Antoine hasnât lived this long without developing a healthy sense of paranoia. If heâd developed it earlierâ
Well. Dwelling canât change anything.
But somethingâs off. Look, the Arkham Knight isâŚfuck it, Antoine doesnât have to be charitable. The guyâs weird. The wholeâŚarmorâŚthingâŚaside, the guyâs straight-up weird. Antoineâs not sure what to make of him, really, but it doesnât matter too much. Heâs pretty confident, by this point, that heâs not going to snap and rip his head off, and thatâs kind of enough. Paycheckâs solid, work is steady butâbarring yesterdayânot too rough, and so far, on a theoretical Rate My Employer, Antoine would give this a solid seven point five. Points docked on principle more than anything else.
But somethingâs off. Something has been off since yesterday. Sure, could be nothing (who the hell rushes a guy with a minigun head on, huh?), butâŚ
He flicks his lighter a few times, thinking. What he should do is just stay in his lane, really. Itâs justâŚ
The Arkham Knight isnât the type to zone out. Or if he is, Antoineâs never seen it. But yesterday, he was clearly out of it, because two times it took multiple pokes to get an answer out of him. And honestly, the guy can beâŚhe hates to use the word clingy in regards to, well, That, butâŚhe kind of is. Very, very seldom has he been out of touch for more than a few hours. Like, maybe three times has he disappeared somewhere for a couple of days. The rest of the time? RIP Antoineâs inbox.
He should stay out of it. People are allowed to have an off day or whatever, and anyways, itâs not his business. Itâs not. Heâs hired to shoot at things and drive (because the last time the Knight was behind the wheel was a certified clusterfuck and thatâs never allowed to happen again), and thatâs it. So what, the guyâs tired afterâŚafter all of that. Thatâs normal. A good sign, even.
(Antoineâs never seen anyone move like that and man is he glad heâs not a target.)
Texts are free. And easy. Itâs reasonable to see if they have another job lined up yet.
There. He did his bit. Checking in without overstepping.Â
He sets his phone aside, because thereâs no reason to mind it, thatâs ridiculous, and then picks it up again because thatâs where Twitter and Buzzfeed live. But thatâs fine. Whatâs he supposed to do, stare at this sketchy-ass ceiling that has what appears to be a bloodstain on it? Come on.Â
Four quizzes (why does Buzzfeed always assign him clam chowder? He hates clam chowder!) later, thereâs been no answer. This is also weird. The boss is not a big believer in downtime as it is, and heâs not the âleft phone on DNDâ type. Antoine suspects he doesnât sleep much, because thereâs been plenty of times his phone has gone off at odd hours because âclient acquiredâ or âjob parameters changedâ.
The feeling of something being wrong is growing.Â
Itâs nothing. It has to be nothing.Â
(But what if itâs something, what then?)
Before he can overthink it, Antoine gets up, cursing everyone and everything in pretty equal measure, and heads next door. Just a quick check in, make sure everythingâs fine (which it is), and he can go back to his own room, maybe get some sleep.
The Knightâs room is silent. No TV, no voices, no nothing. Antoine gives four hard raps, and, when nothing happens, risks calling.
âHey, boss, you all right?â
He knocks again, to the same results, and considers ignoring this whole thing for about ten seconds before heading back for his lockpick kit and his gun.
Itâs only after heâs picked said lock that he registers the probability of the deadbolt, but he made good choices: said deadboltâs not thrown. Somethingâs definitely not right.
The roomâs dark. The armorâs piled semi-neatly in a corner, and the helmet is resting on the desk, eyes no longer that creepy glowing blue. No signs of anything wrong, butâŚ
It takes him a minute to realize the Knight himself is in bed. Antoine reflexively half-backs out of the room before realizing that he hasnât moved.Â
âSir?â he asks quietly. âArkham Knight? You okay?â
He doesnât get an answer.
(There was another time he didnât get an answer, and thatâ)
Antoine turns on the light.Â
The Knightâs buried in blankets, up to nearly the top of his head. Antoine leaves him for a second, checks the bathroom to make sure the roomâs empty. Nothing. No signs that anyone else has been here.
Out of options, he heads back, sets his gun aside, and tugs the blankets down.
The first thing he registers is that this is a kid. Or damn near, anyway. Eighteen, maybe? Before that can sink in, his eyes find the brand: large, not that old, really, on his face.
Heâs not dead, at least. Now that his blankets have been taken away, heâs shivering, face scrunched up in clear discomfort. Antoine places two fingers on his neck and pulse be damned, heâs warm, blanket pile or no blanket pile.
