[ pain ] sender distracts receiver with quiet stories or memories until the pain dulls
𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮
🦇—-;; Pain wasn't anything new to Bruce, he'd trained and learned to push through it to the point his pain tolerance was considerably higher than most, especially for a man who's had to set his own broken bones more times than he can count on one hand. It didn't mean he didn't feel it, especially once he's no longer riding the adrenline that comes with a particularly bad night on patrol.
Still, sitting in the medbay in the Cave, putting himself back together was a bit of a struggle, given that his body was definitely at it's upper limit. And he's refusing to let Alfred help. He's waiting for the pain meds he's taken to take effect before he tries anything else, trying to hide the way his hands shake, to focus on something other than how much pain he was in. He did look up slightly from the array of items beside him when Dick started speaking, it's a little difficult to focus on him at first, but he manages.
He huffs a slightly pained breath once he realises what he's trying to do, eyes closing for a moment, in his own attempt to recall the story Dick is telling him. It takes him a moment but the memories become a little sharper, and it does help, at least a little, and might give him a bit more time for the meds to kick in. "...That was-...that was our first proper patrol together, wasn't it?" He figures Dick didn't need the prompting to continue with the story, but he might as well let him know he's listening, right?
"Once a case is in my head, I just can't let it go." -for Clark
Detective Sentences
Clark hums lightly, he understood in his own way. He might not be a detective, but his day job was an investigative reporter, he's had similar enough situations that he can at least relate a little bit. "I get it, you wanna find the answers as soon as possible." He says with a small shrug of his shoulders. He huffs a little, blowing that little curl over his forehead up for a moment before he smiled a little bit.
"Would you like some help?" He offers, not too sure he'd be needed, but he can at least offer a helping hand if it means Dick will have a bit of peace of mind.
krypptonian asked would you cut it out? i'm trying to help you
Dick huffs, swinging his body back and forth before launching himself from the fire escape to the next balcony over. An injured ankle wasn't going to stop the teen.
"If you're not going to fly me to the seventh floor so I can get to that apartment, there's not much you can do to help me."
There was intel in there that he needed on Mister Twister. The guy who had been trying to stymie the Titans at every turn for the past month, had landed Donna in the hospital. And for that he was going to pay. So the fact that an earlier fight had left his ankle bloody and probably twisted didn't matter much to Dick in the moment.
☀️-- Clark followed the teen closely, blue eyes locked on the injured ankle. He had already made his own vague assessment of it (he hadn't gotten a good look because the kid was moving all over the place), and it wouldn't do any good for Dick to injure himself further. Operating like that wouldn't do the boy any good.
"Dick, you need to take a break and get that leg looked at. It might be broken." - He knew the kid wouldn't listen to him, Dick was patently stubborn and Bruce would kill Clark if he discovered that he'd been around and Dick didn't get some sort of help for his injury.
Clark was ready to catch Dick if he fell or unsteadied. He looked up towards where Dick was headed. He didn't know what had happened or why the boy was so determined, but -- "Look, I'll help you up there, but you need to let me get a better look at your ankle first. You're in no shape to get up there yourself."
Jason having a panic attack in the shower after crawling out of his own grave in this thread with @bludhavenbirder :D
The bathroom light is too bright compared to the fading light they had been walking in, or rather Dick had been walking in. Jason shut the door behind him and just stood there for a second, staring at his reflection. Dirt streaked his face in uneven lines, packed into the creases of his skin, under his nails, caught in the seams of the suit.
Grave dirt. From his grave.
His stomach flips and he forces himself to turn away from the mirror and turn on the shower before he can think too hard about it so it’s warm when he gets in.
He can feel the scratch of dirt under fabric as he peels the suit off piece by piece, fabric stiff where its caked with mud. It tries to stick in places where the muds started to dry, like it’s holding on and doesn’t want to let go of him. He tosses it into there corner behind the bathroom door in a heap and decides he’s leaving it there to be someone else’s problem, usually he at the very least uses a hamper to make things easier on Alfred. He has a feeling he’s not going to be able to bring himself to even come into this bathroom again after this though.
Hot water slams into him when he steps into the show and at first it’s fine. Good even. The heat sinks into his muscles, loosens something in his chest, sooths the aches from the muscles he’d strained digging. He tilts his head forward, lets the water run over his scalp, down his face and watches brown streaks swirl toward the drain.
Still, he can feel it. The dirt isn’t gone. It’s in his hair, his ears, the creases of his knuckles. It’s on him. It’s in him, packed beneath his skin like it belongs there. Like he belongs there.
His breathing speeds up without permission and suddenly he’s grabbing the clean wash cloth hanging in the shower and dousing it with more soap than he needs, scrubbing at his skin harder than he should, scrubbing away any trace of dirt.
