a weeknight, sometime after 2am ( @nightwxngs )
He woke up slowly, puzzled by the fact that he woke at all.
The Robin had made it clear that he wanted him dead, had had him on the concrete, beaten into something resembling submission, two guns pointed at his chest, not close enough for the pheromones to do anything. All for trying to free his children from the concrete that was suffocating them. Ivy had been too comfortable, thinking that with the Bat dead things might be easier, but the dead Robin was always so angry and it was worse then. He was fighting to kill. Two warning shots fired at either side of Ivy’s head in rapid succession, ringing in his ears, the dead Robin turning away from him like he had seen something else, another kick to the ribs, searing pain and then nothing.
Nothing until now. Now there was warmth, cutting through the pain that seemed to wrack his entire body, the vague smell of food lingering in the air, and the light sound of a tv or radio nearby. Not dead, and not back at his apartment, or anywhere familiar just based on the little he could tell from barely opening his eyes. Cold metal pulling against his wrist, handcuffs obviously, but soft, warm wool covering his bare shoulders. Definitely not Arkham, and not the GCPD, either, given the fact that he was being treated so gently.
He took a second to assess where the pain was the worst––ears still ringing slightly, a few ribs probably cracked, head throbbing, chest stinging––and deciding that if he could get out of the handcuffs, he was strong enough to make an attempt to escape wherever he was. Tentatively, Ivy opened his eyes fully, and any plan that he had flew out of the window as soon as he saw what he did. It was more instinct than anything else, the way his body recoiled, as if it was possible to get further away from Nightwing, sitting there on the couch across the room (in pajamas??) playing some video game. Really, all he succeeded in doing, though, was hitting his already sore arm against the radiator, letting out a hiss of pain in response.
There was something about the completely non-intimidating too-big long sleeved shirt he had on that calmed the flight or fight instinct, though, the longer Ivy looked at him. Instead of saying anything, he eyed him suspiciously, pulling the blanket tighter around his shoulders with his uncuffed hand.