oroburos69 (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
oroburos69) wrote2010-07-21 10:01 pm
oroburos69) wrote2010-07-21 10:01 pm
Entry tags:
To the Bone - Fade to Black - 2 of 3
Title: To the Bone
Beta: lady_of_scarlet
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: non-con, multiple partners, violence, cannibalism, angst, horror, hurt/comfort.
Summary: A riot erupts in Arkham Asylum, and Robin is locked inside.
Characters: Robin/Tim Drake, Poison Ivy, Bane, Killer Croc, Batman
Author’s Note: Written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
bitternarration, the winner of my offer in the Gulf Aid Now auction. Also, look at the warnings. I fulfilled each to the absolute best of my abilities while keeping the story reasonably plausible. This is the fade to black version. The full horror can be viewed here. Finally, I’m using this one for the caught in a robbery square on my H/C bingo (they were stealing away when they caught Robin...It’s a stretch, but the only idea I have). Additional thanks to kirax2 for her help with research and characterization.
To the Bone - Fade to Black 1 of 2
Robin runs his tongue over his chapped lips. They still taste like Killer Croc.
“You took down all three?” Batman asks. He’s looking at Poison Ivy, half sprawled across a dead man’s chest, as he takes Bane’s pulse.
Robin laughs.
Something in his laughter makes Batman turn around so fast that his cape flares out behind him. “Robin?”
The ringing in his ears is so loud that he can barely hear Batman. Robin rubs at the edge of his mask. It itches.
“Robin.”
Batman’s voice cuts through the haze and Robin responds instinctively. “Yeah?”
Batman looks him over, and Robin shivers, staring at the ground. World’s Greatest Detective, he thinks. “Are we done here?” Robin asks. His voice makes it sound like he’s begging.
“The police can finish up,” Batman replies.
Relief crashes over Robin, even as he feels sick, nauseous at the idea that Batman might know something. He looks up, but Batman chose a solid mask for a reason. It makes him really fucking inscrutable when you want to know what he’s thinking.
Batman touches his shoulder, and Robin jerks back, knocking his arm away in a textbook block. Batman tilts his head slightly, which is a warning sign because the neck of his cowl doesn’t bend easy. He’s asking a question, and Robin panics, because he sure as hell doesn’t know the answer.
The silence stretches on too long, and Batman backs up a step. “Let’s go,” he orders, heading toward the door. There’s a guard waiting there. He backs up warily as Batman passes him. Robin keeps the edges of his cape closed tight, keeping his ruined costume from view and his head bowed because he’s certain there’s evidence on his face. He still thinks the guard will be able to smell it.
He doesn’t let himself think about the stabbing pain that shoots through his back with every step he takes. He refuses to acknowledge that he’s limping, and limping badly. He imagines a world where Batman wouldn’t notice.
“Do you need immediate medical attention?” Batman asks, once they’re away from the guards, once they’re alone in the cold night air.
Robin rubs at the edge of his mask, wishing he could take it off.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” Batman decides.
Robin looks at him blankly, then says, “I’m fine.”
Batman is unconvinced. “There’s a Batcave hidden under the island. We can go there or go home.” He watches Robin for a moment, then continues. “If your injuries are serious enough that they cannot be taken care of at home, then I’ll take you to a hospital.”
“You have a Batcave under Arkham Island?” Robin asks. His mind feels like the gears have rusted to a halt, and he wishes Batman would just make the decision for him.
“Yes. It is equipped to deal with anything short of internal bleeding.” The curve of Batman’s mouth could definitely be interpreted as worried.
“I’m probably not bleeding internally,” Robin eventually offers, even though he very well might be. If they go home, Alfred will be the one stitching him up. He wants to avoid that.
Batman nods and turns away, heading toward the overgrown garden next to the Intensive Care building. Robin limps after him.
Batman disappears from beside him in a rush of heavy black fabric. Robin stares at the empty place where he had been for a moment, then looks up. Batman is perched on a nearly invisible ledge. Robin fumbles with his utility belt, hunting for his grappling hook.
He nearly kills himself trying to get on the ledge without his cape gaping open. Batman shifts forward like he’s going to touch him or something, so Robin slips past him, heading into the crooked passage.
Batman grabs his shoulder and he twists away, sending a wild blow toward him. Batman blocks it easily, catching his wrist. He presses a long piece of metal and plastic into Robin’s hand.
