bakerstreet | ( they're bleeding! oh no. they are dead. )

( they're bleeding! oh no. they are dead. )

You or your meme partner has been hurt, but don't worry! This time around it's not that bad. You can still limp your way out of this mess.

INJURIES.
1. Sprain/strain. How did you screw up walking?
2. Broken bones. Simple fractures still hurt.
3. Cuts. Hopefully one of you has a sewing kit.
4. Burns. Location, location, location. Let's pray this one isn't on your ass.
5. Concussion. No, they're most likely not holding up fifteen fingers.
6. Other. I'm not a doctor.

HOW'D IT HAPPEN.
1. Stupidity. You did this to yourself.
2. Accident. Is an unintentional attack still an attack?
3. Attack. Don't lie, you deserved it.
4. Other. It's probably still your own fault.

WHERE'D IT HAPPEN.
1. Home. Did you remember to invest in a first aid kit?
2. School/Work. This should be excellent for getting you out of doing stuff!
3. Outdoors. Predators like the smell of blood. Clean up asap.
4. In the water. Hopefully there aren't any sharks!
5. Other. Like a hospital. That'd be handy.

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[ooc: prefs?]

( ooc: good with anything, go wild! )

He is the worst Robin ever. Bruce and Dick trust him to go out in Gotham on his own, and what does he do? Sprain his ankle like an idiot. It wasn't even in the line of duty! He was startled by a freaking cat that suddenly jumped in the way of his path and completely messed up his landing. It bolted the second he hit the ground; he hopes it appreciates what he went through to avoid falling directly into it, the little jerk.

His fleeting hopes of at least making it to the Batcave on his own are dashed when he tries to put weight on it, because yeah, no. Ugh. He keys into the comms and hopes Dick isn't going to make fun of him for this forever. "Nightwing?"

(Worst. Robin. Ever.)

Edited (accidentally a word) 2016-03-31 21:51 (UTC)

The penthouse is ... well, it's nice, no doubt about that. Flashier than what he has grown used to in recent years but Alfred insisted that someone make use of it and who was Dick to turn down a shower that stays hot for more than five minutes? When his leads took him to Gotham from Bludhaven it had seemed promising for his current case, but intel has been thin on the ground these past couple of nights and he's fairly sure his last old safehouse in the city has been compromised, so.

Nice to have a kingsize bed, too. Alfred really is a genius.

He uses the open lounge as his main port for the laptop and various tech currently glowing over the coffee-table depicting a host of criminal activities, a packet of half-eaten cereal having fallen onto his comms which proves lucky for Tim, as it turns out, because Dick is close enough to his snacks to hear the line open up and pop the ear-bud in. Idly, he scrolls through touch-screen holofiles.

"I read you, Robin. What's up?"

Tim lets out a little breath of relief, because Dick may make fun of him for this but he really doesn't want to have to call Bruce to help him back and feel like he's let Batman down. "I have a. Situation? Not a really bad one," he tacks on hurriedly, because he doesn't want anyone to worry.

"Just - hang on a second," he says, because the stupid cat is coming back now and he just has to hiss, "What are you doing? You're like the cat equivalent of a hit-and-run driver, you don't get to come back and do the decent thing now!"

The cat hears him and ignores him because, well, cat, at which point Tim realizes that his comm is still on. Witness the mighty Robin, terror of Gotham's underworld. " - Where are you right now?" Because if he's close enough, then Tim can be put out of his misery faster.

Up goes a concerned brow, then a confused one, until Dick is sitting there with a handful of cereal half-raised to his mouth as he squints at a shelf across the room in the part of a rapt listener.

As solemnly as he can possibly sound, which isn't very, he replies, "Aren't you a little young for Catwoman?"

He's not even sorry.

"I'm at the penthouse doing a flyby this week, needed somewhere to crash in a hurry." Meant to be a day or two but you know how criminals are, jerks can't keep to a time-frame unless a big name like Penguin is threatening their backsides with his umbrella. "You okay?"

