Fic: A Delicate Operation
Title: A Delicate Operation
Staring: Bruce and Tim
Rating: PG-13ish?
Summary: If something goes wrong while you're deep undercover, extraction can be a tricky process.
Words: 1500
Notes: Because batstalker was kind enough to let me and kirax2 share her birthday fic with everyone on pornday , I wrote her a little extra something for the actual day. HAPPY BIRTHDAY BB! I hope you like it!
Hospital food always reminds Matches of prison. The meatloaf is the same, and so are the corn and the slimy, overcooked green beans. The potatoes are a little better than Blackgate's, but the gravy is worse - and that's saying something.
Having dinner delivered to him in bed by sweet-looking broads sure beats shuffling down the line between a couple of Russians and a bunch of angry Italians. The mattress is thin, but better than a prison slab, and he's got a window that looks out over the courtyard where the nurses go to smoke.
The thing is, what you do to wind up in prison is a whole heck of a lot more fun that qualifying for a stay in Gotham General. The throbbing of his head is driving him a little crazy, and the hole in his shoulder doesn't feel much better. If Matches didn't know without a doubt that at least eight people want him dead, he'd be doped up to the gills on morphine, happy as a clam.
The door opens while Matches is finishing his pudding, and the nurse with the second nicest tits walks in. She holds the door for a serious looking kid, who steps quickly inside and looks Matches up and down. He's in his mid-teens, and he's got short, dark hair spiked up off his forehead with way too much gel. He's seen a lot of kids with hair like that, lately. I always makes him want to crack 'em on the skull with something and flatten it out.
"Hiya, toots," he says as they enter. "Who's the kid?"
They both stop in place and stare at him - the nurse looks confused, and after a second she blinks and glances back and forth between him and the boy. The kid looks like he's trying to set Matches on fire with his brain.
"Mister Malone," the nurse finally says, "this young man isn't your son?"
The kid is making faces behind her, trying to communicate something. Matches doesn't know what he's up to, and he's pretty sure he doesn't want to. "Don't got any kids," he tells the lady, and watches the boy's face fall suddenly. "That I knows about, anyway. Who's yer mama, squirt?"
"You have a head injury," the boy says, instead of answering the question. The look on his face is hard to describe, like he's equal parts annoyed and concerned.
Matches reaches up, oddly self-conscious, and scratches at the gauze they've wrapped around his head. The tape itches where it crosses his forehead. According to the docs, the bullet only grazed him. Matches isn't sure whose bullet, though, because he can't actually remember what happened. That's why he's not inclined to trust some kid he's never met.
The last thing Matches remembers is walking into the Clip Joint and ordering a highball. He doesn't remember drinking it, or the fight that apparently broke out. And he doesn't remember who shot him, twice in the shoulder and once in the head.
For all he knows, it was this kid that pulled the trigger. Matches shakes his head and tosses his paper cup of apple juice back like a shot. "I never seen him before in my life," he tells the nurse, and lays back on the pillows, watching the kid intently.
The kid looks at him flatly for a long, tense moment, and then turns on his heel and walks out of the room. "I'll talk to security," the nurse says, quickly. "They won't let him back in."
"I don't want no more visitors," Matches says. "You tell 'em that."
Until he's well enough to hold his own in a fight, Matches isn't taking any chances.
"You're new," Matches says when the door opens. He'd recognize those ta-tas if he'd seen them before. They're not too big, not too small, a perfect handful or, heh, mouthful. The rest of the package isn't bad, either - she's shorter than he usually likes, and her jaw's a little square, but she's got big blue eyes and long dark lashes and the kind of ass better men might write poetry about.
The nurse looks him over without saying anything, or even smiling at him. She consults the charts on the end of the bed, examines the bags on his IV hook. Finally she approaches the head of the bed and leans over him. Matches sits up a little and tries to look down the front of her scrubs, but she shines a bright light in his eyes and turns his head from side to side.
"Have you had any improvement in your memory since this morning?" she asks. She lifts up the bandage over his head and gently prods the swollen area around the score on his left temple, making him wince. "Any recollection of the incident or...other memories you've lost?"
"Only thing I can't remember is the fight," Matches tells her, squinting against the light.
"Why were you in the bar?" she asks, making Matches chuckle to himself.
"Why do you think, sweetcheeks? I was drinkin'. Doin' a little business, maybe."
"Hm," she says. Her voice is husky and low, but she doesn't smell like a smoker. She smells pretty good, actually - light, flowery scent over something warm and delicious. Her auburn hair brushes his cheek as she tugs the bandages back into place. "You need care that can't be provided here."
"Gonna take me home and feed me up?" Matches says with a leer.
"Something like that," she mutters. Her voice is really very low. It makes Matches grin and try for a grab, only to get his wrist caught an inch from her ass. "I'll sedate you if I have to," she threatens, and then rolls her eyes. "Come on. You're being transferred to another facility."