This is potentially really, really bad.
Okay. He can compartmentalize. How the hell a kid got to be like this can wait. Whatever the deal is with the brand can wait. What needs to happen right now is a cooldown, and then finding out how this happened. Illness, injury, whatever. It can be fixed. Itâll be fine. He can deal with this.
âHey, boss, you gotta wake up for me, okay?â
Antoine gives him a hesitant shake.
âCome on, youâre burning up, we gotta deal with this.â
The kidâs eyes flutter open, hazy and unseeing. Thatâll do.
âYeah. Câmon, up we go.â
He pulls him upright despite his weak protests. Christ, armor or no armor, heâs still heavy. Heavy and uncooperative; heâs not trying to pull away, but he sure as hell isnât helping to keep himself upright, either. The result is that Antoine has to half-carry, half-drag him into the bathroom. He doesnât wanna go, either: the minute his feet touch the tiles, he tries to tear free and nearly yanks them both to the ground in a thrashing panic.
âEasy, easy, youâre okay, youâre just gonna cook if we donâtââ
Block it out, just block it out, donât think about it. Focus on the situation at hand.
Normally the Knight could easily free himself. But this time the thrashing stops as suddenly as it starts as he tries to double over, sliding out of Antoineâs arms to puddle on the floor, shivering and curling into a ball.
âOkay, boss,â he breathes. âWet clothes suck, so weâre just gonna get you situated, please donât try to bite my fingers off or something, okay, thatâs not how I wanted my Friday to goâŚâ
The Knight lets Antoine kind ofâŚuncurl him a little bit (those are barbed wire scars, what the hellâ), but he cringes back when Antoine goes to tug his shirt over his head. He doesnât put up much fuss other than to try and hang onto the hem, though, and itâs easy to nudge his fingers away.
The problem is immediate. Thereâs a bandage on his side, but the dangerous red of infection is obvious without it. Antoine takes a second to breathe, to remember that there are no palm trees and that this is going to be fine because heâs not the stupid twenty year-old he was back then.
(Hell, heâs older now than Z.Z. ever got to be.)
âTabling thatâŚokay,â he says shakily, tapping the kidâs face until he looks up, âokay, halfway there, weâre gonna get your pants off and get you in the shower, okay? For the love of God, donât try to kill me, Iâm literally trying to keep you alive here, thatâs all.â
He doesnât get an answer, but he does get a reaction when he goes to tug his sweatpants off: panicked flailing, and a spooked, âNoâpleaseââ
âJust be still,â he says roughly. âOkayâŚshower, okay? Weâre gonna cool you down and clean that and get you back to bed. Thatâs all, I promise.â
The Knight stills. Well. Thatâs not the right word. He slackens, limbs going loose like a corpseâs and eyes drifting to some spot past Antoineâs shoulder. Itâll do.
Antoine hauls him into the shower and turns the water to lukewarm. The Knight stays still and heavy, breathing shallow, while Antoine pulls the head down and directs the spray towards his hair first, scrubbing his fingers through it to try andâŚkinda wash it. A little bit.Â
âOkayâŚso far, so goodâŚjust stay real still for me, weâre gonna fix you up and have a talk about not keeping this shit to yourselfâŚâ
The Knightâs quiet as long as the spray stays on the top of his head. Not so much when Antoine goes to move it lower: he manages to rally himself enough to try and sit up, rambling, âNo more, no more, please, I-I-Iâll be good, Iââ
Jesus Christ. Okay. Just. Just table all of this, every last scrap of unasked-for information. He is a professional, this is manageable.
âYouâre okay,â he says, because Jesus Christ this is not manageable. âWeâre just gonna clean you up and get you back in bed. Just stay still.â
How much of that registers is anybodyâs guess, but the pleading stops when Antoine redirects the water spray to his torso. It takes a minute or two, but the shoddy bandage does loosen, allowing him to see the full extent.
Okay. The infection is bad, but the injury itself is just a graze that hasnât been dealt with properly. Stitches not required, just a cleaning (thatâll be fun) and antibiotics. Probably.Â
His temperatureâs going down, at least, so Antoine can worry less about his brain cooking or something. He turns the water off, pretends he doesnât notice the barest hint of relief flicker over the kidâs face, and hauls him out of the shower and onto a towel.