"Yyyes," he says, drawing it out in that way that no one who means what they are saying ever does. "...Mostly. Um, I could use some help?" The cat chooses to contribute to the situation by rubbing itself against his hurt ankle, and he sucks in a breath quickly, trying not to make any noise, before grabbing the cat before it can do any more damage. "...And like a cat tranquilizer?"

The totally-not-there-super-subtle-only-not hiss of pain sobers him up, heading into his bedroom to change into the suit previously left in a heap on the floor.

"Tell me where you are, Baby Bird. I could do with getting some air tonight, anyway." His curiosity wins out, ironically enough. "You done for the night after this pick-up or do you need me to finish your patrol off?"

Where's his mask? Ah, stuck to the lampshade. Handy.

"Pretty much done. Slow tonight." He rattles off an address while the cat in his arms bumps its head against him like it's looking for petting. Tim narrows his eyes at it behind the lenses. You've got a lot of nerve, pal.

Ugh, whatever. He lowers himself to the ground carefully because he is not going to stand around on one leg while he waits. "How soon can you get here?"

"Ten minutes, I'll take a shortcut. Hey, don't sound so glum! We can order in Chinese, my treat. Be there soon."

The balcony of the penthouse gives him a good lift, shortly to be not-seen soaring through the city's parapets and gargoyles with as much of a care as if visiting old friends. He knows Gotham's curves and angles, she's cold and unforgiving but he loves her all the same, even when she decides to screw up his investigations and slap him on standby for a week. Sure enough, the icy winds carried over from the docklands go a long way to waking Dick up.

When he reaches Tim, the arc-and-flip of an acrobat's lazy ease takes him to ground-level, eyeing the sight before him with a squint through the domino.

"You look like the trash you're sitting in, buddy. Need a hand?"

Like the one automatically reaching for him.

Tim may or may not have been carrying on a grumpy conversation with the cat while Nightwing was on the way because hey, what else is he supposed to do? By the time Dick arrives, the cat's curled up by his leg and enjoying some begrudging scritches, but it jumps up and vanishes into the night when Dick touches down.

Tim makes a face at Dick, because abandoned by his new cat friend and insulted by his older brother? Betrayal from all sides! "Thanks." He accepts the hand up, standing awkwardly so he doesn't put any weight on the bad ankle.

"Whoops, there goes your friend. You know, you shouldn't go literally head over heels for the first girl who crosses your path, case in point. Hup!"

Supporting him with a strong arm hoisted under Tim's shoulders, he peers down at the testy ankle with a thoughtful hum.

"Can't be too bad if you're still on one leg but we'll ask Alfred to check it over in the morning." It's the first good look he's had of Tim all night, trying to cheer him up with a friendly smile. "Want to tell me how it happened or shall we leave it at 'a cat happened'?"

Tim snorts a little. "I'm guessing you'd know from experience." Except he'd be doing a somersault or something because Dick. Tim, meanwhile, will be hobbling ungracefully because Tim. "And... yeah, mostly a cat happened," he says, a little grumpily. He bets this kinda stuff doesn't happen to Batman.

(Worst Robin ever.)

He guesses he should prepare to see if he can put any weight on the ankle. Between the couple Ibuprofen and various pain management techniques Tim's been taught, he's doing okay for now, but that doesn't mean he's looking forward to it.

"I'm old and weathered in many ways, you're not wrong."

Cheerful as Dick sounds, he makes up his mind about what to do with that ankle inside a few choice seconds debating the matter: just get it out of the equation altogether! Fortunately for Tim, without taking the sentiment literally.

He steadies him around a narrow waist.

"You might jostle your leg if you're on my back, I can't stop you falling off that way. Put your arms around my neck and go full limpet, I'm going to carry you. It'll look dumb but it's safest."

He sighs. "Sure, why not. I lost my dignity somewhere anyway." It was the cat, probably. He thinks he remembers having some earlier tonight.

Once he has Tim hoisted in place, they set off for the rooftops via grapple-gun. The weight of a passenger has to be carefully accounted for, so the ride back to the penthouse may take a little longer as Dick ensures nothing else gets sprained tonight.

