singillatim | ( openish ) hear the whispers in the street

( this is a blank post so i can edit in something later maybe. )

( cont. from here. )

He hears the crack of his knuckles before he feels it. Not because it doesn't hurt, but because everything already hurts, and the additional pain becomes secondary to making sure Logan's good and down. He drops to the floor, and Jason's shifting to begin to lean down, to grab onto the collar of his shirt with his fucked hand, to pull him up and hit him again despite knowing how fucking pointless it is -

but a hand grabs onto his arm, which also hurts. It's instinct that has him immediately trying to shove his elbow back into whoever the hell's grabbed onto him, lips twisted into a nasty snarl as bile rises on his tongue, ready to craft just the right sentence to piss off the interloper, to get them to fuck off or hit him harder. Whichever comes easier. When his chin tips to look at the guy who's managed to stop him for the moment, it's the eyes that catch him off-guard. He knows the face, and remembers lugging him through the fog earlier, but this is different. And Jason, regardless of how fucked he is, how there's that gut-deep feeling that says he should probably, if he doesn't want to get more fucked up, listen to the clear demand, hates orders.

Call it leftover issues from still being pissed off at dear ol' dad.

"Go to hell. You don't have shit on me, you--" His arm yanks against Bigby's hold, even as the strain against torn tendons has him hissing in pain, but he's done. Outside of his refusal to let himself fall before he gets the last hit in, there's not much strength left in him. Bigby can pull him off, because he's mostly deadweight. Jason's tired, shoulders trembling from how tense he's been holding himself despite the look on his face that almost, almost looks as animalistic as Bigby's: a frenzied rage that refuses to be tempered.

( everything hurts.

see, the smart thing to do when arriving in a new area with fucked ribs and a fucked up arm would have been to lay low, keep himself out of trouble so he'd heal up before he messed himself up more. except - sometimes a guy just shows up in a real shit mood and decides, fuck it, starting shit is a great way to make himself feel better. it'd made him fast friends with wynonna and logan, even if it had ended up with a broken nose and fucked knuckles. which had ended with them all drinking together, and started yet another fight that'd only ended up with jason even more bruised and bloodied.

it's fine. he's fine. wynonna had gotten dragged off, jason had gotten dragged off, and now he's here: inside some shitty run-down shack with his back up against the far wall, facing the door, arm shoved over his abdomen and eyes closed while he takes in a breath.

lets it out real slow. his armor's still on, covering the massive collection of bruises over his midsection, and his right arm's resting at an uncomfortable angle at his side but, fuck it, he doesn't give a shit. what's the worst that can happen, it doesn't heal right? he's already fucked up, it's not like it's gonna mess him up all that much worse. maybe he deserves it. )

He's seen this sort of thing before. Of course Bigby has. If he hasn't seen it in the mirror before - too many times, really - then he's seen it on other people. That desperation to keep on fighting, even though it's clearly already over for you. Bigby may not be medically inclined enough to be able to tell everything that's wrong with Jason just from a quick look at the other, but it's clear that Jason is likely one or two more injuries away from ending up like the two men already currently on the ground.

It makes it relatively easy for Bigby to manage to drag the other guy along. If Jason shakes off the hold of his arm, then Bigby just instead grabs the other guy by the back of his collar, dragging him along like a mother cat would with a particularly naughty kitten.

That's priority #1. Edward and the stranger seemed out cold, but Bigby still wants to get Jason away from that spot just in case they're not. So he doesn't say more at first, just dragging Jason along through the snow until they're at least far away enough from the scene to no longer be within sight or earshot.

"Fuck, man," Bigby then finally says. His eyes still haven't returned to the way they were before, last time they met. They're still weirdly dark yet glowing. "What the hell even happened?"

Jason doesn't trust Logan to stay down. Asshole's got a metal skull, and it hurt like fuck punching him in it (again, because he's done this before) but he's also the kind of jerk who gets back up every time he's knocked down. They haven't known each other long, but it's been long enough for him to figure that out. It's one of the reasons he likes him: that stubborn streak is something Jason can relate to. He also refuses to quit even when he's clearly done for. Like now, as Bigby grabs onto him by the back of his collar and drags him off. He's still fighting against the hold, but the further he gets away from the adrenaline rush of the fight, the less fight he's got left in him. By the time Bigby has chosen a spot to stop, Jason's barely keeping himself up on his feet. Opts not to and drops down onto his ass on the snow.

