#ficl

“So when the hell did you intend to tell everyone you are, you know, lacking a spleen?”

Red has a moment of oh shit when a still-cowled head visibly perks.

“Keep it down,” he hisses, already divested of his cape, dom, boots and glove/gauntlet combo, “it’s not–”

“It is,” his shorter counterpart sneers out, giving absolutely no shits about the members of the Batfamily scattered around the Cave suddenly very attentive, “you’re not a dumbass, so you know the complication you’re risking with asplenia. I don’t have to tell you about shit like septic shock that can very easily fucking kill you–”

“You are not helping. At all.” 

“Who the fuck is stitching you up right now, asshole?”

Red grits his teeth a little and finally reaches out for the sleeve of Dr. Drake’s scrub top, pulling enough to move the physician closer and lean up so some nosy fuckers can tell this is an A, B conversation, C your way out.

He keeps it low, drawing the doctor’s eyes, a brow quirking up and a mask covering the lower half of his face. “However it is in your world…that isn’t the way it is here, okay? I don’t…this isn’t my place anymore. It’s been two years and it’s fine, okay? I’m good. I just need to get the fuck out of here. The faster, the better.”

The doctor gives him a long, slow blink. The same dark eyes he sees in the mirror every morning slide over to where N and Hood are working on the big computer and then the other side where B is running an analysis on the evidence found on site when Dr. Drake suddenly appeared.

The tension in the Cave is at an all-time high, and the good doctor is pretty sure it has nothing to do with him.

Which makes him sigh down at his vilgilante (Robin…fuck, he was the real Robin…) multi-verse self and shake his head before he goes back to the gnarly gash that ripped open Red Robin’s suit at the abdomen.

“I thought you were a detective?”

“So are you, apparently, nice job spotting the residue left behind from the time portal.”

“…I have other hobbies.”

“Interesting. So sleuthing is one of them?”

“I wouldn’t say that. I’m more into the investigative research.” You know, like three Batfam members completely eavesdropping. “And for the record, I think you’re a dumb ass.”

“Thanks, I’ll take that as a compliment coming from a neurosurgeon with hobbies.”

“Dating hot vigilantes is only one of them. If you’ve never tried acrobatic BDSM sex, then I highly recommend it. My Nightwing is entirely flexible enough to make that shit incredible.”

And it’s possible he suddenly goes light-headed because the rest of the blood still in his body goes right to his face.

Behind his surgical mask, Dr. Drake is grinning maniacally. “I mean, not that my Hood is a slouch. Not by any stretch of the imagination–”

“Please, please stop talking,” Red groans and the burn of the stitches finally, finally eases down.

“I’m just saying, that you? Are looking right at the evidence and you still don’t see it.” Dr. Drake slathers some of Alfred’s healing goop over the neat stitches and tapes a gauze pad securely down before pulling down his mask to below his chin and peeling the bloody gloves off. 

Red grits his teeth again, forcing himself to sit up and prod gingerly at the gauze pad. “I’ll let you know when I’m presented with other evidence. Thanks for patching me up. How about we do something constructive with our time and get a portal built?” Because Red is already moving to snap on his discarded utility belt, fish a dom out and slap it in place so he can be looking out through the whiteouts and completely ignore N’s slack-jawed stare and Hood’s abrupt stillness. The rest of his suit is on in a flash because really, it’s time to GTFO.

“Lucky for you, mechanical engineering is just–” And Dr. Drake follows Red Robin away from the medical bay and down to the lower lot where the Ducati is waiting.

“Let me venture a guess…”

The two laugh a little as Red takes a spare helmet and hands it off.

“I’m going to need your expertise to program the portal,” B is already starting after them, cape a mesmerising swish as he moves.

“I can do that at the Perch,” Red throws his leg quickly over the Ducati, grabbing the doctor’s wrist to tug him on, “and really, B, I appreciate the pick-up, but I’ve got this.”

“Timmy!” Because Dick already feels the ache in his chest from Tim walking away from them (again) and is up from the computer to move across the floor while Hood paces him, “don’t go! Just–! Stay.”

But the engine purrs to life and Dr. Drake throws himself on the back of the bike, shuffling around the cape to get a firm grip. Red Robin throws up a departing hand before they take off down the ramp and out into the night, on their way to the Perch to calculate traversing time/space.