notmydiagnosis | (no subject)

The smug smile was impossible to move off of Crane's lips as he lead his new found 'bodyguard' in. He'd wanted someone that could stand up to Batman, and he'd found it in the Slayer known as Tillman. Of course he'd need to research how, exactly, Castle got him to respond to commands in a just fashion but Crane had no intention of controlling the other. It would be a waste of time. No, he just wanted a guard that had hopes of keeping his business uninterrupted.

Crane's abode, like how he dressed, was purposely mute, drab, and intentionally simple. Crane didn't want to step out or be noticed--he spent most of his life trying to avoid it. Trying to avoid his vast intellect. He didn't bother to check if Tillman was coming in--he knew he was trailing behind him.

Crane had released Tillman, true to his word, the very next day. He'd silently driven the other towards his abode, saying very little but instead watching him closely. He didn't trust Tillman--and knew the other most likely distrusted him as well. If he was smart.

"Your new life begins. I wish I could let you rest in something other than a cell, but we have work to do."

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"Keep telling yourself that," Tillman growled back. There was no warning or preamble to him pressing the tweezers into the wound. Somewhere inside was a piece of a bullet, rather than the whole thing. Crane was fortunate that it was a ricochet wound rather than a straight gunshot, or it would have been deeper and more traumatic and beyond Tillman's narrow scope of medical knowledge.

Crane wasn't expecting it--the surprised, pained yell as his back arched, eyes closed shut. It tapered off into a whimper and then a low growl, body trying to jerk up despite the pain. Crane had never really been physically wounded like this. Beaten up, broken arms, and a rather harrowing experience with nearly drowning by a creek thanks to his great-grandmother, yes. But never a bullet wound.

After all, the Batman didn't use bullets.

He did, however, snap out of his rather odd state, pain blinding him more than anything. His bloodied hand grabbed on to Tillman's shoulder, grunting and expelling a snake-like hiss as he tried to push the other away.

Tillman felt metal scrape metal, but Crane's movements prevented him from getting a grip on the shard. He didn't waste his breath or concentration by attempting to reassure Crane. He seized the offending wrist, twisted it sharply to force the hand to release, and pinned it against the wall.

The tweezers nudged deeper as he sought a place to grab the blood-slicked fragment.

No matter how hard he jerked his wrist, choking out a yell despite the fact that, when all was said and done, he wanted Tillman to do this.

Blue eyes met the other blue ones, gaze sharp and unfocused, and he pulled full lips tight, pressing them thinly in an attempt to stop screaming.

"Just... get it out, Tillman."

"Good idea. I'll try that next," Tillman muttered. He stepped closer and pressed his body into Crane's, stilling a good portion of the pained squirming. He withdrew the tweezers and examined the extricated piece briefly.

Crane didn't look good: pale, shaky, with a fine sheen of pain induced perspiration. It was a wonder he hadn't passed out already. The next bit was going to be worse. Their current position would not be optimal, especially if the doctor did go limp.

"You're going to have to lay down," he instructed calmly as he threaded a needle.

"Cute," Crane remarked, but it was a weak retort as Tillman shifted their weight, causing him to nearly lie on top of him.

Crane was not a strong individual--he enjoyed the power of the mind simply because he would never be strong, he would never be what Tillman was the perfect, prime example of.

"Clinophobia. Clinophobia is the fear of laying down; of sleeping. Dikephobia..."