(Thank you, snow, for being some kind of padding to land on.)

There's the glass sticking out of his shoulder, the massive bruising over his face especially right around his nose, gross blue-green bruises around an eye, his knuckles are fucked under his gloves, but that's a problem he can handle later. It doesn't seem to bother him too much, at least. Mostly because he's used to it.

An irritated scowl flits across his mouth, and Jason drops the hand he'd punched Logan with down into the snow. Looks up to Bigby with a raised brow. "Does it matter?"

Didn't matter when they were fighting.

Edited 2024-05-06 19:38 (UTC)

"Of course it does," he growls right back, some of that odd animalistic edge still present in his tone as he speaks.

It's an easy answer too. Bigby can think of so many reasons that it matters. So many that he isn't even sure which one to use here. The most logical one? Or the one that's likely going to matter most to Jason? The one that applies the most to the cause of this fight in the first place - though Bigby still doesn't even know what that is?

The man lets out a frustrated sigh. Despite the fact that he's no longer holding onto Jason now the other has opted to let himself just drop into the snow, Bigby doesn't walk away either. Instead he just stands right next to the other, glancing at their surroundings - instinctively, just to make sure there's not more danger coming at them - before his gaze drops back onto the other guy.

"Look at you," he seems to settle on.

Maybe because it's the reason that concerns Bigby the most right now. The reasons more important to him at other times - mostly involving community building - can wait.

"If that fight had just been a little bit worse, you could've been dead by now." Hell, Jason looks like he's doing rough enough even in this moment. "Would that have made you happy, huh?"

Look at you, he says, as if Jason isn't well-aware of the state he's in. As if he doesn't know he's still bleeding from where the glass has embedded itself into his back, or how fucked his hand is, or how his arm is still broken, and he's opting to ignore it entirely. Because if he ignores a problem long enough, it'll eventually go away. Right? Right.

The frustrated sigh is a little too familiar, and Jason doesn't like it. His brow furrows, pulling in a shaky breath through his nose despite how much that hurts, too. It's fine, he'll get over it. He always does.

"Been there, done that." Died, anyway. "One round of crawling out of my grave was plenty." His voice is - a little defensive. On edge. Like he's getting ready for yet another fight, despite being on the ground still. "It wasn't gonna get to that point, we were just fucking around."

( that shitty shack happens to be the doctor's latest destination, a sagging frame barely visible in the fog, its shape broken up by the skeletal fingers of long-dead vegetation.

jesus, he's getting flowery now, he chides himself.

picking his way around a knot of grasping brambles, the painters' bucket in his other hand full of other collected items, mccoy reaches the door, tests it, and lets it swing inward with a begrudging wail of disused hinges.

at least you're on earth, he reminds himself, tacking what little optimism he can muster onto his fraying nerves. at least the sheets he's found are cotton; the cast iron pan actual cast iron and an actual pan, instead of a mysterious alien substance liable to fry human synapses when looked at funny.

he catches sight of the huddled man out of the corner of his eye. thinks, at first, that he's a corpse, with the unnatural set of his arm, the bent knuckles, and his breath catches. then, it escapes him in a soft 'whuff'. )

My God, you're alive? It's freezin'; what are you doing back there?

( mindful that he oughtn't rush right forward, he sets his items down on the dusty floor a few feet away, kneeling with it. scoots closer, caution at war with his concern. )

I'm a doctor. Doctor McCoy.

...

God. Well. What a thing to confess to the person who dragged you out of what seemed like the world's coldest drunk bar brawl. The concept of crawling out of your grave - whether literal or metaphorical - isn't really new to Bigby, so it's not a shock that such an act was possible for Jason at all, but he still realises it carries quite some weight all the same.

Just enough weight that Bigby can kind of feel a headache coming on, and he reaches up to briefly pinch the bridge of his nose as he processes this.

"Alright, but if you end up in the grave here, you're not going to fucking crawl out of it."

Despite the explicative, he doesn't sound angry. Not Bigby levels of it, anyway. Maybe there's some annoyance in his tone, but it mostly sounds very matter-of-fact. It's just reality here. It's almost a fatigued description of objective reality, like the tone of a man who has been through this, is currently going through this, and will likely continue to go through this for the rest of his immortal existence.

