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exsiliumlogs2013-05-26 12:30 am
pixieboots) wrote in exsiliumlogs2013-05-26 12:30 am
Entry tags:
- ashraf salib (original),
- collette "please" (animorphs),
- dick grayson (dc comics),
- joseph "jericho" wilson (tta),
- kate "candy" kane (dc comics),
- max kearney (original),
- shelke rui (ffvii:doc),
- stephanie brown (dc comics),
- ✝ conner kent (young justice),
- ✝ ellie linton (tomorrow),
- ✝ m'gann m'orzz (young justice)
do your dirty work without me
Date & Time: 24rd-26th
Location: hold infirmary
Characters: dick grayson and you
Summmary: robin is in the infirmary. some people visit.
Warnings: mentions of violence, batangst, injuries, everything is terrible
A [Friday]
[ His mask isn’t here, which is the first thing he's thinking of while his eyes are still shut. When his thoughts are still swimming with images. People. Body parts strewn like old, broken toys.
It’s missing. It’s gone. And Batman’s going to kill him.
He gropes around in the sheet, tugging stupidly at the folds when his sluggish fingers won’t follow where his head thinks they should. It hurts to use that hand but he keeps at it until the pain starts lancing up his arm and through his back and chest, tight enough that his breath catches. Alfred must have taken it off when he fell asleep. It’s here somewhere, tucked away on his nightstand. He knows it is.
By the time his bandaged-up fingers find more bandages on his arm it’s starting to come back in bigger fragments. And he wants to push against it, drift back to the place where’s someone’s waiting for him with warm tea and a soft hand. Just waiting for him to open his eyes.
Which makes it worse in a way, that when the glow around him finally turns cold and unfamiliar the ache in his chest is for someone else. It’s for his mother, of all people, with her hands and her smile, and not Alfred or Bruce. The way she’d comb his hair with her fingers when he was sick, no matter how damp and clammy he was. It’s stupid. It’s lame that it’s her that’s on his mind, that it’s her loss that’s making him tear up stupidly when a whole world died yesterday, because he couldn’t save it. Every single mom, and every single orphan. Every person that belonged there. And all he wants is to be small enough to crawl into her lap again, for her to be alive to hold him until that feeling goes away.
He wipes his eyes furiously and puts his head down on his knees when the world starts to drift again, spinning just a little away from the axis he’s used to. Whatever they’d given him today, it’s strong.
But maybe, maybe that’s a good thing. ]
B [Saturday]
[ The last time he’d spent this long in bed it was Two-Face behind it. Two-Face who’d broken his legs, his ribs, his skull, and Batman, in some way he still can’t quite wrap his head around when he thinks about it. He doesn’t want to dwell on it now either, that whole ugly set of memories that still somehow don’t seem quite as bad as anything that’s happened here in the past week. Or even the whole package deal of this place, which is really just one awful, awful nightmare after another. The kind that would have had him screaming until Bruce came into his room, when he was (much) smaller.
Which is sort of where he is now, in a way. He hasn’t slept for real in thirty-six hours, enough that he’s pushed right past the first and second waves of exhaustion threatening to drag his eyelids down. The second he closes his eyes, he knows that’s all he’ll see. Two-Face and Batman and UE soldiers and a thousand faces he hadn’t been able to save. People that are dead now.
But maybe if they think he’s not resting they’ll drug him again. So by turns he’s practicing, laying still on the side that isn’t bandaged and evening out his breathing until it looks like he’s asleep. However long it takes, he can keep it up. ]
C [Sunday]
[ No reports, no computer, no homework. No magazines or baseball. No trapeze bars, no rings, no nothing to quiet his mind down, once the real drugs start to wear off. And wear off they do, little by little. Which has to mean something good, right?
It’s under his skin like an itch, the need to get up, to move, to start planning. To do something that isn’t sitting in bed, staring at that same blank wall for another day. He’s wasted two days already, huddling in here crying like some dumb kid. The dumb kid they all see already when they look at him.
