After a trip back into the less-than-appealing bathroom to fetch some consumable pain relief, Jason opened the door of his fridge wide, though the space wasn't really necessary. Its almost completely devoid of items besides a container towards the bottom housing all his… stuff and five million freaking sauces in the door. He isn't even a parent, but still he has fallen into the hands of the terrible disease that causes men and women to collect salad dressings and ketchup within the sides of their refrigerative boxes obsessively.
"Jason… has Alfie been in your house?!" He knew the answer would be 'no' because—besides the fact that Jason would never permit someone access into his safehouse under normal circumstances—Alfred would never…. Never use products brought from the store. He's the sort to buy his produce from the most genuine markets and everything he can possibly create is made right at the Manor, which includes the horrors in Jason's tall, bleak and slightly uneven kitchen appliance. Dick's face, now that its unease has been smoothed over with calmness, showed an exaggerated disgust. It was as though he had just stumbled upon Bruce during one of his 'social outings' with a girl from that night's event.
Jason bent over without replying, but a small smirk was twitching his lips upwards from their otherwise horizontal (slightly downward-bent) state. When he returned to a vertical position, he had two bottles of beer in his hands. "Here. Swallow it down with this," he holds his left arm out, and, upon closer inspection, it appears as though the drink it's holding is microscopically emptier than the one in the right. Dick would've chuckled, but he was a bit boggled by the fact that he was being offered beer in the first place. Sure, he wasn't a man to deny a bit of drinking, but at a time like this? It didn't seem very right. "I'll… take a glass of water, thanks."
"Pussy," was teased in return. Jason knew the offer would probably be denied but he still made sure the drink with 'less' liquid quantity was lowered, because he is a kid at heart, honestly. A deranged, extremely violent and unnecessarily vigilant kid.
A loud screeching interrupts the mutual silence between them that had fallen, and Dick wants to raise his hands to his head, but he can't without a surge of pain. Jason wants to do the same, but he's prevented from doing so because he's turning the resistant sink's tap and holding a glass to be filled with water. I should probably take a look at that, someday… he opines mentally, watching the translucent glass in his hand slosh up with water after a few seconds of delay. In reality, Jason's entire apartment ought to have some DIY renovation, but he doesn't want to risk duplicating the horror that is his bathroom. It would end in a perilous place to live without any safety hazards, as improbable as it may sound.
"Gee, who died to make that sink?" Dick asks when the tap is finally turned anti-clockwise, ending the spouting water and, with it, the sound. He immediately regrets the question when it leaves his mouth, but there does not appear to be any negative response in Jason's posture, so he's dodged the bullet… this time. If only he could say the same about his incident an hour or so ago; if he could've missed that bullet none of this messy business would've been conducted, and he would be left to meet Jason under a better circumstance… not that there are any, really.
"Not me," Jason gives the glass of water to Dick, and upon seeing the slightly depressed look on his facial features, he adds a quick "pussy" for good measure. The treatment of his wounds would definitely be a bit distressful, so the current goal is to make him as resistant to the pain as possible. No matter how many times you get hurt a certain way, you still manage to feel it. Jason would know this, of all people.
All of Joker's swings hurt. Each one felt like the end of his life.
It never stopped hurting.
A visible movement in Dick's throat tells Jason the two pills have been swallowed in one gulp, and for a brief moment he can't help but imagine what the pale skin would look like with his mark… mark being knife, of course. Right in the centre, straight through the skin and mush inside. He'd keep his head up until his heart stopped completely, and then it would lower itself to rest on the hilt. Blood would trickle everywhere, melding with the blue bird on his chest and the black material of its surroundings. You'd never speak another stupid joke ever again. The last flying Grayson would fall to the hands of a brother he could never f—g love. How poetic.
"So, little brother…" he attempts to make conversation, not missing a beat with each word coming through his mouth. One of Dick's best skills is socialisation; talking is easier than breathing for him. But that's not to say he can't inhale a bit too much dust on occasion and cough. Jason is a pretty good thing to collect dust—when you live two lives and get really 'ancient,' that can happen—so it's a little harder to work his charm around him. "How has life been treating you?"
'Well, I'm alive. That's gotta count for something," Jason shrugs, opening his bottle of beer. "You?"
"Tonight hasn't been my best, but things are good. Mmm, you should have tried the roast Alfred cooked up last week-"
"Don't try that s—t on me 'till I'm drunk, Dickhead."
"Sure, just try not to get drunk until you've fixed my back up, please," he chuckles good-heartedly.
"You going to shut up and turn over for me?" Jason felt slightly repulsed by the amount of enthusiasm Dick was radiating. When he had found him on the rooftop, all the happiness was disabled and taking a nice vacation somewhere in Hawaii. Now, however, it has come back in its new flashy sunnies to kill him with a (very cheerful) conga line.
His older brother turned to lay on his stomach, grunting slightly when friction demanded pain from him. There was an invisible zipper that Dick used on his back, which is probably why it manages to be a one piece and simultaneously skin-tight. You'd never get the same combination so flawlessly if things worked out as a pair of pants and a weird shirt. "Ready?" He could theoretically just start without permission and laugh when Dick winces at the sudden removal of his suit (honestly, it's just skin, really) but he figured he should play nice, if only to have a more cooperative patient. "Have you got everything?" Was the initial reply, but the words were soon followed by a "tools, I mean."
"Of course." With that query taken care of, Jason moves a tiny flap of fabric aside to reveal a black zipper. He tugs it downward and meets the pale—at least in contrast to the suit—skin Dick inhabits. There's scars all over him, but he's like a newborn baby in comparison to Jason, whom wears a million marks worth a trillion words. "Y'know, it's probably easier to just cut it off, now that I think about it. Can you get it off your arms?"
"Mhm," the body shifts upward, and the brain within it tells arms to begin pulling. Jason helps Dick pull the outfit off his shoulders, especially on the wounded side, seeing as though the latissimus dorsi was affected, which helps with movement in the upper limbs. He pauses at the waist momentarily and shoots a death glare. I swear, Grayson, if you somehow don't have anything on under here…
The entire world sighed with relief when there were a pair of black boxers hugging Nightwing's hips.
When everything was done and dusted, he gently pushed Nightwing—no, Dick Grayson—against the couch. The bullet wound is closer to the couch's back, unfortunately, so he's going to be leaning over a sad, sorry idiot for several minutes while trying to maintain his hands from shaking out of pure anger. The circumstances would not do at all. To resolve the issue, he could shift his patient over to the bedroom, but after all the arduous work and effort he's gone through just to set up here, he can't really be bothered moving a sack of weight and the towels underneath it. Deciding there's only one alternative to his current situation, Jason sits up on the couch and straddles Dick, giving him perfect access to the wound in need of treatment. He'll never forgive me for this, but I can just add it to my pile of 'I give zero f—ks,' he thinks sourly, retrieving a pair of needle point tweezers. The wound's diameter is wide enough to allow him to reach in and begin pulling the bullet out, but Dick hisses in protest, kicking his legs—that are slowly gaining pins and needles, thanks to Jason—up and down.
"Stop being such a sook!" He growls, pulling the tweezers out and away before he can accidentally hit something to cause more bleeding.
This would be a long surgery.
Author's note: Sorry this has taken so long to upload. Honestly, you should not expect any kind of uploading schedule from me because my life is the definition of hectic right now and I have a procrastination monster in my conscious.