Walter left the apartment yesterday evening, while Dan was at work. This is the first time he's been back since. He held up in a closed subway station near Arkham, after a long rough night when he wasn't sure he'd be able to make it home. He stitched himself up and slept on his coat. If he died there, at least it wouldn't link his activities to
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He peers in through the doorway.
"...Walter? Walter, jeez, you look awful..."
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"Should hire more staff instead of laying so many off. Opening themselves up to more escapes.... Hardly seems worth catching them again. Hurm"
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"Well, sit down. I'll heat you up something." He steps into the kitchen, intent on the fridge. It takes him a few seconds, tired and unsettled as he is, to process -- "Oh, man... you've got blood all over you. Are you hurt?" It's a completely different question from 'are you alright?'
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"Hmm. Not necessary. Don't mind cold." He does, however, sit. It's not that he wants Dan to serve him, he just...needs to sit now. So Dan may go through the fridge. "Already stitched the worst injury. Not all my blood, anyway."
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Knowing it isn't all Walter's blood helps, a little. (He doesn't worry excessively, immediately, about... whoever's blood it is. Sure, Walter's lost his head, before, but he wouldn't... he wouldn't, right?) "Still, there's a lot of it. Get cleaned up, and I'll toss those in the wash and help you with any other scrapes, okay?"
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A small hiss betrays the ache associated with getting to his feet.
"Nnnh. Won't take long. Won't waste water; heat."
He grumbles a bit as he pulls his trench-coat off and leave it in the kitchen to avoid staining anything. There's an angry looking wound with a messily done stitching job on his upper-left arm, near the shoulder. He slinks off toward the shower to clean off some of the blood and change clothes.
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He pulls out the leftover gumbo, from last night, and heaps up a big bowl of it, sticks that in the microwave. Finds one of many the first aid kits they have laying around. And then goes to empty out Walter's trenchcoat and try to clean it off.
That's a lot of blood.
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He gets out, dries off, and checks himself in the mirror. Walter never sees himself in the mirror. He sees the bruises and the wounds but doesn't take in what lays beneath. He's proud of his war wounds. Glad he no longer has to hide them for a job that serves no one. He runs a thumb over his cut brow, and checks the slightly infected stitched shoulder wound. Then he puts on a pair of sweat pants from the hamper and returns to the kitchen.
He smells the food in the microwave and hears Daniel rinsing his coat before he sees it.
"Thank you, Daniel. You don't have to, you know."
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"Sit down, okay?" And he'll get the gumbo, and do what he can for those wounds. "Maybe not. But I'm doing it anyway. Friends, right?"
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"Should have rinsed them before returning to the apartment. I'll remember next time." There's less certainty to Walter's words when he doesn't have his face mask on or his 'costume'.
"You're a good friend, Daniel."
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That seems to be it, though. No sharing of any problems Daniel might be expecting. Walter just digs into the offered food and milk. He let himself forget just how hungry he's gotten.
Finally he pauses, mouth half full.
"Stopped a robbery. Late, a few nights ago. Bruce Wayne was there. Seemed strange."
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"Really? Wow." That's pretty impressive. He's rich, you know. And famous. "What happened?"
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He finishes the food he's been given, grateful to be able to fill his empty stomach. Walter feels almost like he might be sick, but he wasn't going to leave anything on that plate.
"Would have kept an eye on Wayne and a few other suspicious seeming customers afterward, but the police were approaching from a few directions."
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