to see the inmate more or less alive and well, he wasn't complaining. At all. "Be right back."

And a few moments later, he returned with a cup of water and a small notepad and pen. He handed over the cup first, watching carefully to make sure he was up to actually holding it himself, before offering him the pad and pen. Requested items delivered, he once again took his seat next to the bed instead of just standing around uselessly. He readopted his earlier posture of elbows on his knees, leaning forward slightly, doing his best to appear relaxed rather than tense or incredibly worried.

How successful he actually was at this could be left up to debate, because while it was true that his expression was almost too neutral, anyone who knew him particularly well could probably tell immediately something was really wrong.

Costigan would have muttered something about waiting if it didn't hurt too much for the effort to be worth it. Instead he half-laid, half-sat in silence for his warden to return and, when Dick did, offered a weary smile in exchange for the cup of water. The inmate took a couple sips, grimacing as he swallowed, and set the pad and paper in his lap. After another long sip, he set the cup on the table beside the bed, with a little effort, and picked up the pad.

After a pause, he finally grabbed the pen and scribbled out a quick message, holding it up for his warden to see. He was still tired and a little distracted, but he knew he had died and was in the infirmary and Dick cared enough to be there and that's what mattered right now. 'What happened?'

The inmate knew Dick well enough to know the guy was upset, but not enough to read into the nonverbal cues of neutrality equaling fear. Costigan just knew Dick would be upset and worried, because their history had shown it.

Dick paused before answering, trying to figure out how to explain it. He still didn't really have all the facts. Mal's warden had told him enough, so he more or less understood the woman's actions, but he still wasn't sure how or why Costigan had let his guard down that much. He knew the former undercover was smart, smart enough to know better then to let someone get close enough with something sharp to slash your throat, and honestly, the ideas he kept going back to were that he'd either been somehow incapacitated or conned by the woman into trusting her. The second one seemed somehow far worse, especially given the hints Costigan had dropped about being interested in someone on the Barge a few weeks before.

"You... Mal Cobb's warden and I found you two in her cabin. She-" There was no easy way to say this. "Killed you and committed suicide. Her warden's taking care of her." It seemed important that he add that, even if she had effectively murdered him.

He paused a beat before asking a question of his own, looking at the inmate with unmasked confusion and concern. "Why were you in her cabin?"

Costigan's expression contorted to one of displeasure at Dick's words as the memories came flooding back. The feeling of being high and the surreal situation. The way he'd died. Mal. Everything she had said and done. He remembered that she had confused him for her husband, but that didn't explain why she had killed him. It was something he doubted Dick would know, so he would save the question for Mal's warden instead when he was a little better.

Instead, he paused to think about how to respond to what Dick had said about the situation. He started with the question, then elaborated a little relating to the other things before holding it up.

'~~We're~~ We ~~were~~ are friends. We had coffee. She was confused. Thought I was her husband. Where is she?'

He pointed in the general direction of Mal, not actually breaking eye contact with his inmate. While less blindly angry with the woman than he'd been with Armand - as it was clear that there was something truly wrong with Mal, while Armand was still just a jackass who didn't know when to hold back - he still didn't really want to think too much about her right now. She might have in theory had more reason, but she'd still killed Costigan. "In the infirmary. She'll be okay."

He wanted to ask if he known before that he looked like Cobb, but really, he already knew - or at least, strongly suspected - the answer. He didn't really understand why no one had thought to say anything about it, and how hadn't he and Mal's warden even been aware of it before this had happened?

He refocused, trying not to get caught up in that right now. "Are you okay? How are you feeling?" He knew both were stupid questions, and it was entirely possible Costigan would try to say he was fine when he clearly wasn't, but he'd asked them anyway.

The inmate glanced over to where he had gestured, but couldn't see well enough to know exactly where Mal was and he wasn't even sure what her warden looked like; he just knew it was Angelica. At Dick's words, he finally gave a small nod and stopped looking. There was no rush to find her, particularly given that they would both be in a terrible condition, but he wanted to know why she had killed him and herself. What had she hoped to accomplish?

Costigan grabbed hold of his drink again to take a few more sips. He knew he should talk a little to work out his throat muscles, but he just didn't feel like it. At the questions, the former undercover gave his warden an incredulous glance before quickly writing his replies. '~~Yes.~~ ~~No.~~ What do you think?'