Robin blinks behind the mask. His eyes itch.
“You forgot your grappling hook,” Batman says when Robin doesn’t respond.
Robin nods and keeps walking. The cave takes a sharp turn and ends abruptly, a craggy sheet of rock preventing him from going any further. He hears Batman come to a stop beside him, about two feet to his right.
“I’m going to take you up with me on this one,” Batman tells him.
Robin shakes his head because he’s not processing what Batman is saying.
Batman moves closer and reaches out very slowly. Robin watches, running his fingers over the edge of his mask. He wraps his arm around Robin’s waist, tugging him closer.
“Robin, you have to wrap your arms around my neck. I can’t support your weight like this,” Batman eventually says.
Robin obeys, holding his cape closed with one hand and wrapping the other around Batman’s neck. Batman looks down at him, the white lenses of his mask blank. He’s frowning, and Robin worries that something got on his face, that Batman can see--
The grappling hook sounds like a gun going off and Robin flinches in response. The line retracts slowly, running at the lowest speed it has. Batman’s arm hurts where it presses against the cuts in his back.
Batman pushes off the wall with his foot, and suddenly there’s solid ground under them. Robin staggers and stumbles away, because he doesn’t want to get Batman dirty.
The frown is back.
The wall behind Batman beeps and starts to move, saying something about verified identities. There’s a mining shaft elevator behind it, light-weight rails for walls, heavier metal sheeting on the floor.
Batman grabs Robin’s wrist very, very slowly. So slow that Robin wonders if his perception of time is whacked, but a glance shows that, no, Batman’s just moving like a glacier for reasons of his own.
Robin lets himself be led into the elevator. Batman presses the red button on the switch box that dangles from an electrical cable, and the doors slide closed.
“Robin, come over here,” Batman says carefully, like he’s worried that Robin’s going to wander off the edge. Which is possible, because there aren’t safety railings on anything and the whole thing is suspended above what looks like a bottomless pit.
“Robin--”
He remembers that he’s supposed to go stand by Batman, so he starts walking. Something wet is dripping down his leg, and he dearly hopes it’s blood, because it’s splattering on the floor and there’s no way Batman can’t see it.
He stops next to Batman, and stares at the floor. Robin feels pretty lucky, because it’s definitely blood.
“I need you to take off your cape.” Batman isn’t facing him, he’s pulling a really big box out from under a bench.
Robin hesitates.
Batman’s gauntlets click when he pops the catch that holds them on. He takes off his mask, and Robin suddenly feels like he’s going to throw up. Robin wonders when he started panting, wonders why his breath still tastes like Killer Croc.
“Robin?” Bruce is at his side and Robin can’t remember him moving. He has the solvent for the adhesive that holds Robin’s mask on in his hand. “I’m going to take your mask off.”
The solvent is cool on his face. Bruce pushes in on the edges of the lenses to release the suction. As Bruce peels the mask away, a flood of liquid pours out, sliding down his cheeks.
He licks a drop that gets caught in the corner of his mouth. It’s salty.
A white scrap of fabric wipes up the remains of the adhesive and the tears. He doesn’t know where Bruce got the rag from. He hadn’t been watching.
“Okay, we’re going to try this again. Tim, I need you to take off your cape,” Bruce speaks slowly.
Tim lets go of the edges of the thick fabric. They stick to his gloves. He tries to shake his hands free. It doesn’t work.
Bruce slides his hand under the clasp that holds the cape on and flips it. Tim shrugs it off, letting the cape fall to his feet.
It takes a few moments for Tim to look him in the eye. Bruce looks horrified, and Tim is surprised. He thought Bruce had figured it out already.
Bruce lets his breath out slowly, like he’s about to jump off the roof of Wayne Tech, spread his wings and fly across the city. “Did you take venom?” he asks. Bruce takes Tim’s arm by the elbow and peels off his glove while he waits for an answer.
“I--no,” Tim replies defensively. He wonders if maybe Bruce still doesn’t know, if the horror was because he thought Tim was taking venom.
“Your eyes are glowing green,” Bruce explains as he gets the other glove off. Tim’s knuckles start to sting in the open air, but the feeling is muted.
