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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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.

Squinting at him, Dick pulls a face and sits back with his wrists draped on his knees.

"Ye-aaah, I think we should call Alfred right now. That's not a suggestion, by the way."

Witness Dick logging into the holo-computer on his sleeve's tech.

"It's not that bad?"

Yeah, okay, even he doesn't sound very convinced by that. The situation is kinda rapidly devolving from this is bad but manageable to nope nope nope, and it's occurring to him that sometimes things don't hurt as much as first less because they're not that bad and more because your body just stops accepting that input for a while.

Ugh. Broken bones usually take what, 4-6 weeks to heal? His parents aren't due back from their current trip for at least a month, he can totally heal enough in that time to pretend nothing happened, probably.

The look Dick gives him says that Tim has a higher chance of backflipping all around the apartment than stopping the call going through.

"Penny-One, it's Nightwing. I have Robin and ... uh, we need a favor."

'How may I be of assistance, sir?'

Dick glances up at Tim, the polite but undeniable suspicion in Alfred's voice evident. "We ran into each other while I was out tonight, one of the meatheads we were taking down messed up Robin's ankle. My fault, I wasn't expecting company. We think it might be broken."

'I see.' Yeah, there's no way Alfred's swallowing that. At least he doesn't call Dick out on his terrible lying. 'I suggest that you both change your attire and drive directly to the hospital. I will notify the staff ahead of time and the trip there will prove shorter than to the cave if the injury is more grievous than preciously believed.'

"Okay. Could you ... not bother the big guy with this just yet? Just so he doesn't worry."

'Perish the thought, sir.'

"Thanks, I'll keep you informed." Closing the call, Dick gives Tim a helpless shrug. "Looks like we're going out again tonight, Baby Bird."

Well, there goes his hopes and dreams of squeaking through this under the radar without Tim Drake officially getting hurt. Even if Bruce is kinda his guardian while they're out of the country, someone's going to have to tell his parents.

(He can probably handle that. It's just a matter of figuring out a way to say no, I'm fine, there's nothing you could do here anyway that bridges the gap between their desire to not cut the trip short and their need to not feel like bad parents.)

But okay, right, they're not at that point yet. He kinda zoned out for a second there, but he's back now. "Great." Does he even have civilian clothes here? Maybe. Alfred's pretty thorough about stuff like that.

Edited 2016-04-01 21:30 (UTC)

Tsking, Dick leans over and buffs a kiss against one very grumpy temple, patting him on the shoulder.

"Cheer up, we'll still get gloriously unhealthy take-out later. What do you want to do now, Tim, do you need some help getting out of the uniform? Want me to leave you to it and find something for you to change into?"

Thanks to Alfred's foresight, the bedrooms are stocked with emergency clothing in three sizes (four, if you count the contents of a lost boy's box in Dick's wardrobe).

The kiss only makes Tim scowl harder and bat him away because Dick, c'mon, he's not a little kid! "I can do it myself." And even if he can't do it himself, he's going to do it himself anyway rather than feel that stupid.

"Okay."

A wave of nostalgia carries him en route to find Tim some clothes, his smile waning along the way.

'I'm fine!' A furious Robin tries to rub the pain out of his wrist, twisting away from Dick in the cave. 'It's just sore, it'll be fine in the morning. You're such an old woman, Grayson.'

'So let Alfred take a look at it, if it's nothing you can go straight to bed.'

'Get out of my way! You don't even live here anymore, you're not wanted. Not by me and not by Bruce. You're not Robin, I am, and I can take care of myself!'

A green tshirt and jeans, a grey hoodie, and some regular sneakers. That's what Dick returns with to drop on the arm-rest behind Tim, already dressed in something similar.

"I've gotta find my wallet, then we can go."

Just like a vigilante, he supposes, to know where his grappling gun is but not his ID or credit card.

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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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/sliiiiides some character backstory in

gobbles it up and writes a novel

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