"I'm what?" Matches tries to sit up. "Baby doll, I don't know what you think you're doing-" she's unhooking wires and tubes from the machines beside the bed.
"There's an ambulance waiting for us downstairs," she says, and rips the blanket roughly off of him. Matches reaches to cover himself out of instinct - he's wearing a gown, but he still feels naked.
"Lady!" he shouts, as he pulls his stupid little skirt down. "What the hell?"
She ignores him in favor of the wheelchair in the corner they've been using to bring him down the hall to imaging. She pushes it over near the bed, gets on one side of him, and puts her arm around him. For a moment, he leans into her - instinct again - and then he tries to struggle away, but she's stronger than she looks. "Just get in the chair," she bites out.
"Make me, you little - ow!" her hand darts out quick as a snake and she does something to his shoulder - his good shoulder - that makes his arm go limp. She slings the dead arm over her shoulder and stands, dragging him sideways off the bed, and he's got no choice but to swing his legs over and follow or he's going to fall onto the floor. She swings him around into the chair before he collapses, and then pulls the blanket off the bed to tuck it around his legs. "I don't think you're really a nurse."
"Just shut up and sit tight," she orders, and grabs his IV off the rack before pushing him toward the door.
"Hey!" he shouts. He turns in place and tries to take a swing at her with his bad arm, but the pain in his shoulder overwhelms him and he cries out, doubling over.
"Crap," she says, her voice suspiciously deep. Before Matches can react, though, he feels a prick in his arm, and the world starts swimming.
Four days later, Bruce is sitting at the computer when Tim comes down the stairs from the manor, dressed in running shorts and a t-shirt and drinking one of Alfred's shakes. He's half-way to the weights when he looks up and catches sight of Bruce, and he smiles when he sees him. "Doc Midnight clear you for active duty?"
"Not just yet," Bruce tells him. "There's a lot I can do without putting myself at risk of second-impact syndrome."
"Well, it's good to have you back. Feeling better?"
"Infinitely," Bruce says. He closes the file he was working on and turns. "I should thank you. That was an excellent retrieval."
"Don't mention it," Tim says, and sets his glass aside before sitting down on the bench and preparing to wrap his hands.
"Preparing the transfer orders ahead of time was-"
"Bruce," Tim interrupts. He looks up after a second, a plea in his eyes. "Don't. Mention it. Please."
Bruce chuckles to himself as he turns back to his files, but he doesn't say another word.
Staring: Bruce and Tim
Rating: PG-13ish?
Summary: If something goes wrong while you're deep undercover, extraction can be a tricky process.
Words: 1500
Notes: Because batstalker was kind enough to let me and kirax2 share her birthday fic with everyone on pornday , I wrote her a little extra something for the actual day. HAPPY BIRTHDAY BB! I hope you like it!
Hospital food always reminds Matches of prison. The meatloaf is the same, and so are the corn and the slimy, overcooked green beans. The potatoes are a little better than Blackgate's, but the gravy is worse - and that's saying something.
Having dinner delivered to him in bed by sweet-looking broads sure beats shuffling down the line between a couple of Russians and a bunch of angry Italians. The mattress is thin, but better than a prison slab, and he's got a window that looks out over the courtyard where the nurses go to smoke.
The thing is, what you do to wind up in prison is a whole heck of a lot more fun that qualifying for a stay in Gotham General. The throbbing of his head is driving him a little crazy, and the hole in his shoulder doesn't feel much better. If Matches didn't know without a doubt that at least eight people want him dead, he'd be doped up to the gills on morphine, happy as a clam.
The door opens while Matches is finishing his pudding, and the nurse with the second nicest tits walks in. She holds the door for a serious looking kid, who steps quickly inside and looks Matches up and down. He's in his mid-teens, and he's got short, dark hair spiked up off his forehead with way too much gel. He's seen a lot of kids with hair like that, lately. I always makes him want to crack 'em on the skull with something and flatten it out.
"Hiya, toots," he says as they enter. "Who's the kid?"
They both stop in place and stare at him - the nurse looks confused, and after a second she blinks and glances back and forth between him and the boy. The kid looks like he's trying to set Matches on fire with his brain.
"Mister Malone," the nurse finally says, "this young man isn't your son?"
The kid is making faces behind her, trying to communicate something. Matches doesn't know what he's up to, and he's pretty sure he doesn't want to. "Don't got any kids," he tells the lady, and watches the boy's face fall suddenly. "That I knows about, anyway. Who's yer mama, squirt?"
"You have a head injury," the boy says, instead of answering the question. The look on his face is hard to describe, like he's equal parts annoyed and concerned.
Matches reaches up, oddly self-conscious, and scratches at the gauze they've wrapped around his head. The tape itches where it crosses his forehead. According to the docs, the bullet only grazed him. Matches isn't sure whose bullet, though, because he can't actually remember what happened. That's why he's not inclined to trust some kid he's never met.