“I didn’t...” Tim protests, even as he remembers that Bane had been dosing so high that his sweat glowed.
“It’s okay, I trust you,” Bruce reassures Tim, pulling him toward a long bench and urging him to sit down. “I am going to assume you had some kind of incidental contact, though. You will probably start going through withdrawal within twenty-four hours. If you start feeling dizzy or nauseous, let me know immediately.”
“I’m dizzy and nauseous,” Tim replies, watching numbly as Bruce unbuckles his boots and slides them off. A twisted length of root falls out of one boot, and Tim kicks it away from himself, his heart rate increasing again. He’s still breathing too fast, panting like he just ran a marathon.
Bruce kneels in from of him and looks up. His frown—Batman is upset—is concerned. “It’s unlikely that you are going through withdrawal already. Did Poison Ivy use any kind of behavior or perception altering toxins on you?”
Tim pales and looks away.
“Tim, it’s okay,” Bruce says, and Tim wants to believe him so badly it hurts. But if it were okay, he’d feel okay, and he sure as hell does not feel okay. “If Ivy poisoned you, I need to know so I can give you an antidote. Most of her toxins have long term effects.”
“Yes.” Tim says, because the idea of long term effects terrifies him. Bruce takes his hand and presses down on the skin between his thumb and hand, then counts how many seconds it takes for color to come back. “She—yes.” He rubs his eyes with back of his wrist.
“Okay,” Bruce says again, grabbing a bottle of pills from the box at his side. “You’ll need to take one of these every six hours. I don’t think you’ve lost enough blood to go into shock, which makes things easier.” He gets up to leave and stops. “I’m just getting a glass of water. I’ll be right back.”
Tim doesn’t respond when Bruce untangles his hand from his cape. He swallows the pill without protest when Bruce returns with a glass of water.
Bruce also brings a sloppily folded pair of sweat pants and a tee-shirt. Tim eyes them with trepidation. “There is a shower here,” Bruce begins, “your costume is mostly ruined, at least a few of those cuts will need stitches, and all of the ones from Croc’s claws will need to be cleaned. The bleeding is slow enough that you can have a shower first, if you want,” he offers awkwardly.
Tim nods. “I can shower by myself,” he says, heading off the conversation he sees coming on. “I don’t need help.”
“I doubt that, but I welcome you to try.” He tucks the clothes under his arm and offers Tim his hand.
The shower is in the middle of the cave and open air, and the water is lukewarm at best. When Bruce said ‘shower,’ he actually meant ‘a diverted water pipe heated by groups of resistors hooked up to a car battery.’ He’d mentioned that he was still getting around to adding a shower head, giving Tim a faintly embarrassed look.
Lukewarm or not, the torrent of water that pours from the pipe washes most of the dirt, blood and grime off through water pressure. Tim feels more solid, even if Bruce has to hold him up to keep him from losing his balance. The shampoo/conditioner/bodywash is the same brand they use in the main batcave. The smell is more comforting than Tim’s really willing to admit.
Bruce’s grip on Tim’s wrist is taking his pulse, from the angle and position of his hand. “Are you done?” Bruce asks. He’s staring off into a corner of the cave, very deliberately not looking at Tim.
“Yeah,” Tim says. “I’m good.”
Bruce twists the spigot closed and grabs Tim a towel from the pile on the ground. “Can you get dried off without falling over?”
“Yeah.” Tim shivers. The cave is cold. “I... the cuts are still bleeding,” he says, holding the white towel away from himself.
“There are lots of towels. If blood gets on one, we’ll throw it out,” Bruce replies, picking up the scattered rags of Robin’s costume. He drops them into a trash bin without examining them, and even though Tim knows he did so deliberately, he cannot help but to be grateful.
Tim nods, even though Bruce isn’t looking, and runs the towel over his body, gingerly patting dry the wounds from Croc’s claws. Two of them gape open in the middle, and he isn’t looking forward to Bruce stitching them up. He wraps the towel around his hips, and grabs another towel from the pile to wrap around his shoulders (if they can throw out one, they can throw out two).
His feet hurt, and he has no idea why because nothing happened to them. Tim spends a moment being jealous of his feet before realizing how ridiculous that was. “Do those pills make you loopy?” he asks.
“Tranquilizers to neutralize the more violent side-effects are packaged with the antidote,” Bruce confirms.
