makinglies | Dark is the Night

Dark is the Night

The screen's too big. He's pretty sure he could use it as a raft if it would float. It would probably float. He tosses a piece of popcorn up into the air and catches it as the music dies down.

A sound from behind him catches his attention and Tom half turns from where he's draped out on the couch, eyes not leaving the television.

"You're late. It's past your bedtime, you know. You've got a date with....someone....fuck what was her name." He offers half-heartedly to who can only really be Bruce.

He really was later than Tom had been expecting...but he could chew him out later. Maybe. Depends on if the reason Bruce was late was interesting.

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"You should read the post-it notes I put on your granola bars." He grabs the remote and turns the TV off as he turns, an arm around the back cushion, to look at his friend. He's perceptive on a bad day. Good at reading most tells and, barring that, good at reading other tells.

He's not sure which one this is, but he's on his feet with the popcorn bowl precariously balanced on the arm of the couch in seconds. "What the fuck.....Bruce...? Why are you wet?" He knows why he's wet. He knows and he's already heading for the kitchen even while his eyes are locked on that soaked shirt. "Sit down."

Greatest detective on earth. Can read people well. Knows how. Knows tells and micro-expressions. Amazingly good detective.

Has absolutely no idea why Tom looks like that or is reacting with Alarm.

Like absolutely and completely unaware that he's bleeding out. Not because shock but because he just has all but completely divorced his mind from his body and -

"What? Why?" He sits down though, even if Tom is going... to the kitchen?

"You're like a parody of yourself, you know that, right?" Just a few cutting words because he doesn't like being Worried, he doesn't like the way his pulse quickens or adrenaline rushes through him, it's not the fun kind, it's the scary kind. Still, he grabs towels and drenches one of them in the sink before heading back. He'll clean up later, he doesn't care.

"It's one thing if I cut myself while cooking and don't do anything about it, but you go out and do fuck knows what and come back bleeding and you're probably dying, shirt off." He's not offering much of a choice as the towels are unceremoniously dropped next to Bruce and his hands go right for the edge of Bruce's shirt to yank it up.

He is absolutely a parody of many things, including himself. He knows that. He's going to keep doing that.

Being told he's probably dying and continued panic, however, makes him look down and realize that, yes, that's a problem.

Also that it hurts.

And he's kind of dizzy.

Might be a problem.

He doesn't stop the grab for his shirt, but twists and pulls out of it to make it easier.

"I got stabbed."

What, he'd forgotten.

The shirt goes somewhere, he doesn't register where, because suddenly there's at least two puncture wounds and a gash and it feels like a high pitched whine is starting in the air and the lights flicker in the kitchen.

"You got stabbed twice. You stupid-" His voice is rising in pitch and he grabs a dry towel to press to the larger wound. "Lay down and hold this here." As he says it nothing tugs at Bruce's pant legs insistently as though trying to help him move his legs up on the couch.

Tom stands and bolts for the nearest first aid kit which finds itself to his hands before he actually gets to it, but he doesn't notice, just turns back to head for Bruce.

He is not at all impressed by having his pants pulled at, and growls in a way that is definitely more Batman than Bruce. Doesn't kick or anything and does lean back but doesn't lie entirely down. He should. Doesn't wanna.

Keeps the towel held hard against his side though, which also hurts like fuck, but whatever.

"Stop panicking. I'm not going to die."

Might actually.

"Don't growl like a dog." He returns as he kneels down next to him. There's too much blood.

"You might." The light in the kitchen explodes in sparks, leaving only the lamps in the living room which also flicker in warning.

"Talk to me. How many stoplights did you blow through?" There's too much blood.

Needle. Thread. Where did that wet towel- The TV turns on by itself, but it's silent even though no one muted it.

He takes Tom by the chin with one hand and sort of... tries to force him to look up and make eyecontact.

"I am much more likely to die if you're trying to do this in the dark." Calm as he can be, and not growling now. "I'm awake and talking. Focus and breathe. The wet towel's on the coffee table."

He looks up as directed and that high pitched tone is outside of him now, some radio speaker connected to nothing on the side table ringing out the discordant note of his abilities.

"Right." The lamps, at least stop flickering with the excess psychic bleed pouring out from somewhere else.

But wasn't that an idea? His hands find the towel and he turns sharply back to face Bruce, eyes darting over the various places blood has pooled. Too much blood...on the outside. He could make it be inside.