âOkay, boss,â he says, âI gotta clean this out. Itâs gonna hurt like a bitch, âcause you let it go, so please, please do not bite me, claw my eyes out, or otherwise try to kill me.â Thereâs no answer. Not surprising, really; heâs awake, but clearly not here and selfishlyâŚAntoine really, really hopes heâs dissociating. Might make him less dangerous. âIâm gonna go grab the first aid kit. Be back in a minute, stay down, you hear me?â
Confused blue eyes glance up at him with exactly zero recognition. So who knows. He doubts the Knight can go anywhere, though, so he gets up, darts next door and grabs his kit before taking a few extra seconds to justâŚbreathe. Reorient.Â
First aid kit. Clean that out. Get the kid into dry clothes and back to bed. Anything after that? Figure it out then.
The humidity here is doing him no favors and all right, maybe he doesnât need to be quite so rough when he cranks up the air conditioner, but too bad. Okay. Door locked, boss right where he left him and look at that, still breathing, see, this is already going great!Â
âOkay, boss,â he says, crouching down, âthis is gonna suck, but Iâm kinda sure dying sucks more, so justâŚjust stay still for me.â
The Knight gives no indication that he understood any of that, but itâll click soon enough, oh boy, will it click, it always doesâ
Itâs been a while since Antoine had to do something like this without the reassurance that a medic would be there soon to fix any fuck-ups, and if this needs stitches itâs probably gonna scar, but from the looks from the looks from the looks
of it, that wonât matter. Okay. First order of business, clean the skin around the wound with soap, keep this from getting worse. Thatâs the least sucky bit and at least heâs not stuck using fucking hand sanitizer, because man, thatâs not ideal but when thatâs what you got you make do.
The Knightâs quiet for this bit. Nice and still, staring off somewhere behind Antoineâs shoulder. Good.
Unfortunately, thatâs the nicest bit of this. The next bit, the cleaning out of any dead tissue or debris or whatever-the-fucking-fuck is in there, is the not-nice bit. In Antoineâs experience, itâs not the worldâs worst thing, butâŚthis is kinda, um. Kinda a lot infected. Ideally he wouldnât be the one doing this, his track record is not good, oh boy, is it not good.
The first little bit comes out nice with the saline. But Antoine finally finds the probable cause of all this: little scrap of shirt that gotâŚdragged in, probably. Got dinged enough and then with the compression shoving it down thereâŚand it really doesnât want to come back out.
âStay. Still,â he says when he goes digging for the tweezers. âI gotta dig this out.â
Tiles nice clean tiles this is fine you can handle this
Fucking humidity I hate this
The Knightâs not too thrilled about the tweezers: he tries to squirm away, but when Antoine grabs his shoulder he freezes like heâs been shâstepped in a bear trap, eyes wide.
On one hand, great, verbal. On the other hand, Antoine kind of never wants that directed at him again, thanks.
Breathe you gotta breathe shaky hands are the real killer hereâ
Better this than shrapnel.
âYouâre gonna be fine,â he says, unsure who heâs trying to convince now, and thatâs enough waiting, he needs to get this out.
Itâs in there pretty good, for a shallow wound, and the tweezers slip the first time he tries to get it. The second time they catch and grip tight, but it doesnât quite wantâ
The Knightâs breathing catches and Antoine knows heâs still alive because he can see his pulse in his throat and thatâs good enough thatâs good enoughâ
âDonâtââ He gags, hands convulsing against the floor and head pressing tightly against the tiles. âDonât, pleaseââ
The kid keens behind clenched teeth but itâs all right, heâs fucking got thisâ
Little thing. Bit of cotton, thatâs all it is, just a bit of metal cotton, itâs cotton.Â
He sits back on his heels and breathes through his mouth because that cancels out the bloody palm tree smell. God, that useless fucking air conditionerâ
âHalfway done, boss,â he breathes, and the Knight just breathes, shaky and pained. He can have a second. Antoine kind of needs the second, too. âProbably the worst of itâs over.â
He doesnât get an answer. Okay, secondâs over.
The rest of itâs smooth sailing, especially after the boss slips into unconsciousness and canâtâŚcanât talk anymore. This is gonna need antibiotics, and heâs gonna need vodka, so much vodka, but this is manageable now, this is fixable. He dries the kid off the rest of the way and manhandles him into clean clothes retrieved from a duffle bag he finds under the bed before he has the unhappy realization that now he has to get him back to bed.