He lets Tim hide in his shoulder from the rush of the wind, if he wants to.

"I lost my dignity heaps of times. I ever tell you about how I fractured my wrist trying to knock out one of Penguin's goons? Now that was embarrassing, right in front of B, too."

If nothing else, that knocks him out of his oh man I am terrible at being Robin, who even thought this was a good idea train of thought.

" - Wait, really?"

"Absolutely, I remember it clear as day because that was the first real injury I incurred, outside of bruises and scrapes, as Robin. Got home and felt like such a loser that I snapped at Alfred while he was patching me up. The next day I apologized and he said it was fine, but ..."

But that was no way to talk to Alfred, not ever.

"And this other time, I got snatched up by one of Riddler's stupid traps and banged my head on the ground before it whisked me up, I was completely disorientated. B had to cut me down last, he took care of everything. My cape was in my face the whole time."

It can't have been that bad, or so says Dick's hearty laughter. In his arms and between swings that take them higher, he gives Tim a squeeze.

"Everybody messes up sometimes, it's how we learn to be better, and you're already doing great. This is just a roadbump."

He can't even imagine snapping at Alfred. Well, he can, but not doing it and being able to live with himself afterward.

(He kind of wants to ask if stuff like this ever happened to Jason, but that's not a wound he wants to pick at right now.)

"...Or a catbump, anyway," he offers up for lack of anything much better to say.

"Heh! Yeah, or a catbump." It's not too far to go now, he can swing them to a better vantage point for when they arrive at the balcony. Heights always put Dick in a better mood, he hopes it's the same for Tim. "Look, I'll call Alfred and let him know I'll take you home in the morning. You can have something to eat with your big brother, who's going to spoil you, then get cleaned up to go back tomorrow. Sound good?"

Bruce always tends to panic more, in Dick's experience, immediately after injuries happen. If Tim returns in civvies, hale and hearty, the fuss will be far less.

"You don't have to," he says automatically, because don't be a bother is practically written into his DNA at this point. "I didn't mean to mess up your night."

"Nothing to mess up. All my leads went cold, you can actually take a look at everything if you want. A fresh pair of eyes might help."

When they land on the balcony he ensures to drop directly down, unlike his usual way of swinging over the side. The grapple retracts, is stowed on his belt, and Dick lifts Tim easily into his arms to carry him inside to the couch.

"Alright, so you take off your boots and I'll grab some ice."

On the coffee table nearby is Dick's laptop which he opens up as an invitation for Tim to browse, if he needs a distraction to stop feeling so much like an outside element.

It's definitely something to do. Getting his boots off is a little harder than he'd like because the ankle's already swelling, but he manages it and pokes it a little. He's pretty sure it's not broken, but it's hard to know for sure without an x-ray.

Then he glances at the laptop to see what Dick was working on while he waits.

Gang-related intakes of firearms in the hundreds, way more of an influx than either Bludhaven or Gotham needs but not so much that he wants to call in Bruce yet. It started out in Bludhaven and it's Dick's case, rooting through the hierarchy switches of several inter-related cabals of power, and it might be proving a wild goose-chase at current but he can resolve it. He knows he can. It's all a matter of discovering which people are financing the faux-companies involved then shutting them down.

Dick returns with a first-aid kit and a packet of ziplocked ice wrapped in a towel. Peeling off his mask, he sits on the edge of the coffee table and leans forward to get a better look at Tim's ankle, gently coaxing him to move it a little, prodding carefully at the muscles where the weight won't distribute to the bone too much.

"Yikes, I'm sensing a week off the streets is headed your way. On a scale of one to you wanting to hit me, how bad does it hurt?"

He sucks in a breath again and maybe kind of goes a tiny bit white but no, okay, he's got this. He just needs a second.

"I don't... want to hit you?" Well, no, he kinda does. If Dick doesn't stop trying to move it in the next few seconds.

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sorry not sorry Tim talking to cats was totally my favorite part of comics Tim.

tim u got problems bro

they don't judge him!!!! or they do but cutely?

that's why selina has her eye on him tbh heh

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