It begins to gather itself and the speaker buzzes as the blood from Bruce's shirt seems to wring itself out and gather in the neat ball floating over it's source's chest. "Move the towel." It's dry now and useless anyway, only the blood on their hands and what little remains to stain hands and couch and clothing remains.

Bruce was right, if he was going to panic, he could do so productively.

Bruce is deeply uncomfortable with whatever is happening, but he doesn't want to die and this is better than destroying his house.

So with a sharp, speculative, look he removes the towel. It's definitely dry, he's not too worried but-

"That's... new?"

To him.

The wounds are still open, but they're not actively bleeding, like a barrier's been erected over them to keep the insides inside.

"Ye...ah..." His voice is breathy, but confident enough despite his next words. "I'm making it up as I go."

Which is likely a relief when the ball of what blood he could siphon folds out into a ribbon and slides back into the wounds cleanly. The barrier stays as Tom's steady hands swipe the wet towel by the edges and over his own hands so he can grab needle and thread.

"Try not to move. And don't growl at me when I stab you with this." At least holding the blood back and focusing on the precise and even way he turns to begin stitching up one wound is taking most of his attention. And consequently, his energy. The buzz from the speaker begins to quiet into a low hum.

"I'm not going to growl at you for saving me the effort of doing it myself...."

His voice has trailed off, though, both because he is wary and because he is deeply intrigued. This has possibilities. He wants to test it. Well maybe not this specific part (not that he minds really) but just because.

Meanwhile he does not growl, does not flinch, does not get upset. He does continue to stay still and look deeply speculative.

"Have you ever deliberately done anything with your abilities?"

That takes half a thought to consider...and the answer is no. Of course it's no. He spent too long pretending they weren't there because he couldn't possibly be the only person with them and if he was- then he was very good at lying. Especially to himself. So he doesn't answer.

"I'm going to have to clean the floor and this couch and I bet your car's a mess, but you get that one. I'll change the bulb in the morning." He's quick at least. One down, onto the next.

He's say that as a terrible avoidance tactic, but it's one he employs on rare occasions that his avoidance isn't just pretending to be another person so there's no possible way anyone can ask uncomfortable questions.

Great in theory, breaks down in practice when you're one of the few people close enough to know him.

He closes his eyes and evens out his breathing.

"We're going to start. This was very nearly worse than the incident with the pipes."

Tom glances over at him as he starts in on the second wound, smaller at least. It was going to bruise like a motherfucker, though.

"The pipes were an accident. I was drunk." He was not. That wasn't the point, the point was his own internal narrative.

There's a lengthy pause afterwards, even if Bruce responds, and he finishes the last stitch and tie it off so he can turn and find bandages. "I don't know why we should bother. Most of the time, it's fine."

"We should bother because you may have just saved my life, but you also nearly destroyed my house."

Which is to say: "It could be fine a higher percentage of the time and I wouldn't have to choose between death and destruction."

There is a choice there.

But also

It'd be good for you.

Sounds fake. There's a low rumble like an earthquake that shakes some of the fixtures briefly. "Don't be so dramatic."

He puts antiseptic and gauze patches over the wounds before finding that towel again to start cleaning some of the smaller wounds. Good enough, probably.

"I've done worse to bigger buildings. But I did just save your life so you should get off the couch so I can clean it and go lay down in that way too big bed of yours."

And get out of his face with this practicality stuff he doesn't want to acknowledge.

He gets testy and nearly growls once the stitching is done. Like his tolerance or touch in that kind of 'concerned', clinical way is wearing off.

Which is accurate.

"You don't need to clean my blood off my couch. You should watch it off your hands. After that I'm finding a building that isn't here that we can safely experiment within."

He holds his hands up for the growl and stands to....frankly throw the towels away, they were his cheap hand towels anyway, who cares. "You're right, pay someone else to do it."

He glances to Bruce and then to the blood on the floor and the broken glass in the kitchen from the ruined light. "Pretty sure you're supposed to go lay down if you almost died, though. Plus, I have a show in like half an hour I want to watch." He doesn't actually care, he just cares about not....doing this. Thing.

He starts cleaning....anything else. Whatever else looks out of place, before finally getting to his hands as an after thought.

Bruce might not have nerve endings. He certainly doesn't have any sense, because he gets up and starts cleaning up the couch he was on, and eyeing Tom.

He leaves it alone until the light bulb and then - "Be careful with the glass, and what's the show?"

Breathe.

He's going to do the thing, anyway, but he doesn't have to talk about it.

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Dark is the Night

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