Chapter Text
The ground is wet– it’s always wet, Gotham gets a lot of rain this time of year– and he’s lying on the cold concrete of a back alley. There’s no real reason for it; Danny’s fought gods before, a half-healed surgical scar (surgery, if he thinks of it as surgery if he ignores that he was fully conscious while the people he loved cut him open and ripped pieces of him out then it'll probably be fine) should be nothing. But the raised incision is burning fever hot where it mars the skin of his chest, blood leaking from where he hastily covered the popped stitching.
The worst part is that the cut just won’t heal . He doesn’t want it there , Danny hates looking at it, hates the way he can feel the wound burn and itch as his body fights itself while trying to heal. He thinks he knows why it’s still there.
There are heavy steps echoing through the alley, and Danny allows himself a few spare moments for shame and worry to flood through his system. He doesn’t want to be lying next to a dumpster, but he also just can’t get up . He’s tired and– if he’s honest with himself– hopeless.
“Hey,” comes a gruff voice from the looming shadow. “You need help?”
How considerate; Danny huffs to himself at the question. Does he need help? The fact that he’s leaning on the base of a Gotham alley wall, unable to support his weight, while nursing a still-bleeding vivisection wound probably means yes , so then the real question is can he trust this person to provide said help .
But Danny’s out of options with nothing left to lose, so he rasps a small “Yeah. Yeah, I need help.”
The stranger responds with a quick “Okay,” reaching out a hand, which Danny accepts, and hauling him to his feet.
The stranger– whose face is obscured by a red helmet and whose voice is disguised– guides him to an apartment a few blocks down, leaning Danny against the wall outside while they unlock and shove open the door.
“You’re hurt?” they ask curtly, as though it’s unclear why this person has been bodily dragging an unknown person through Gotham, up two flights of stairs, and into (what Danny assumes is) their apartment.
Maybe it is unclear, so Danny grunts “Abdominal wound,” in response.
The stranger continues the trend of dragging Danny around, this time bringing him into the bathroom and dropping him on the toilet seat’s lid. They riffle through the cabinet below the sink, taking out a massive and presumably well-stocked first-aid kit.
Danny’s still holding his chest, applying pressure to the part of the wound that burns the worst, and he leans onto the counter, taking the kit from his host and going through it. He finds a sewing needle and some good quality thread, along with antiseptic and enough gauze for an infirmary.
“Can you get me some water? Gotta clean this up,” he says, gesturing to his still-covered chest.
The stranger tilts their head in acknowledgement and leaves.
Danny gets to work sanitizing his hands and the needle, dousing it in rubbing alcohol and then running it through the flame of a pilfered lighter. And then. He carefully removes his jacket. And then his shirt. And then the wrappings around his wound. He hisses a little breath as the last of the bandaging reveals the ugly Y shape on his torso.
The stranger has returned, standing in the bathroom door.
Danny waves an arm at them, wanting to convey that they come closer with the water. The stranger hands him a rag, setting the dish of water where Danny can reach. Danny dips the rag, doesn’t bother to wring it out, just slaps the thing against his chest and starts patting the area clean of blood. He leans toward the tub beside him to wring out the used cloth, and then repeats.
The stranger leaves him be, keeping silent vigil over the cleaning and disinfecting. That is, until Danny’s fixing the sutures. He’s finishing stitch one, about to replace popped stitch number two, when the stranger rummages through the kit themself, then turns to Danny and grunts a “Here,” holding out a hand for the needle and thread.
And Danny– lets them have it. He lets them take the threaded needle without really considering, leans back to let them have a clearer view of what they’re doing while they finish the stitch he’d been working on. Danny closes his eyes.
Danny opens his eyes, and the stranger is standing in front of him, holding out a bundle of fabric. Danny looks down, running a lightly shaking hand over clean white bandages. He– fell asleep. While a stranger sewed his chest closed.
Okay .
He takes the fabric– a shirt– and slips it delicately over his head. It’s a big shirt, the shoulders of it are much broader than Danny’s, but Danny finds himself preferring the fit of it. He leans up and forward.
The stranger offers him their hand. And Danny takes it.