No, no, not just glaring: glaring daggers. Besides, who needs warm places to work. Tim's already sweating like a sinner in church. --wait.
"You know I'm not as stupid as you're thinking I am, right?"
His stupid fucking ego demands it. Tim's stupid fucking mouth, having now been given permission to run wild, apparently, decides it's best to explain. Because his hackles are up, his eyes are sharp.
Tim hobbles to the bed, sits and rolls up the leg of his pants.
"I haven't been slathering maple syrup on it," he grumbles.
He should have totally slathered maple syrup on-- Tim, for the love of all that is Holy, focus.
"I had some good alcohol. There's still some supplies out in Lakeside. By the dam, usually. It makes sense. They'd take care of their workforce and keep their stash separate from the the first-aid-kits here."
And Tim thinks, he should have just doused his dumb ass in alcohol and gasoline and
"I've kept the cut covered. It's just... slow."
the injury isn't pretty but it's not the worst that he's had or that B has ever seen him have. Small mercies. The laceration is, frankly, hardly anything to fuss about.
Save for the whole missing organ- immune system connection that Tim hadn't plugged into Google when he had had the chance and god he misses Google but also... man, he still doesn't know what Bruce knows or is supposed to know about him. And it has. him. bristling.
Tim Drake and the unknown don't mix. Never have.
He says, through grit teeth,
"You know we've put people in here before we can put 'em in their holes, right? Hell, we've even split open a few of them. And you thought this was a good place to hunker down and cozy up in? The first autopsy was conducted on La'an. She was the first one who got chewed up and spit out by the Darkwalker. She was my friend, and you decided that it would be a good idea to cosplay as a vampire and haunt the freaking church of all places."
cw injury, intrusive thoughts but that's every tag tbh
"You know I'm not as stupid as you're thinking I am, right?"
His stupid fucking ego demands it. Tim's stupid fucking mouth, having now been given permission to run wild, apparently, decides it's best to explain. Because his hackles are up, his eyes are sharp.
Tim hobbles to the bed, sits and rolls up the leg of his pants.
"I haven't been slathering maple syrup on it," he grumbles.
He should have totally slathered maple syrup on-- Tim, for the love of all that is Holy, focus.
"I had some good alcohol. There's still some supplies out in Lakeside. By the dam, usually. It makes sense. They'd take care of their workforce and keep their stash separate from the the first-aid-kits here."
And Tim thinks, he should have just doused his dumb ass in alcohol and gasoline and
"I've kept the cut covered. It's just... slow."
the injury isn't pretty but it's not the worst that he's had or that B has ever seen him have. Small mercies. The laceration is, frankly, hardly anything to fuss about.
Save for the whole missing organ- immune system connection that Tim hadn't plugged into Google when he had had the chance and god he misses Google but also... man, he still doesn't know what Bruce knows or is supposed to know about him. And it has. him. bristling.
Tim Drake and the unknown don't mix. Never have.
He says, through grit teeth,
"You know we've put people in here before we can put 'em in their holes, right? Hell, we've even split open a few of them. And you thought this was a good place to hunker down and cozy up in? The first autopsy was conducted on La'an. She was the first one who got chewed up and spit out by the Darkwalker. She was my friend, and you decided that it would be a good idea to cosplay as a vampire and haunt the freaking church of all places."
Unbelievable.