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[When Mat takes up from his cozy spot on the couch where he happens to be eating Dick's most sacred of foods. How dare that little rat pilfer the cereal he'd tucked away in the safe under lock and key. How the hell did he get in there anyways. Dick shakes his head with a huff, and knows that the jewels and money are still there even if the cereal is not. So far nothing has been taken from the safehouse, not even a dime fallen between the couch cushions. It's been a curiosity from the beginning.

It's also the reason why Dick has decided to bring Mat into his life. Dick is sick of the quiet apartment, and this place only has one small bed, and while he doesn't mind sharing it. If they're going to share a bed, shouldn't it be his king sized one? Not that there isn't an entire set of rooms that Mat could take for himself should he wish.

Turning round, Dick physically bumps into Mat standing behind him. It knocks one of his more painful bruises and he falls back to sitting on top of a small table with a grunt.]

Yes, you're moving in, with me. I'd never evict you. Yes, I'm bleeding. Go get the kit and we'll sew me up.

[It's with a sigh that Dick pulls off his shirt, and pants, leaving him in his boxers. He can roll them down the partway needed to get at the full wound that cuts down the side of his back and across his kidney area and stops short of his sacral spine-- aka right about his plump ass.]

I think there's a little bit of fentanyl in there for the pain, you can inject me. It should knock me out long enough for you to sew. I'll show you which kit to use. Or you can use the stapler if you feel more comfortable. It'll work too.

beep beep super late tag dump incoming

[taveren]

[ Hard to say what the skeptical wrinkle to his nose takes aim at, or what it wrinkles at the most—the surprise announcement? The sentiment lurking behind an I would never—? Dick's imitation of hamburger helper? For the time being, the other's state takes precedence over all else, housing arrangements included. Mat hits the pause button on his confusion in favor of the time sensitive item on the agenda. ]

I take it that's another concussion talking. Well, stay down before you fall down and finish the job.

[ If first aid supplies had a social security number, he'd have it memorized with how intimate of friends he's become with them since meeting Dick Grayson. The correlation speaks for itself. Little wonder the other has so much disposable cash, for that matter; he needs it to fund his bandage supply.

Retrieving the kit, he sets it down next to the other, more at ease than he'd like to be cracking its lid. Mat makes a series of faces not unlike going through the twelve stages of grief—all the more scrunched up and frowning once the extent of the damage is visible—but his hands are sure, assembling what he needs. An even more familiar tool in his toolbelt is a characteristic string of commentary while doing so. ]

Fent and staples. That's a relief. Here I was worried it was serious.

[cohero]

[The table would work for what's incoming, but it's not the most comfortable of choices. Instead, Dick wiggles his way onto the singular bed, bumping and moving so that he can spread out enough to pull down the side of his boxer briefs, exposing the explosion of purple and blue-- a canvas of art around a haggard-looking red lightning mark covered in a tiny scrap of ripped up cloth. Dick should be complaining far more than he is, but it's not in his nature.

How many nights did he spend with his mentor, being hit time and again, being taught what Gotham would hold for him? It was rough out there, there was no one on the streets that would ever come to his rescue. He had to do it himself. Some of that wasn't true; Dick found people to surround himself with here and there along his journey, but currently, he was alone and spread out for the singular person he kept company with currently, trusting blindly in him to sew Dick up while he was unconscious.]

Okay, I'm ready. If you're unsure, you can forego the drug and staple me up. I can guide you if needed.