Then he does it again. Harder. His skin starts to sting, nails scraping red lines into his forearms where he presses to hard with his hands, scrubbing like he can carve the feeling out of himself.
He squeezes his eyes off as he scrubs, thinking to himself ‘Get it off. Get it off.’
His breaths turn shallow, too fast, chest squeezing as panic creeps up his spine. The sound of the water gets louder, oppressive, like dirt collapsing again. Like the lid slamming shut. Like-
His hands shake.
“Jaybird?” Dick’s voice was muffled through wood and steam and Jason could hear the worry in his voice even if he was trying to hide it. “You okay in there?”
“I’m not-” he mutters, voice lost under the spray. He presses his palms and forehead to the tile to steady himself, lungs refusing to cooperate and heart trying to jolt out of his chest entirely as he tried to focus on his breathing. In, out, in “I’m fine, I-” A knock hits the door and he flinches like he’s been shot.
The world snaps back into focus, sharp and unforgiving. He sucks in a breath that actually makes it to his lungs this time, teeth clenching hard enough to hurt.
“-Yeah,” he croaks, throat raw. He swallows and forces the words out, steadying them with sheer spite. “Yeah. I’m almost done, gimmie a damn minute.” He tried to sound annoyed, like he was upset about being rushed rather than pulling himself back to reality.
There was silence on the other side of the door, but he had a feeling Dick hadn’t gone anywhere yet.
Jason straightens slowly, turns his face back into the spray. He closes his eyes, forces his hands to unclench, to stop. The dirt is going down the drain. He tells himself that over and over until his breathing evens out enough to pass.
Later, he can fall apart.
For now, he rinses, shuts the water off, and reaches for a towel with hands still shaking slightly from fighting off panic. He listens to make sure Dick isn’t lingering in the hallway before opening the door, planning on headed to his room for clothes - there’s already from PJ’s and a hoodie sitting on the floor outside the door though when he opens it.
He grabs then and pulls them on in the hall with his towel still wrapped around him rather than going back into the bathroom, when he walks into the kitchen he’s rubbing it through his hair as he tries to sound casual. “Is the pasta done?”
This was one hell of a way to meet her...brother? Is that what she should call him? She doesn't call Bruce her dad, would those same rules apply to Dick? There was no stopping the judgemental look she gave when he mentioned getting mugged. Wasn't this guy Robin before? Didn't Batman train him? How did some mugger absolutely kick his ass? Not that she was going to ask any of that because that would be a bad first impression on her part, but she definitely would ask Bruce about it later. "Yeah...it's nice to meet you too." Her tone highlighted the unsureness she felt, mainly because she could not think of anything nice to say.
"Yeah, it's Emma." Her eyes were still locked on her stitch work, she was glad her first-aid training was all still fresh in her mind, this was one hell of a pop quiz. She hoped the next lesson was going to be how to get blood stains out of things because she most definitely has stained a few things now...but at least Dick seemed fine? "Did Bruce tell you anything about me? Or are you going off of whatever you read in the paper?" There definitely seemed to be a little bit of a frenzy when Bruce Wayne suddenly adopted a kid that does not have a father's name written on her birth certificate. A mess.
"I don't think pizza has egg in it, though..." Tim replied, sitting upside down on Dick's couch, his head hanging off the cushions. "That means it's more like a pie."
Clark raises a brow at that statement, which he's not so sure he should point out that he can see how bad it is, no matter how much Dick tries to hide it. Still, there is a slight internal exasperation in knowing who exactly he'd picked up the habit of down playing injuries from. It doesn't stop the slight purse of the Kryptonian's lips that give away what he doesn't say out loud, which is that he can see what's wrong.
"Sure, maybe it does." He shrugs his shoulders, "but it can't feel great either way." He points out, though he makes no move to actually force him to get medical treatment yet, but it's implicated in his tone that he recommends at least some kind of first aid.
“i’ve said too much.” -dick was absolutely about to tell Bruce abt the titans doing something dangerous and stupid and very teenagery
MISC. PROMPTS.
🦇—-;; Bruce looks at him then, he'd been listening to his story for the last little bit, though he had paused when Dick started to say something about how they did what they were doing. Only to stop himself and realise he has, in fact, said too much. Enough for Bruce to know that they'd done something reckless. His tongue clicks against the roof of his mouth quietly, and his eyes narrow.
Sure, anything in the hero business was dangerous, and he knows Dick knew that. So why had they done that? He supposes he won't get those answers unless he presses Dick for them, even if he's quite certain he was going to push back just as hard.
"You have, if you didn't want me knowing about that particular part of what you were doing." Bruce chides, looking back down at the cowl, which he was working on right then, new upgrades it seems. Sure he could have left it for someone else, but he had time to do it himself. "You're not going to tell me the rest of the story, about that, are you?"