"Dead here means dead. If you fuck around a little, you find out." Usually not at the hands of a fellow Interloper, but-- well, there's a first for everything, and Bigby doesn't want to imagine the sheer chaos the town would devolve into just because people are taking dumb fights like this too far and got themselves killed. "And sorry to say, but I'm not going to let you fucking die on my watch."

( he is alive. what had looked like a corpse quickly comes back to life the moment he hears noise; his body shifts to sit more upright, eyes opening and managing to look more irritated at his nap being interrupted than as exhausted as he's really feeling. call it a family talent: being broken into pieces and yet still finding some way to be bitchy and put out by everyone else around them. )

I was trying to get a nap in. ( with a roll of his eyes at how cautious the guy seems to be approaching him. yes, it's cold as hell even inside as they are. jason's jacket is meant to weather gotham winters, not this bullshit. a problem he's already put on his to-do list for later, rather than add it to the list of bullshit he's managing now: like the lack of sleep, his nose he still hasn't fixed, the fucked shoulder, the fucked arm - you'd think he would have learned to stop starting fights after getting the shit beaten out of him the first time, but what fun would that be?

instead, he gets the fun of sitting himself up while some asshole scoots closer to him like he's some feral animal he's stumbled across, mouth twisting into a scowl. )

'm fine. Just need a minute. An' I'm not gonna bite you, jesus.

Good, ( he says smartly, utterly ignoring the young man's complaints, ) Your ears 'n mouth are working. How about the rest of you?

( If he had a dollar for every injured patient who sassed him, he'd have a whole Hell of a lot of useless fucking money. Like, who needs that? Bones finally gets a seat in beside him, stuffing his gloves away in his winter parka. He sheds the coat without preamble, and drapes it over him, mindful of the angle of his broken arm.

It's cold as balls, but McCoy's in layers under his jumpsuit, and he's not the one at risk of freezing to death before he can address anything else afflicting this guy. )

Do me a favor and keep talkin' while you get toasty. ( And while he presses warm fingers to the side of his neck, counting his pulse. ) Neither of us need you going hypothermic; it's a pain in the ass.

( maybe he should bite him, just to be an ass. the arm that isn't broken raises to shove off the coat, because fuck you he's fine. jason considers pushing himself up to his feet to leave, but realizes also that - he probably wouldn't get very far. sometimes it's easier to deal with crap he doesn't want than to fight it, and given the whole i'm a doctor crap, he's inclined to let this guy have his way unless he starts pissing jason off. his head tips to give mccoy better access to his pulse, which, while on the slower side, is fine. he's athletic, not dying. yet. )

I know. Wouldn't be my first time, but I'm fine. ( tongue pressing to the top row of his teeth, and considers - leaving him to his check over, kicking him off, giving him the rundown as jason's gotten used to doing when he does have a field medic after getting himself fucked up. ) Some chick broke my nose, haven't had the chance to fix it. Fucked my right arm up, but I've still got movement in my hand with only moderate pain. 'm not going over all of it, it'd be a pain in the ass an' I've already got you in my face.

( mccoy is enough of a pain in the ass already. )

( slow pulse, not slow enough to be a concern. yet. "yet" is always a factor in particularly stubborn patients, convinced they'll never need an ounce of help until it's too late.

mccoy shifts to gently cradle his face, palpating gently to feel for any swelling that isn't his nose, and running his fingers up his nape and into his hairline, tracing the cervical vertebrae and resting on his occipital ridge. no spinal injury, or none that he can feel anyway. couple decent goose eggs under his sweaty hair, but he doesn't seem concussed, lucky for them both. )

All that and you're still 'fine'. Never heard that before. Hold still.

( just gonna reset his nose like an old pro, a grasp of his chin and the quick movement of mccoy's other hand. )

"Wasn't supposed to come back the first time I went down either, an' yet here I am." He doesn't want to come back again if he keels over, but Jason's not discounting the possibility of it. Even here, somewhere new, where the fucked up non-rules don't quite apply as messily as they did back home, according to the few he's spoken to already. It's fine, it doesn't matter, because something as stupid as a bar fight isn't going to take him out anyway.