He shows Dick the pad just for a moment before writing something else. 'You're waiting for train. Don't know where it will take you. Doesn't matter. Why?'

Dick grimaced slightly at the look and the reply, running a hand through his hair. "Sorry, I just-" Was really worried, am really worried, and I've got literally no idea what the hell I'm supposed to do to fix this or make it right or anything. He wasn't even sure if he should tell Costigan about why this had happened, or what Mal had apparently been trying to accomplish. Of course, he was going to at some point, but he'd just woken up, and he wasn't sure he wanted to throw that at him just yet.

The second message distracted him, and he looked at it for a long moment, frowning slightly. The sentences didn't have any significance to him, and he wondered what had inspired Costigan to ask it. It seemed like a riddle, or a poem or something, but at the same time, he wasn't sure it was any of that.

"I don't know." After a beat, he looked away from the notebook and back at Costigan, concern unmistakeably etched into his features. "Why?"

Costigan didn't really notice the apology. His mind was too clouded to focus on more than one thing at a time and he has selfishly moved on rather than worry about what he believed was known information. He knew Dick was worried and would probably always ask the obvious questions and he was okay with that, so he had moved on to the things that weighed more heavily on his mind. When Dick didn't know, he made a disappointed face for a second before altering to one of greater neutrality. He was too fatigued and disconnected to control his expression entirely, but Costigan looked like he was trying to play nonchalant like Dick usually did.

After a few seconds of being not entirely certain how to respond, he began jotting down the answer. 'Don't know. Answer maybe significant.'

After another second, he opted to add a question before turning to show his warden both. 'You mad?'

Dick nodded, filing that away as something to think about seriously before frowning at the question, looking at the inmate with some level of confusion.

"No. Why would I be mad?"

Anger was definitely the furthest thing from what he was feeling with the inmate, but then it occurred to him that maybe that hadn't been what he was talking about. "I mean, I'm upset that it happened, and I wish that I could have done something to stop it from happening, but I'm not mad at you." Annoyed and frustrated that he hadn't said anything about looking like Cobb? Sure. Mad at Mal? Yeah, maybe a little, even if she wasn't all there. Mad at Ariadne for not saying anything? Definitely. But he was honestly pretty far from being angry with his inmate, a little too distracted by being glad he was alive.

Costigan shifted his pad around to begin writing when Dick asked about being mad, but paused when the warden continued, looking over at him. He gave a small nod, scratched out what he'd written, and started again. His warden's thoughts on the matter were important to him; a strange feeling.

'~~Because death and~~ Not your fault. Mad at Angelica, Mal?'

"Not Angelica, no," he said carefully, not really sure how to explain his feelings about Mal. He and Angelica had been in the same boat, and he knew she had taken it just as hard as he had, so that had at least been easy to answer.

He finally opted for as much honesty as he could, since he still wasn't really sure how he felt about the other inmate yet, if he was being entirely straightforward. "Mal... I know she's got some issues. Or, I do now, anyway," he amended. "So I'm not as angry with her as I could be. But yeah, I'm a little angry with her. It's hard to feel totally sympathetic to someone who brutally murdered someone you care about."

Costigan's neutrality slipped when Dick mentioned brutal murder, expression contorting into a frown. He didn't know what to write in response to that or how to begin to explain things short of writing pages that he just didn't have the heart to write without knowing the details, but he wasn't happy with it either. It wasn't a brutal murder. He'd gone pretty quick and she'd been kind enough to drug him. All things considered, it could have been a lot worse. Yeah, she'd still killed him and he wasn't particularly happy about that, but he had a hard time calling it murder. Then again, maybe that just had to do with trying to avoid his own mortality.

The inmate reached over to grab his drink, taking a couple long sips as much to give him some time to think as because his throat still hurt and felt uncomfortable. Finally he began to write, slower than before because he still didn't know what he was writing.

'She didn't know what she was doing.
I didn't know it would happen.
Not Angelica's fault, not yours.
Any questions right now?'

"Are you mad?"

It was an honest question, even if he knew he'd done something to piss the inmate off or at least upset him, and that wasn't what he'd wanted to do. He should really get around to explaining - to the best of his ability, anyway - what had happened and why, but he wanted to ask that first.