“Okay, good.” Tim blames the tranqs and sits down on the bench. Bruce had covered it with another towel when Tim wasn’t looking.
There will be three towels we’ll need to throw out, Tim thinks absently, letting Bruce help him lie down. His head swims at the change in position.
“Are you alright?” Bruce asks, and Tim notices, belatedly, that he’s tugged Tim’s towels (they’ll need to throw them out) apart so he can reach the big cut on his hip, where Croc had held him still while--Tim frowns.
“I’m fine,” he murmurs, rubbing his face against the towel underneath him to get the wet line of drool—spit and come—off of his cheek. It leaves the terry cloth a little damp under his face. He reminds himself that he’ll need to throw it out, later.
His hand wraps itself in Batman’s cape, tangling it around his fingers. The fabric is warm from Bruce’s body heat.
He realizes that he can’t feel his stomach and looks down blearily. Bruce is pinching the edges of the deepest cut together and sewing them up, one laborious stitch at a time. Tim’s definitely okay with not being able to feel his stomach. Bruce does stitches like a fish does ballet. Incredibly poorly.
Tim’s eyes slide half-closed as he watches Bruce stab him with the needle, realize that he doesn’t like the spot where he stabbed him, pull back, hesitate because he’s already stabbed him, and then push the needle through anyway. Alfred will have to pull out at least three of the stitches and redo them, and Tim will have to be careful when he moves to make sure that he doesn’t pull any of the stitches out.
He wakes up when Bruce pulls his hand free from the cape and applies disinfectant liberally and messily. The white gauze pad he tapes over top is reassuringly clean and white, completely hiding the cut from Croc’s teeth. Tim closes his eyes (they itch) and grabs hold of the cape again when Bruce lets go of his hand.
Bruce slides his hand under Tim’s ribs, pulling him into a sitting position. He brings Tim’s shoulder towel with him, which is nice because the towel is warm and Tim is not.
It takes a loop or two for Tim to realize that Bruce is wrapping up the crooked lines he stitched into Tim’s stomach. The flash of long white bandages as Bruce pulls them past blurs and twists in front of Tim’s eyes, oddly hypnotic. Bruce tucks the edge into itself and leans back to grab something off the floor.
Tim brushes his hands over the bandages, finding the hidden wounds and touching them. He can’t feel them, they’re numb. He kind of wishes he could.
Bruce lifts Tim’s feet one at a time and slides them into of a pair of boxers. They’re printed with cartoon bats and little birds. Bruce shrugs at Tim’s curious look, and lifts him up to pull the boxers over his hips, sliding them under his towel. “JLA Secret Santa. Superman—actually, probably his wife, gave them to me. I got him one of those stuffed Superman dolls they sell in Metropolis souvenir stands. It came with the Aquaman one. They held hands.”
Tim laughs and if it sounds a little like a sob, Bruce doesn’t seem to notice. “Aren’t those just modified Cabbage Patch Kids?”
“Yes. Yes they are.” Bruce smiles at Tim and pulls the drawstring of the sweats tight, tying it in a bow. Tim blinks in confusion. He keeps losing time, missing things. He can’t remember Bruce putting them on him.
Bruce taps Tim’s arm, and Tim lifts both of them up so Bruce can tug the tee-shirt over his head. The towel falls off his shoulders and he thinks, I’ll need to throw that away.
“There’s a bed over there,” Bruce tells him, standing up. “I need to put sheets on it though.” He stops a step away, and looks down.
Tim is holding into his cape again, but can’t remember when he grabbed it. He starts to let go, his heart jittering in his chest, but Bruce has the cape off and draped over him like a huge black blanket before he can unhook his fingers.
“I’ll be right back,” he assures him, and he talks like Batman, so Tim nods and calms down.
He’s all Bruce when he struggles with the bed sheets. Eventually he picks up the entire mattress and hooks the top sheet on two corners, then flips it and does the other two. Bruce just tosses the blankets on top.
Tim blinks, and Bruce is in front of him, urging him to stand. The bottom falls out of his head when he does, and he sways into Bruce’s hands. Bruce drags him, foot by stumbling foot until the ground under him is rough limestone rather than swaying metal sheeting. Then it’s a soft mattress covered by white sheets and Tim falls into it.
Batman’s cape drops over him, heavy and warm, and Tim falls asleep.