Instead, he's giving Bigby a smarmy little grin, which doesn't quite work as well as he wishes it did given how fucked his face is currently. Bats his eyelashes a little, because if Bigby is going to get all sentimental on him, Jason is going to do his damn best to ruin it.

"Aw, sweetheart. I knew you cared."

He doubts it's any personal feelings towards Jason, but more a sense of responsibility this guy carries around on his shoulders. Or maybe he feels like he owes him one after Jason saved his ass that once. It doesn't really matter either way, does it? The comment applies regardless.

"'m fine. Not gonna go back and start shit again, promise."

He's in shit shape as it is.

( he's taken several hard hits to the head over the last few weeks. but luckily for them both, jason is nothing if not hard-headed. and his hood had taken the brunt of the kick to his face, then the punch, before it'd crumbled to several pieces leaving jason now hood and maskless. not that it matters much for him; no one would connect jason todd with red hood if he hadn't explicitly told them.

and this guy doesn't know. fingers run over his face, through his hair, and it's gentle enough in a way he isn't used to that he does start - relaxing a little. shoulders loosen, and he snorts, opening his mouth to give a smarmy comment in return only for fingers to tighten on his chin, the other hand raising to realign his nose and - yeah, that's not pleasant.

he sucks in a breath through his mouth, but manages not to flinch. )

Ow.

( he waits a moment to be sure it's set properly, then lowers his hands to the younger man's coat. )

Sorry.

( it's a sincere apology, and it won't be the last. mccoy shifts to inspect his arm, and the way it juts oddly at his elbow beneath the leather. he lets go a sigh of discontent. )

Things are gonna hurt a little while longer, unfortunately. I can't set anything if I can't see it, so we need to get your jacket off.

( there's sheets in his collection of scavenged odds and ends, he knows, more than enough material for a makeshift wrap and a sling. positively medieval by his own standards, but it'll do. )

( mccoy's hand lowers, and jason's left hand raises, index and middle finger feeling along the line of his nose even as touching it makes him wince. it's been a little fucked since long before this break, but feels closer to how it should around the swelling. most people might say thanks for fixing my fucked nose, but jason's just offering a stupid, smarmy little grin. it'd probably be more effective if his face wasn't busted.

but the guy knew what he was getting into when he decided to interrupt jason's nap anyway. )

If you wanted to strip me, you could've just asked.

( there's the leather jacket, bloodied and ripped in a few places but overall still in decent shape. numerous extra pockets are sewn in all over, although most of them are where it's easier to hide shit. under that, the kevlar-laced compression shirt is armored, but the armor itself doesn't extend down to where it goes down over his elbows, covering just a third of the way down his forearms. it's less for people trying to fuck up his limbs, more for people with guns who might get a lucky shot in. )

( Oh, a flirt. Bones snorts while he eases the jacket back off his shoulders and uninjured arm, doing his best to navigate the material around his injury. )

Bruised and bloodied really ain't my type. ( After he drapes the jacket in his lap, sweet as cherry pie: ) Cute as y'are. Keep still, I'm gonna put together a wrap before I try to set it.

( And off he goes to consult with his bucket of odds and ends, unearthing a dull green top sheet he promptly tears into with a pocket knife, pulling it apart in long strips. )

Bigby lets out a huff - especially at that sweetheart remark - but doesn't seem terribly upset about it. Or rather, he doesn't seem any more upset than he already was about this matter in the first place, even if it's mostly just translating to annoyance in the way it sits in his facial expression.

Then the man moves to crouch down next to the other, rather than awkwardly hovering over him. He squints, like he's only now got a moment to fully take in the other's condition while he isn't busy either trying to break up a fight or dragging Jason away.

"You look like you'd keel over if you'd try." Just saying, dude! Even though Jason is clearly aware of that too, judging by the way he's talking about it.

Bigby shakes his head.

"You know doctor Goodsir yet? Because if not, you're about to get real acquainted with him."

( bones starts pulling at his jacket, and jason - gives up. snorts, and leans forward a little so he isn't pressed up against the wall anymore to slide his good arm out of it before helping to yank off the sleeve of his other arm.

there's a few cuts in the back of the jacket where the glass bottles had cut through, but the glass is gone. so there is that. )

Damn. You really picked the wrong profession then, didn't you?