The last thing Matches remembers is walking into the Clip Joint and ordering a highball. He doesn't remember drinking it, or the fight that apparently broke out. And he doesn't remember who shot him, twice in the shoulder and once in the head.
For all he knows, it was this kid that pulled the trigger. Matches shakes his head and tosses his paper cup of apple juice back like a shot. "I never seen him before in my life," he tells the nurse, and lays back on the pillows, watching the kid intently.
The kid looks at him flatly for a long, tense moment, and then turns on his heel and walks out of the room. "I'll talk to security," the nurse says, quickly. "They won't let him back in."
"I don't want no more visitors," Matches says. "You tell 'em that."
Until he's well enough to hold his own in a fight, Matches isn't taking any chances.
"You're new," Matches says when the door opens. He'd recognize those ta-tas if he'd seen them before. They're not too big, not too small, a perfect handful or, heh, mouthful. The rest of the package isn't bad, either - she's shorter than he usually likes, and her jaw's a little square, but she's got big blue eyes and long dark lashes and the kind of ass better men might write poetry about.
The nurse looks him over without saying anything, or even smiling at him. She consults the charts on the end of the bed, examines the bags on his IV hook. Finally she approaches the head of the bed and leans over him. Matches sits up a little and tries to look down the front of her scrubs, but she shines a bright light in his eyes and turns his head from side to side.
"Have you had any improvement in your memory since this morning?" she asks. She lifts up the bandage over his head and gently prods the swollen area around the score on his left temple, making him wince. "Any recollection of the incident or...other memories you've lost?"
"Only thing I can't remember is the fight," Matches tells her, squinting against the light.
"Why were you in the bar?" she asks, making Matches chuckle to himself.
"Why do you think, sweetcheeks? I was drinkin'. Doin' a little business, maybe."
"Hm," she says. Her voice is husky and low, but she doesn't smell like a smoker. She smells pretty good, actually - light, flowery scent over something warm and delicious. Her auburn hair brushes his cheek as she tugs the bandages back into place. "You need care that can't be provided here."
"Gonna take me home and feed me up?" Matches says with a leer.
"Something like that," she mutters. Her voice is really very low. It makes Matches grin and try for a grab, only to get his wrist caught an inch from her ass. "I'll sedate you if I have to," she threatens, and then rolls her eyes. "Come on. You're being transferred to another facility."
"I'm what?" Matches tries to sit up. "Baby doll, I don't know what you think you're doing-" she's unhooking wires and tubes from the machines beside the bed.
"There's an ambulance waiting for us downstairs," she says, and rips the blanket roughly off of him. Matches reaches to cover himself out of instinct - he's wearing a gown, but he still feels naked.
"Lady!" he shouts, as he pulls his stupid little skirt down. "What the hell?"
She ignores him in favor of the wheelchair in the corner they've been using to bring him down the hall to imaging. She pushes it over near the bed, gets on one side of him, and puts her arm around him. For a moment, he leans into her - instinct again - and then he tries to struggle away, but she's stronger than she looks. "Just get in the chair," she bites out.
"Make me, you little - ow!" her hand darts out quick as a snake and she does something to his shoulder - his good shoulder - that makes his arm go limp. She slings the dead arm over her shoulder and stands, dragging him sideways off the bed, and he's got no choice but to swing his legs over and follow or he's going to fall onto the floor. She swings him around into the chair before he collapses, and then pulls the blanket off the bed to tuck it around his legs. "I don't think you're really a nurse."
"Just shut up and sit tight," she orders, and grabs his IV off the rack before pushing him toward the door.
"Hey!" he shouts. He turns in place and tries to take a swing at her with his bad arm, but the pain in his shoulder overwhelms him and he cries out, doubling over.
"Crap," she says, her voice suspiciously deep. Before Matches can react, though, he feels a prick in his arm, and the world starts swimming.
Four days later, Bruce is sitting at the computer when Tim comes down the stairs from the manor, dressed in running shorts and a t-shirt and drinking one of Alfred's shakes. He's half-way to the weights when he looks up and catches sight of Bruce, and he smiles when he sees him. "Doc Midnight clear you for active duty?"
"Not just yet," Bruce tells him. "There's a lot I can do without putting myself at risk of second-impact syndrome."
"Well, it's good to have you back. Feeling better?"
"Infinitely," Bruce says. He closes the file he was working on and turns. "I should thank you. That was an excellent retrieval."
"Don't mention it," Tim says, and sets his glass aside before sitting down on the bench and preparing to wrap his hands.
"Preparing the transfer orders ahead of time was-"
"Bruce," Tim interrupts. He looks up after a second, a plea in his eyes. "Don't. Mention it. Please."
Bruce chuckles to himself as he turns back to his files, but he doesn't say another word.