To the Bone - Fade to Black - 3 of 3
Epilogue
Beta: lady_of_scarlet
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: non-con, multiple partners, violence, cannibalism, angst, horror, hurt/comfort.
Summary: A riot erupts in Arkham Asylum, and Robin is locked inside.
Characters: Robin/Tim Drake, Poison Ivy, Bane, Killer Croc, Batman
Author’s Note: Written for
bitternarration, the winner of my offer in the Gulf Aid Now auction. Also, look at the warnings. I fulfilled each to the absolute best of my abilities while keeping the story reasonably plausible. This is the fade to black version. The full horror can be viewed here. Finally, I’m using this one for the caught in a robbery square on my H/C bingo (they were stealing away when they caught Robin...It’s a stretch, but the only idea I have). Additional thanks to kirax2 for her help with research and characterization.To the Bone - Fade to Black 1 of 2
FIVE
Robin runs his tongue over his chapped lips. They still taste like Killer Croc.
“You took down all three?” Batman asks. He’s looking at Poison Ivy, half sprawled across a dead man’s chest, as he takes Bane’s pulse.
Robin laughs.
Something in his laughter makes Batman turn around so fast that his cape flares out behind him. “Robin?”
The ringing in his ears is so loud that he can barely hear Batman. Robin rubs at the edge of his mask. It itches.
“Robin.”
Batman’s voice cuts through the haze and Robin responds instinctively. “Yeah?”
Batman looks him over, and Robin shivers, staring at the ground. World’s Greatest Detective, he thinks. “Are we done here?” Robin asks. His voice makes it sound like he’s begging.
“The police can finish up,” Batman replies.
Relief crashes over Robin, even as he feels sick, nauseous at the idea that Batman might know something. He looks up, but Batman chose a solid mask for a reason. It makes him really fucking inscrutable when you want to know what he’s thinking.
Batman touches his shoulder, and Robin jerks back, knocking his arm away in a textbook block. Batman tilts his head slightly, which is a warning sign because the neck of his cowl doesn’t bend easy. He’s asking a question, and Robin panics, because he sure as hell doesn’t know the answer.
The silence stretches on too long, and Batman backs up a step. “Let’s go,” he orders, heading toward the door. There’s a guard waiting there. He backs up warily as Batman passes him. Robin keeps the edges of his cape closed tight, keeping his ruined costume from view and his head bowed because he’s certain there’s evidence on his face. He still thinks the guard will be able to smell it.
He doesn’t let himself think about the stabbing pain that shoots through his back with every step he takes. He refuses to acknowledge that he’s limping, and limping badly. He imagines a world where Batman wouldn’t notice.
“Do you need immediate medical attention?” Batman asks, once they’re away from the guards, once they’re alone in the cold night air.
Robin rubs at the edge of his mask, wishing he could take it off.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” Batman decides.
Robin looks at him blankly, then says, “I’m fine.”
Batman is unconvinced. “There’s a Batcave hidden under the island. We can go there or go home.” He watches Robin for a moment, then continues. “If your injuries are serious enough that they cannot be taken care of at home, then I’ll take you to a hospital.”
“You have a Batcave under Arkham Island?” Robin asks. His mind feels like the gears have rusted to a halt, and he wishes Batman would just make the decision for him.
“Yes. It is equipped to deal with anything short of internal bleeding.” The curve of Batman’s mouth could definitely be interpreted as worried.
“I’m probably not bleeding internally,” Robin eventually offers, even though he very well might be. If they go home, Alfred will be the one stitching him up. He wants to avoid that.
Batman nods and turns away, heading toward the overgrown garden next to the Intensive Care building. Robin limps after him.
Batman disappears from beside him in a rush of heavy black fabric. Robin stares at the empty place where he had been for a moment, then looks up. Batman is perched on a nearly invisible ledge. Robin fumbles with his utility belt, hunting for his grappling hook.
He nearly kills himself trying to get on the ledge without his cape gaping open. Batman shifts forward like he’s going to touch him or something, so Robin slips past him, heading into the crooked passage.
Batman grabs his shoulder and he twists away, sending a wild blow toward him. Batman blocks it easily, catching his wrist. He presses a long piece of metal and plastic into Robin’s hand.
Robin blinks behind the mask. His eyes itch.