( The sight of those cuts had made him press his lips together, swallowing the outburst on his tongue. It wasn't like it'd help any, just scowling and swearing at the unknown person who worked the man over.

Bones rips another section of sheet down to the end and chuckles, breath clouding in the air. It's barely warmer in here with the both of them, still better than being outside. A fire would be best instead of that cold grate, a thought for later. )

Must be the masochist in me.

"Nah, I ain't that bad off." The bar brawl added a few more scrapes and bruises, sure, but Jason was doing just fine with his fucked arm and the rest of his injuries before he'd gotten into it. His hesitance to get into more fights isn't about how well he'd keep himself standing, it's - he's gotten most of it out of his system by now, and he doesn't want to get any more wounds.

Bigby crouches down close, and Jason uses the lack of distance between them to press a hand against his shoulder, moving to use Bigby to get himself up to his feet. He's sat down long enough, and whoever the hell doctor Goodsir is, Jason doesn't feel like sticking around long enough to find out.

"I've got people here," His two younger brothers, both of which are around here - somewhere. Neither of which Jason intends to hunt down to patch him up. Damian's great at putting people back together when he needs to, but he doesn't need to deal with Jason's bullshit. And his relationship with Tim is a little complicated currently. Still, claiming he has them here isn't a lie. "if I'm bad off enough to need more than what they can handle, I'd be dead anyway."

They're all well-trained field medics including Jason, who's pretty sure he can handle patching himself up soon as he's found somewhere to hunker down. Which is what he's planning on doing now.

You should really get that looked at.

( jason leaned up and off the wall to get his jacket off, and opts to stay slouched forward while bones continues to fuck with his collection of sheets. he could lean back, but figures - it's a waste of energy if the guy's gonna be yanking at him again in a minute anyway. without the jacket, it's fucking cold, but jason doesn't seem worse off for wear. not yet. give him enough time, and his lips'll start turning blue long before he starts bitching in front of people he's unfamiliar with. )

I hear therapy helps.

( Sheet-mauling complete, Bones casts a despairing look around their cabin...shack. )

Yeah, ( he says, absently, seizing on a sagging wooden chair where it's huddled up near the fireplace grate, and smashing it against the stone. ) Heard of any good therapists in town?

( Don't let his, y'know, furniture destruction put a pause on their banter. He finds what he's after when the chair back cracks, tossing a couple spindles into the bundle of cloth. )

Unfortunately, everyone I know here's batshit as is.

( it's funny because, you know, batshit. less funny because out of all the people it could have nabbed from jason's side, canada skipped right over the mostly well-adjusted ones and went straight for the three less well-adjusted robins. he's pretty sure damian rates somewhere above him and tim, which is just - sad. he's met others, but not enough to get that good of a gauge on them. it's a work in progress.

much like how fucked he is. )

I could point you to a few clever kids, but I don't think you'd like what they'd start spouting out their mouths.

Mm, think I'll pass on that then, but thanks.

( Taking therapeutic advice from a kid? Terrifying.

Seated once more, Bones reaches out to start properly assessing his arm. What he wouldn't give for a working tricorder right now, or even an ancient X-Ray machine. The Franklin's medical tools, old as they were, would at least be of some use.

He's as careful as he can be, palpating with deft, chilly fingers in a slow pathway up his arm, as focused as if he were in surgery. )

( sometimes, when a man gets very pissed off, shoots a guy on live tv, then gets thrown out of an invisible craft floating above gotham onto a very hard rooftop where their adoptive father figure is lurking in the shadows - the land very, very hard on their arm, and fracture their olecranon. jason, at least, is a decent patient once he's been caught by someone who he isn't inclined to run from, and this guy hasn't given him any reason to take off for the hills yet. he's sitting up and letting mccoy fuck with his arm, giving a very monotone ow when he prods at tender areas - less because he's bitching, more because they don't have equipment, and figuring out what the hell's wrong with it could probably use more than just digging his fingers into muscle and bone. )

If you ask me real nice, I'll play therapist.

( with a playful grin, and maybe he's trying a little too hard to get mccoy to fuck off on his own, because, )

Spent enough time in asylums to pick up a few tips and tricks.

