He didn't aspirate. He didn't die and eventually, his stomach had stopped trying to leap out of his throat. He would be lying if he said that he wasn't more than a little disappointed about that. As the sensations from the drugs ebbed, it left only the pain in his ankle.
He was still lying on the kitchen floor covered in his own vomit, which smelled more repugnant now than it had however long ago it had come out of him. He was revolted laying in his own sick but unable to move much because every single time he tried, he was hit with crippling pain in his ankle. It was definitely either badly twisted or broken and he had to find out which one it was. He needed to get help.
There was a clear problem with that. He couldn't even stand, couldn't currently bear weight on his ankle. He had to, in order to even get help or to call 911, he had to get out of his Nightwing suit, especially since he was in Dick Grayson's apartment. But at the same time, he couldn't call 911 even as Dick Grayson.
If his life experience taught him anything, it's that it would be leaked and it would be all over the papers. Dick Grayson got tangled up in drugs. Oh, how the mighty have fallen or some other sensationalistic crap like that. Was it really sensationalist if it was true? He had gone on a drug trip and that was what led him here with a probably broken ankle.
He had been injected with it, he hadn't chosen it. Did that matter to the press? Would it matter to Bruce? He had let a common drug dealer inject what he could only guess at knowing what the dealer normally sold.
He ignored that for now. Now that the drugs and the pain were not clouding his mind, he had a plan to at least get upright. Dick winced as he turned himself onto his stomach, it definitely jostled it. Dick took in a deep breath trying to psych himself up for the next part in his plan.
It definitely took more energy than it used to, to get himself propped up on his hands and knees, his right leg below the knee completely up and not touching anything. He dragged himself across the hard linoleum kitchen floor until he was right behind a chair. This was going to be the worst part. Grabbing as high up on the chair as he could with his hands, he easily stood up halfway just with his left leg. The hard part was going to be the right one.
Quick, just like a bandaid, he told himself and he would have the chair to hold onto. Dick grit his teeth as he forced himself to put weight on the screaming appendage. It hurt. A lot. It hurt bad but Dick pushed through until he was standing on both legs briefly before Dick put most of his weight on the chair and lifted his right leg again.
He was upright, that was the most important thing, even though it really just a very small victory. Dick pushed the chair towards the sink as quickly as he dared to go, which wasn't fast at all. His muscles screamed but he managed to drag himself to the sink without dropping the chair and managed to transfer to the sink.
One hand gripped the edge like a vice, while the other gratefully cupped water, doused and scrubbed at the dry vomit on his face and his suit, until the smell wasn't nearly as pungent. Once finished, he gratefully gulped down a few handfuls of water before he snagged a cup and filled it up instead, soothing his sore throat slightly. His thirst for the most part sated, Dick limped around the chair and collapsed onto it.
How long he had been drugged out? The sun was shining brightly, he had gone out for patrol at night. What exactly happened last night? He remembered being drugged by that drug dealer and then-
Dick caught sight of his ankle and noticed it was swollen, very swollen. Right. He had to get that looked at. It was the most important thing right now. The last thing he needed was for a broken bone to be knocked around his cartilage or throw another of his bones through the skin, that could be a career-ending injury. He needed help but how?
He'd drive himself to Leslie if he didn't think she would see through his bullshit and lecture him. He'd drive himself to Bludhaven General if it wasn't his driving foot that was injured. He couldn't call Bruce because he would want to know how it happened and once he found out Bruce would be so disappointed in him. He couldn't contact Damian for the same reason. Jason wouldn't come to Bludhaven for him.
He should call Tim. Tim would give him a ride to Gotham and Leslie...No, he was giving Tim space, he didn't want to force interaction between the two of them since Tim was still mad at him. He had good reason, maybe if he had listened more. -Dick cut that thought off.
None of his coworkers were close enough that he felt comfortable asking that kind of favor from them. He could call someone from the team? He paused considering that course of acting for a long moment, before taking in his barren cupboards, the vomit on the floor, and his own smelly and probably disheveled appearance. He didn't want anyone he knew seeing him this way and an ambulance was a bit overkill.
Dick ended up calling an Uber.