“You forgot your grappling hook,” Batman says when Robin doesn’t respond.
Robin nods and keeps walking. The cave takes a sharp turn and ends abruptly, a craggy sheet of rock preventing him from going any further. He hears Batman come to a stop beside him, about two feet to his right.
“I’m going to take you up with me on this one,” Batman tells him.
Robin shakes his head because he’s not processing what Batman is saying.
Batman moves closer and reaches out very slowly. Robin watches, running his fingers over the edge of his mask. He wraps his arm around Robin’s waist, tugging him closer.
“Robin, you have to wrap your arms around my neck. I can’t support your weight like this,” Batman eventually says.
Robin obeys, holding his cape closed with one hand and wrapping the other around Batman’s neck. Batman looks down at him, the white lenses of his mask blank. He’s frowning, and Robin worries that something got on his face, that Batman can see--
The grappling hook sounds like a gun going off and Robin flinches in response. The line retracts slowly, running at the lowest speed it has. Batman’s arm hurts where it presses against the cuts in his back.
Batman pushes off the wall with his foot, and suddenly there’s solid ground under them. Robin staggers and stumbles away, because he doesn’t want to get Batman dirty.
The frown is back.
The wall behind Batman beeps and starts to move, saying something about verified identities. There’s a mining shaft elevator behind it, light-weight rails for walls, heavier metal sheeting on the floor.
Batman grabs Robin’s wrist very, very slowly. So slow that Robin wonders if his perception of time is whacked, but a glance shows that, no, Batman’s just moving like a glacier for reasons of his own.
Robin lets himself be led into the elevator. Batman presses the red button on the switch box that dangles from an electrical cable, and the doors slide closed.
SIX
“Robin, come over here,” Batman says carefully, like he’s worried that Robin’s going to wander off the edge. Which is possible, because there aren’t safety railings on anything and the whole thing is suspended above what looks like a bottomless pit.
“Robin--”
He remembers that he’s supposed to go stand by Batman, so he starts walking. Something wet is dripping down his leg, and he dearly hopes it’s blood, because it’s splattering on the floor and there’s no way Batman can’t see it.
He stops next to Batman, and stares at the floor. Robin feels pretty lucky, because it’s definitely blood.
“I need you to take off your cape.” Batman isn’t facing him, he’s pulling a really big box out from under a bench.
Robin hesitates.
Batman’s gauntlets click when he pops the catch that holds them on. He takes off his mask, and Robin suddenly feels like he’s going to throw up. Robin wonders when he started panting, wonders why his breath still tastes like Killer Croc.
“Robin?” Bruce is at his side and Robin can’t remember him moving. He has the solvent for the adhesive that holds Robin’s mask on in his hand. “I’m going to take your mask off.”
The solvent is cool on his face. Bruce pushes in on the edges of the lenses to release the suction. As Bruce peels the mask away, a flood of liquid pours out, sliding down his cheeks.
He licks a drop that gets caught in the corner of his mouth. It’s salty.
A white scrap of fabric wipes up the remains of the adhesive and the tears. He doesn’t know where Bruce got the rag from. He hadn’t been watching.
“Okay, we’re going to try this again. Tim, I need you to take off your cape,” Bruce speaks slowly.
Tim lets go of the edges of the thick fabric. They stick to his gloves. He tries to shake his hands free. It doesn’t work.
Bruce slides his hand under the clasp that holds the cape on and flips it. Tim shrugs it off, letting the cape fall to his feet.
It takes a few moments for Tim to look him in the eye. Bruce looks horrified, and Tim is surprised. He thought Bruce had figured it out already.
Bruce lets his breath out slowly, like he’s about to jump off the roof of Wayne Tech, spread his wings and fly across the city. “Did you take venom?” he asks. Bruce takes Tim’s arm by the elbow and peels off his glove while he waits for an answer.
“I--no,” Tim replies defensively. He wonders if maybe Bruce still doesn’t know, if the horror was because he thought Tim was taking venom.
“Your eyes are glowing green,” Bruce explains as he gets the other glove off. Tim’s knuckles start to sting in the open air, but the feeling is muted.
“I didn’t...” Tim protests, even as he remembers that Bane had been dosing so high that his sweat glowed.