What the man is allowing here: Jason practically using him like a support to get himself standing back up, with Bigby following the other in rising to his feet once Jason is standing again.

What he isn't allowing here is-- well, Jason fully getting away with this. Call it paranoia, or just call it lived experience, but Bigby feels like he knows exactly what's going on here. It's the same sort of stuff he'd be telling someone to try and avoid having to see a doctor or - even worse - having someone take care of him. Oh yeah, he's fine, he's had worse, he knows someone who can help, it's totally fine.

Maybe it's an uncharitable read of what Jason is saying here, but Bigby is pretty sure he's right about this one, especially given the fact Jason is apparently enough of a dumbass to get himself into a pointless fight like that in the first place.

"At least let me help you get that glass out of your back," he says, sighing like a tired ~~parent~~ ~~uncle~~ local sheriff. "If you have some weird doctor aversion, I'm not gonna force you to do anything. But there's no way you're going to be able to reach that glass back there with your own arms."

And in return Bigby won't whine at the other about the rest of the injuries, trusting that Jason will be able to take care of those himself if he truly insists.

He doesn't need the help. Jason can go hunker down somewhere else and wait for the pain to lessen so he can start taking stock of where he's at. The glass is a problem, given the angle it's stuck into his shoulder. He could get to it, but it wouldn't be easy. At least it's embedded in the arm that's already fucked, rather than the one he's been leaning onto for everything else.

Bigby sounds a little like Bruce, which pisses him off more than anything else. The disappointed sigh, like Jason's letting him down. His eyes narrow, but Jason bites his tongue before he manages to say anything too stupid.

"I ain't afraid of doctors." He doesn't like people knowing how fucked he is; it's a visible weakness, and even worse: it's being vulnerable near someone while they're poking and prodding at his weak points. But he rolls his eyes and turns his back to Bigby. Tips his head enough to make it easier to reach for the glass sticking out of him. "Have fun, don't break off any bits into me."

"For the record," Bigby says, moving a little closer so he can actually do what he said he'd set out to do, "You could've had someone doing this who actually knows what they're doing."

Not that Bigby has never done this before. The guy gets into way more bar fights than he'd ever want to, and it's not like he's going to doctor Swineheart for every single little thing. Hell, Bigby would rather avoid ever seeing that guy, if he can help it. He's definitely had to do this sort of thing to himself at times.

But he knows he's not good at being gentle. Even when he tries. So when he grabs the first piece of glass and pulls it out of Jason, the other will definitely be able to feel that. At least Bigby has experience enough to not make the injury worse as he pulls it out, but it's not fun! Not fun whatsoever!

It's like ripping off a band-aid though, Bigby figures. You just have to keep on going. So he moves on to the second piece right after the first, without pausing in between them, discarding the bloody pieces of the bottle on the ground.

He could have had someone who knows what they're doing pull glass bits out of him. Jason could stumble around until he finds Damian. Or bother Drake, or try and pull them out himself from this angle, but Bigby seems intent on at least making sure they're out of him before he lets Jason fuck off, and Jason's - well. He's not finding a doctor, he's not going to go looking for Damian, who will just call him out for being an idiot for getting into unnecessary brawls.

So here they are: with Jason being much too tense, and Bigby quickly pulling pieces out of him. The lack of glass in him immediately causes the bleeding to get worse, given there's nothing in there to stem the flow. His jaw clenches tight with every piece that's removed, but he doesn't react outside of that. He's experienced worse, this is nothing.

"How're you gonna learn if you don't practice? If you're gonna be stuck in the middle of nowhere, you may as well learn to handle flesh wounds. I doubt this's the first you've come across, and it won't be the last." Why not use Jason as a dummy, he's durable. Even if he's beginning to get a little lightheaded, it's nothing he hasn't powered through before.

Okay, Jason is definitely bleeding much more than Bigby expected. Bigby has managed to avoid getting too many injuries in this place, so he forgot that the cold might not do as much to slow the bleeding as he thought it would. The fact that Jason isn't even speaking up about it makes it even worse - like he either doesn't realize he's going to die if things stay the way they are now, or that he just doesn't care.

(The latter is more likely with everything he's said so far, but Bigby doesn't even really want to think about that option. There's a distaste for it in his mouth, not wanting anyone to think that kind of crap.)