Costigan ran a hand through his hair before he finally shook his head. Then he flipped the page of the notepad over to a fresh page to continue writing, the old one becoming too crowded. He wasn't mad, necessarily, but he wasn't exactly chipper either. The inmate was miserable, in pain, and he was frustrated with not understanding why she'd done it. He wanted to know what she would think of him now and, truthfully, what he would think of her, which he felt he couldn't know until he approached her. If he would be allowed to.

'Not mad. With anyone. Tired, frustrated. Want answers from Mal/Angelica, but can wait. Unless you know more?'

"Yeah, I do."

He considered for a moment how best to explain, rubbing a hand over his face. He was starting to feel tired, even if he definitely didn't want to leave.

"Angelica said that Mal thinks she's stuck in a dream. And she thought killing herself would make her wake up. She thinks that in her delusion, Mal convinced herself that you were her husband, and thought she was waking you up from the dream too."

The intention didn't change the brutal nature of the action to Dick, but then again, he was biased. Seeing Costigan covered in blood from a horrible wound to his throat had been intensely unsettling, even despite his past experience with violent death. Again, it was always worse when the victim was someone you knew, and Dick always took this sort of thing hard and personally.

Costigan reached up a hand to rub at the back of his neck in an obvious gesture of guilt. They were right on and it made him feel a little more ill than he already did that Mal was just trying to get them out of here. That was what she had meant by escaping.. Killing them both would wake them both up.

He might have been able to forgive her for everything if she hadn't convinced herself he was her husband, if she had knowingly been trying to take Costigan along. Instead, it made him feel cheap.

After a beat, he began writing, taking a relatively deep breath in and wincing before letting it out.

'Yes, she thought I was husband.
Knew I looked like him, didn't think she'd confuse us.
Wanted to get home to her children.
She'

Costigan began the new line, but the pen wavered slightly and he paused before throwing it across the room. Then he dropped the notepad beside him on the bed, in front of Dick, swallowing and trying to look less disgusted and hurt than he actually was. To think, he had played along with it for even a second-- That what they had shared was all a delusion and he had thought any of it was real.

Edited 2011-03-05 10:44 (UTC)

Dick got up, almost as if he was leaving, but he just went to retrieve the pen, picking it up, walking back, and placing it on top of the notebook before once again taking a seat next to the bed. He wasn't going to leave unless Costigan asked him to, and even then, he'd probably pop back up in a few hours to check in. This had shaken him up pretty badly, and he didn't want to just leave and hope everything would be fine.

He wished there was something more he could do. Part of him wanted to reach out and try to comfort him, but he knew that probably wouldn't be appreciated or received well, and he didn't even know what to say. This was all kinds of messed up, and he didn't know what to do to help make it right, and suddenly it felt sort of like the frustration, guilt and sympathy would overwhelm him.

"I'm sorry."

"Don't fuckin'--" Costigan began to snap back, but the rasp in his throat made him stop and he just glared at his warden instead. An apology was the last thing he wanted. It was his own goddamn fault, most of it. The rest was Mal's, but he didn't want an apology. An apology meant sympathy and he only accepted sympathy from people he respected in situations out of his control.

The inmate glanced at the pad as if considering writing something else, but instead reached for the cup to drink some more water. After a long sip, he held it out toward Dick, cup empty. Then shifted his hand forward in a subtle gesture of offering to his warden.

Dick decided against pushing the issue and sat quietly until Costigan held out the cup to him. He got up, took it and went to get more water, putting the cup down on the beside table. He didn't sit down again for a moment, although he was keeping up the more neutral, everything's fine routine slightly more successfully now that he wasn't just sitting still.

"Need me to get you anything? I have your hat."

Costigan laughed internally at the remark, but his face remained pretty even. Normally, such a declaration would have been met with gratitude and humor, but the inmate couldn't bring himself to feel happy about much of anything right now. He just needed a few minutes to hate everything, then he could press on again. The same way he did when Queenan died.

The former undercover shook his head after a moment, then reached out to take the pen and paper. He quickly flipped over to a new page and scribbled something simple and quick for his warden.

'Sleep. Talk later. OK?'

Dick nodded, understanding. He certainly got the impulse of just kind of wanting to be left alone to think for a while after being hurt this badly, and although he'd never died before - obviously - he'd had enough close calls to make an educated guess about what this must be like.

"I'll be here."

And he meant it. He would give him space if he wanted it right now, but he wasn't leaving, and he'd be there when he woke up.

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026 [audio] backdated to last night

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[Spam] Sorry for edits.

[Spam] S'all good.<3

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