“It’s okay, I trust you,” Bruce reassures Tim, pulling him toward a long bench and urging him to sit down. “I am going to assume you had some kind of incidental contact, though. You will probably start going through withdrawal within twenty-four hours. If you start feeling dizzy or nauseous, let me know immediately.”
“I’m dizzy and nauseous,” Tim replies, watching numbly as Bruce unbuckles his boots and slides them off. A twisted length of root falls out of one boot, and Tim kicks it away from himself, his heart rate increasing again. He’s still breathing too fast, panting like he just ran a marathon.
Bruce kneels in from of him and looks up. His frown—Batman is upset—is concerned. “It’s unlikely that you are going through withdrawal already. Did Poison Ivy use any kind of behavior or perception altering toxins on you?”
Tim pales and looks away.
“Tim, it’s okay,” Bruce says, and Tim wants to believe him so badly it hurts. But if it were okay, he’d feel okay, and he sure as hell does not feel okay. “If Ivy poisoned you, I need to know so I can give you an antidote. Most of her toxins have long term effects.”
“Yes.” Tim says, because the idea of long term effects terrifies him. Bruce takes his hand and presses down on the skin between his thumb and hand, then counts how many seconds it takes for color to come back. “She—yes.” He rubs his eyes with back of his wrist.
“Okay,” Bruce says again, grabbing a bottle of pills from the box at his side. “You’ll need to take one of these every six hours. I don’t think you’ve lost enough blood to go into shock, which makes things easier.” He gets up to leave and stops. “I’m just getting a glass of water. I’ll be right back.”
Tim doesn’t respond when Bruce untangles his hand from his cape. He swallows the pill without protest when Bruce returns with a glass of water.
Bruce also brings a sloppily folded pair of sweat pants and a tee-shirt. Tim eyes them with trepidation. “There is a shower here,” Bruce begins, “your costume is mostly ruined, at least a few of those cuts will need stitches, and all of the ones from Croc’s claws will need to be cleaned. The bleeding is slow enough that you can have a shower first, if you want,” he offers awkwardly.
Tim nods. “I can shower by myself,” he says, heading off the conversation he sees coming on. “I don’t need help.”
“I doubt that, but I welcome you to try.” He tucks the clothes under his arm and offers Tim his hand.
SEVEN
The shower is in the middle of the cave and open air, and the water is lukewarm at best. When Bruce said ‘shower,’ he actually meant ‘a diverted water pipe heated by groups of resistors hooked up to a car battery.’ He’d mentioned that he was still getting around to adding a shower head, giving Tim a faintly embarrassed look.
Lukewarm or not, the torrent of water that pours from the pipe washes most of the dirt, blood and grime off through water pressure. Tim feels more solid, even if Bruce has to hold him up to keep him from losing his balance. The shampoo/conditioner/bodywash is the same brand they use in the main batcave. The smell is more comforting than Tim’s really willing to admit.
Bruce’s grip on Tim’s wrist is taking his pulse, from the angle and position of his hand. “Are you done?” Bruce asks. He’s staring off into a corner of the cave, very deliberately not looking at Tim.
“Yeah,” Tim says. “I’m good.”
Bruce twists the spigot closed and grabs Tim a towel from the pile on the ground. “Can you get dried off without falling over?”
“Yeah.” Tim shivers. The cave is cold. “I... the cuts are still bleeding,” he says, holding the white towel away from himself.
“There are lots of towels. If blood gets on one, we’ll throw it out,” Bruce replies, picking up the scattered rags of Robin’s costume. He drops them into a trash bin without examining them, and even though Tim knows he did so deliberately, he cannot help but to be grateful.
Tim nods, even though Bruce isn’t looking, and runs the towel over his body, gingerly patting dry the wounds from Croc’s claws. Two of them gape open in the middle, and he isn’t looking forward to Bruce stitching them up. He wraps the towel around his hips, and grabs another towel from the pile to wrap around his shoulders (if they can throw out one, they can throw out two).
His feet hurt, and he has no idea why because nothing happened to them. Tim spends a moment being jealous of his feet before realizing how ridiculous that was. “Do those pills make you loopy?” he asks.
“Tranquilizers to neutralize the more violent side-effects are packaged with the antidote,” Bruce confirms.
“Okay, good.” Tim blames the tranqs and sits down on the bench. Bruce had covered it with another towel when Tim wasn’t looking.