So the moment he's done pulling out all the shards, he's already hauling Jason up. Regardless of whether or not the other might attempt to struggle, Bigby is going to try moving Jason's arm over Bigby's shoulders anyway and start trying to move with him in the direction of Bigby's house. He may not have bandages, but he has some fabric he can tear to strips, and he knows it isn't far off from this spot, thankfully.

"Alright, next step's making sure you don't bleed out," he announced as he starts to move. N-No, he doesn't care! Don't be silly about this!

"I'm not gonna bleed out."

Or he probably won't. Regardless of whatever verbal disagreement Jason's giving, he's letting Bigby manhandle his arm around the other's shoulders, less out of wanting to be manhandled and more out of - the lack of adrenaline, the blood loss, how fucking cold it is out here. It's not the kind of cold one just adjusts, but the kind that people die in when they're out in it too long. Not that he's concerned with the cold freezing him to death, it just - makes an already lethargic Jason less enthused to fight off some guy who feels the need to baby him.

He walks fine, at least; each step is stable, and he instinctively follows Bigby's gait, like he's used to blindly being dragged along. It's not trust but habit. Which speaks loud enough on its own: this isn't the first, nor the last time Jason'll find himself full of holes after a stupid fight. Even if this one was more recreational than anything else: Logan needed an outlet, Jason needed one, and Wynonna was just fine tagging along and getting into shenanigans with them.

Lips press together tight, his fucked (broken, even if he's not casting it) arm raising to shove the side of his hand against the bridge of his nose with a pained hiss.

"What's your deal anyway?"

Edited 2024-08-31 22:48 (UTC)

At least he doesn't have to full on drag Jason's body back - that's something, at least. Not to mention that if the other is still moving a little bit, it means he's still capable of doing as much, and that he's also staying awake and alert. Not doing the latter is what kills people in a place like this.

So Bigby just continues moving in the direction of his house. He knows it's not too far off, but.. well, he is moving a little slower than usually when he's trying to support Jason as he goes.

And then that question comes.

While Bigby still moves, it's just met by a gruff: "What do you mean?"

He's a little light-headed. Has been in better shape for sure, but Jason's stubborn streak has kept him relatively coherent through worse, and he can power through this also. Jason's eyes are still open, even if he's not particularly focusing them anywhere. It's more - he knows he wants to close them, but knows as soon as he lets his guard down and passes out, that's pretty much it.

Which is why he keeps talking.

"You don't know me, so I know this ain't you saving me for me. You're not a selfless, hero-type. Is it 'cause I pulled you out of the fog? Nothing better to do with your time?"

.. It's a good question.

Mostly because Bigby doesn't know it either, half of the time. Back home it was easier. Cleaning up after dumbasses had just been his job back there, one he didn't even decide to take up himself, but one that was forced upon him. But in this place.. It's not like it's his job. It's not like he has to.

And yet he keeps finding himself doing it, again and again.

There are some answers Bigby could give to that question. He's not even sure which one is the most accurate.

But rather than answering with any of that, he just says, still moving the two of them along, the house getting close by now-- "Do you really want to know?"

He doubts if he said yes that he'd get an accurate answer out of Bigby regardless. Or maybe he would. Maybe Bigby would tell Jason just what he gets out of this; if it's some sense of superiority, or if he's doing it to make up for some foul thing he did in his past, or if it's more along the lines of why Jason does it: because people are idiots and he's not going to let them be idiotic enough to just keel over, that'd be stupid.

"No." is the answer he decides to give, leaning a little more heavily on Bigby because the guy seems like he can handle it, and Jason's not carrying himself if he doesn't have to. Bigby made his choice, he can suffer the consequences.

Bigby can handle it. Even though it's not like Jason is a small guy, Bigby doesn't sway or buckle under the pressure when the other puts more of his body weight against him. Instead he just keeps moving, silently after Jason's answer - until they reach his house. He opens up the door with his free arm, dragging the other inside and onto the couch. Bigby looks around to find something to use here. A towel is the easy choice, considering Bigby is not exactly up to date on personal hygiene and doesn't use them anyway, and he starts tearing it up to strips to be able to use it as makeshift bandages.

"Alright, are you going to be able to sit still like a big boy for ten seconds while I put this on you?"