âWhy are you heavy,â he complains, because bitching keeps the palm trees at bay. âYouâre what, like twelve? This is bullshit.â
âAww, heâs a bitty baby,â Z.Z. teases, ruffling Antoineâs hair in that way he absolutely hates. âI should start carrying lollipops.â
âScrew you, man, Iâm an adultââ
âAy, Altair, we should start a star chartâwhat the hell is thatâoh Godââ
Hotel. Tiles. Nice safe tiles.Â
He presses his lips together and figures okay, the bed is not that far because this is a cheap motel and thank God for that, and says a silent apology to his back before getting the kid into a firemanâs carry.
Least you donât have to contend with the armor, a voice that sounds suspiciously like Z.Z.âs teases, and he ignores it. Even though itâs true.
The boss doesnât wake when Antoine plonks him back on his mattress, but heâs still breathing and thatâs enough for now. Antoine tucks him back in, runs a trembling hand through his hair, and figures he should finish this now while heâs still out and canât freak out or try to run.
âBe back in a bit,â he says, knowing thereâs no point to it. âJust stay down.â
Itâs really not that hard to track down back alley antibiotics. You have to know who to ask, and whether they need to be threatened, bribed or simply flattered, but at the end of the day, theyâre stupid easy to obtain. He has more trouble finding a bottle of vodka in a town that seemingly worships tequila. Tequilaâs nice, but itâs not gonna cut it today.
The boss hasnât moved, not even a little, but heâs still breathing and Antoineâs fucks to give stop there. Especially because he does wake up, kinda, even if heâs still out of it andâŚnot, uh. Not really the Arkham Knight at the moment.
Fucking Gothamites and their worksonas.
âHey, boss,â he says, and the kidâs face goes carefully blank. Politely interested. Okay. Okay, okay. âYou fucked up kinda bad, so you need antibiotics.â He rattles the pill bottle and that gets him a reaction: naked panic that barely gets smoothed over. âYeah, they probably leave a weird aftertaste, and I had to ballpark a dosage, but youâre fucking heavy and Iâm not hefting you into a dumpster, housekeeping be damned.â
Nothing. Antoine pops the lid (really, child safety lid on contrabandâwhatever. Whatever.) and shakes out a little pink pill. Allergies cross his mind but honestly, itâs allergies or the alternative, and sometimes you have to make sucky choices.
âYou gotta take it,â he says, and for once his luck holds: rather than fight him, even cursorily, the Knight reaches over with a shaky hand and takes it, visibly steels himself, and dry-swallows it without complaint. âI did bring a water bottleâŚokay. Good job.â
There. Thatâs all he can do right now, which means his next course of action is to haul a chair between the boss and the door, crack his vodka bottle open, and take a good four-second swig.
Tastes like shitâcheap vodka can be fixed, but eh, itâs not about the taste right nowâand burns like hellfire going down, but his head clears up and his hands stop their goddamn shaking.
He tips his head back to look at the water-stained, cracking ceiling and sighs, tasting a relative of acetone on his tongue. Christ, none of this was on his bingo card today. Injuries, okay. Name of the job. Heâs got his share, sure. But notâŚ
Brandâs healed over, a voice in his head says unhelpfully. What is this kid, eighteen or so? Heâs had that a while.Â
Thatâs the worst of it, sure. But the other scars, those are old, too. Heâs been fighting some kinda war for most of his life, looks like, and nowâŚ
He takes another swig of vodka. It does not delete the fact that while plenty of those scars are clearly from the give-what-you-get of melee, more of them look like torture. Antoine doesnât usually get too involved in that sort of thingânot his skillsetâbut heâs not an idiot. He knows what the aftermath looks like, thatâs usually when heâs been called in. To be the nice balm.
He could try to trace what injuries he remembers. Boss is a Gothamite, he might be able to find something pretty interesting if he dicks around on Google enough. But he really doesnât want more information than he already has, thanks. It doesnât matter, anyway. Knightâs plenty competentâwell, current situation aside, anywayâand honestly? Everyone in this business knows that Gotham is Batmanâs city. Seems the Batâs getting a little lax, if this kinda shit can go down without him intervening.Â
Good thing coups are familiar territory.Â
He takes another swig and finally, finally his heart rate starts to settle and the lingering smell of bloody palm fronds starts to dissipate.
Yeah, none of this was on his bingo card. Theyâll be in for a fun talk when this blows over, and tomorrow heâs going to start trying to track Jimmy Rogers downâheâs the best techie Antoineâs ever met, even if he isâŚwellâŚa Way, and taking down Gothamâs Bat means you need the bestâbut today? No. Heâs just gonna stay right here in the air conditioning and try not to think too hard.