There will be three towels we’ll need to throw out, Tim thinks absently, letting Bruce help him lie down. His head swims at the change in position.
“Are you alright?” Bruce asks, and Tim notices, belatedly, that he’s tugged Tim’s towels (they’ll need to throw them out) apart so he can reach the big cut on his hip, where Croc had held him still while--Tim frowns.
“I’m fine,” he murmurs, rubbing his face against the towel underneath him to get the wet line of drool—spit and come—off of his cheek. It leaves the terry cloth a little damp under his face. He reminds himself that he’ll need to throw it out, later.
His hand wraps itself in Batman’s cape, tangling it around his fingers. The fabric is warm from Bruce’s body heat.
He realizes that he can’t feel his stomach and looks down blearily. Bruce is pinching the edges of the deepest cut together and sewing them up, one laborious stitch at a time. Tim’s definitely okay with not being able to feel his stomach. Bruce does stitches like a fish does ballet. Incredibly poorly.
Tim’s eyes slide half-closed as he watches Bruce stab him with the needle, realize that he doesn’t like the spot where he stabbed him, pull back, hesitate because he’s already stabbed him, and then push the needle through anyway. Alfred will have to pull out at least three of the stitches and redo them, and Tim will have to be careful when he moves to make sure that he doesn’t pull any of the stitches out.
He wakes up when Bruce pulls his hand free from the cape and applies disinfectant liberally and messily. The white gauze pad he tapes over top is reassuringly clean and white, completely hiding the cut from Croc’s teeth. Tim closes his eyes (they itch) and grabs hold of the cape again when Bruce lets go of his hand.
Bruce slides his hand under Tim’s ribs, pulling him into a sitting position. He brings Tim’s shoulder towel with him, which is nice because the towel is warm and Tim is not.
It takes a loop or two for Tim to realize that Bruce is wrapping up the crooked lines he stitched into Tim’s stomach. The flash of long white bandages as Bruce pulls them past blurs and twists in front of Tim’s eyes, oddly hypnotic. Bruce tucks the edge into itself and leans back to grab something off the floor.
Tim brushes his hands over the bandages, finding the hidden wounds and touching them. He can’t feel them, they’re numb. He kind of wishes he could.
Bruce lifts Tim’s feet one at a time and slides them into of a pair of boxers. They’re printed with cartoon bats and little birds. Bruce shrugs at Tim’s curious look, and lifts him up to pull the boxers over his hips, sliding them under his towel. “JLA Secret Santa. Superman—actually, probably his wife, gave them to me. I got him one of those stuffed Superman dolls they sell in Metropolis souvenir stands. It came with the Aquaman one. They held hands.”
Tim laughs and if it sounds a little like a sob, Bruce doesn’t seem to notice. “Aren’t those just modified Cabbage Patch Kids?”
“Yes. Yes they are.” Bruce smiles at Tim and pulls the drawstring of the sweats tight, tying it in a bow. Tim blinks in confusion. He keeps losing time, missing things. He can’t remember Bruce putting them on him.
Bruce taps Tim’s arm, and Tim lifts both of them up so Bruce can tug the tee-shirt over his head. The towel falls off his shoulders and he thinks, I’ll need to throw that away.
“There’s a bed over there,” Bruce tells him, standing up. “I need to put sheets on it though.” He stops a step away, and looks down.
Tim is holding into his cape again, but can’t remember when he grabbed it. He starts to let go, his heart jittering in his chest, but Bruce has the cape off and draped over him like a huge black blanket before he can unhook his fingers.
“I’ll be right back,” he assures him, and he talks like Batman, so Tim nods and calms down.
He’s all Bruce when he struggles with the bed sheets. Eventually he picks up the entire mattress and hooks the top sheet on two corners, then flips it and does the other two. Bruce just tosses the blankets on top.
Tim blinks, and Bruce is in front of him, urging him to stand. The bottom falls out of his head when he does, and he sways into Bruce’s hands. Bruce drags him, foot by stumbling foot until the ground under him is rough limestone rather than swaying metal sheeting. Then it’s a soft mattress covered by white sheets and Tim falls into it.
Batman’s cape drops over him, heavy and warm, and Tim falls asleep.
To the Bone - Fade to Black - 3 of 3
Epilogue