His toes don’t quite reach the floor so on the second try he arches his back a little to slide down, trying to move slowly enough when he takes the weight on that his knees won’t buckle right away. If he can get to a window – and find the grapple he doesn’t have with the costume they’d taken away - he can get out and away from here. ]
Location: hold infirmary
Characters: dick grayson and you
Summmary: robin is in the infirmary. some people visit.
Warnings: mentions of violence, batangst, injuries, everything is terrible
A [Friday]
[ His mask isn’t here, which is the first thing he's thinking of while his eyes are still shut. When his thoughts are still swimming with images. People. Body parts strewn like old, broken toys.
It’s missing. It’s gone. And Batman’s going to kill him.
He gropes around in the sheet, tugging stupidly at the folds when his sluggish fingers won’t follow where his head thinks they should. It hurts to use that hand but he keeps at it until the pain starts lancing up his arm and through his back and chest, tight enough that his breath catches. Alfred must have taken it off when he fell asleep. It’s here somewhere, tucked away on his nightstand. He knows it is.
By the time his bandaged-up fingers find more bandages on his arm it’s starting to come back in bigger fragments. And he wants to push against it, drift back to the place where’s someone’s waiting for him with warm tea and a soft hand. Just waiting for him to open his eyes.
Which makes it worse in a way, that when the glow around him finally turns cold and unfamiliar the ache in his chest is for someone else. It’s for his mother, of all people, with her hands and her smile, and not Alfred or Bruce. The way she’d comb his hair with her fingers when he was sick, no matter how damp and clammy he was. It’s stupid. It’s lame that it’s her that’s on his mind, that it’s her loss that’s making him tear up stupidly when a whole world died yesterday, because he couldn’t save it. Every single mom, and every single orphan. Every person that belonged there. And all he wants is to be small enough to crawl into her lap again, for her to be alive to hold him until that feeling goes away.
He wipes his eyes furiously and puts his head down on his knees when the world starts to drift again, spinning just a little away from the axis he’s used to. Whatever they’d given him today, it’s strong.
But maybe, maybe that’s a good thing. ]
B [Saturday]
[ The last time he’d spent this long in bed it was Two-Face behind it. Two-Face who’d broken his legs, his ribs, his skull, and Batman, in some way he still can’t quite wrap his head around when he thinks about it. He doesn’t want to dwell on it now either, that whole ugly set of memories that still somehow don’t seem quite as bad as anything that’s happened here in the past week. Or even the whole package deal of this place, which is really just one awful, awful nightmare after another. The kind that would have had him screaming until Bruce came into his room, when he was (much) smaller.
Which is sort of where he is now, in a way. He hasn’t slept for real in thirty-six hours, enough that he’s pushed right past the first and second waves of exhaustion threatening to drag his eyelids down. The second he closes his eyes, he knows that’s all he’ll see. Two-Face and Batman and UE soldiers and a thousand faces he hadn’t been able to save. People that are dead now.
But maybe if they think he’s not resting they’ll drug him again. So by turns he’s practicing, laying still on the side that isn’t bandaged and evening out his breathing until it looks like he’s asleep. However long it takes, he can keep it up. ]
C [Sunday]
[ No reports, no computer, no homework. No magazines or baseball. No trapeze bars, no rings, no nothing to quiet his mind down, once the real drugs start to wear off. And wear off they do, little by little. Which has to mean something good, right?
It’s under his skin like an itch, the need to get up, to move, to start planning. To do something that isn’t sitting in bed, staring at that same blank wall for another day. He’s wasted two days already, huddling in here crying like some dumb kid. The dumb kid they all see already when they look at him.
His toes don’t quite reach the floor so on the second try he arches his back a little to slide down, trying to move slowly enough when he takes the weight on that his knees won’t buckle right away. If he can get to a window – and find the grapple he doesn’t have with the costume they’d taken away - he can get out and away from here. ]