Being able to relax a little is its own kind of relief. And not one Jason often experiences. Granted, he doesn't know fuck all about this guy yet outside of his villainous history, which means he can't - fully let his guard down, but there's something about Bigby that settles something in him. Maybe it's how much Jason can relate to him, oddly.

Something for him to refuse to read further into in the future, because Jason's not psychoanalyzing himself. That's just asking for trouble. Instead, he notes the location of the house Bigby drags him into, and lets himself slump down onto the couch when he's dropped.

Raises his nonbroken hand to flip Bigby off when he starts getting sassy.

"I'm not a child."

"Start fights like one, get treated like one," Bigby simply says. Though it's likely an odd combination - verbally giving Jason shit, but at the same time still helping him. Because the flipping off and the words Jason is saying do absolutely nothing to convince Bigby to do anything else here than approach the other, starting to wrap the makeshift bandages around the wound. He figures it likely stings, since he has to make sure to wrap them tightly to keep Jason from losing any more blood than he already has, but..

Hey, he is a big boy. He can handle it, if he's handling the rest of his current state. So he's not even giving a warning for it, just continuing his work.

Bigby doesn't say anything else at first while he's busy wrapping the bandages, like he's too focused on that to add any chatter, but then--

"There. Should keep you from bleeding out, at least. If you insist on just letting it heal naturally."

Edited 2024-09-19 13:24 (UTC)

The stoic, loner act only gets Jason so far, and it can't stop the grunt of pain he gives when Bigby does tighten the towels over his wounds. Because it, you know, hurts, and unfortunately Jason can only mask so much. This isn't an adrenaline-fueled war, he's just sitting on Bigby's goddamn couch with his body shredded up.

The adrenaline would, at least, make dealing with it easier. And make hiding the pain easier, too.

Ah, well. All good things come to an end at some point.

"I'm not gonna bleed out. This's just a scratch." Or it's more than a scratch, but not so bad that Jason's all too worried. Bigby's done a decent job of tying it off, the blood should coagulate enough for his body to heal.

In the meantime, Jason's head tips back and hits the back of the couch. His eyes slide closed, and it's exhaustion paired with coming down from the high of the fight in addition to being in someone's house who he's pretty sure won't intentionally fuck him up worse, given the effort he's put into keeping Jason alive that has the tension fading from his frame and has Jason - passing out.

Not fainting from lack of blood, or falling over while conking out, or any kind of falling asleep that's worrisome with the blood loss. Just - passing out because he's tired and in a safeish space.

For a moment Bigby does worry it could be the worst version of passing out, given that Jason did lose some blood, and Bigby's standards of 'how much blood can someone lose before it becomes a real problem' are way off. It's part of the problem with having been near-immortal for so long.

As he stares at the other for a few moments though, he realizes it's more the exhausted kind of passing out. Jason really just seems like he's sleeping in every single way, and even if having a guy sleeping on his couch isn't really how Bigby imagined this would end, he's also not cruel enough to just wake Jason up and force him to get out in this state.

.. so he just.. sighs.

Then he heads into the bedroom, grabbing a spare blanket and spreading it out over Jason's body, so he at least doesn't get cold as hell on top of being injured while sleeping out here - before leaving him there like that.

He's out for a few hours. Not long enough to get a good amount of sleep, but long enough to help him recharge a bit. Even better: it gets Jason off his legs and lets his body rest. Considering the broken ribs, the broken arm, and the multiple wounds he's been recovering from over the last several weeks - well. He needs it.

But Jason suffers from being a paranoid asshole: he can't stay down for long, even when it is the kind of passing out that leaves him as dead weight on some guy's couch. He's out until he isn't, but like any well-trained Robin, he knows damn well not to make it obvious he's woken up. His breathing pattern stays steady, and he listens to any noise in the room around him. Any hints that anyone is anywhere near him. His arms twitch, then his legs. Verifying nothing is keeping him here by force. One never knows when they've been kidnapped, after all, and this wasn't a planned nap. Once he's sure he's free to go and there is no one around to catch him slinker off and out of the house, he sits up slow.

Pulls himself up to his feet with a quick look around, and lets himself on out.

So he can never talk about this again.

( openish ) hear the whispers in the street

open;

closed; bigby

closed; bones

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

i lost this so here i am, months later.

👀

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

🎀