7550/Dr. Taco is Not a Real Doctor (But He's The Next Best Thing)

Dr. Taco is Not a Real Doctor (But He's The Next Best Thing)
Date of Scene:	26 August 2021
Location:	Thompkin's Clinic - Park Row
Synopsis:	Lonnie breaks Tim out of Dr. Thompkin's clinic where he definitely wasn't actually being held, but whatever.
Cast of Characters:	Tim Drake, Lonnie Machin

---

Tim Drake has posed:
    The no-questions-asked policy at Dr. Thompkin's clinic is appreciated not just by the criminal element of Gotham but by plenty of the vigilante population too. It's not the first time Tim himself has been under the good doctor's care.

    Not the first time he's come to in one of the clinic's back rooms and had to sit through a very pointed lecture by her, either.

    That was hours ago, though. Dr. Thompkin is the only one who comes in and out of his room due to the need for secrecy, and because she's busy it means Tim's basically been left by himself. Which is just fine. Let him lick his wounds in peace and wait for his bruised ego to heal.

    Though it's probably not a good idea to trust him alone for this long, and maybe it's just the drugs (though he's already pulled out his IV) but Tim thinks he's perfectly capable of leaving on his own. Of course all he's managed to do is slip out from beneath the thin, disinfectant-scented blanket and swing his legs over the side of the bed. Which, whew. He's been careful with his breathing, but that took a lot of effort.

    So for the past 15 minutes--not that Tim is really aware of the time passing--he's sat there, wheezing slightly, one hand pressed to his ribcage just below the bandages that make an obvious lump under his hospital gown.

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    Like he's going to sign in. After taking his dog home, Lonnie sat and thought for a minute, and got up - and then came back, and... well, he thought about just going in through the window but there was no way of knowing where they'd stashed the young Mr. Drake - so he signed in under an assumed name - 'Theodore Draper' - and now he's in the doorway, with a brown paper grocery bag in the crook of his arm.
    "Now I'm all for sticking it to the man but you know what's going to happen when Dr. Thompkins finds out you've left. Also you're plainly not able to make it out of here under your own power, you're running on one lung."

Tim Drake has posed:
    Tim looks up from the vinyl flooring with enough of a delay to make it obvious precisely how much of the good stuff is still in his system. Which also means, apparently, that he has little to no brain-to-mouth filter, because he says, "What the hell are you doing here?"

    Honestly, Tim really cannot pull off sounding like anything but a little kid who just learned a bad word when he swears.

    He huffs out a breath that looks exceptionally painful by the way he grimaces and immediately sucks in the next inhale through his teeth. "Yeah, well, I'd much prefer dying under a bridge somewhere than anyone finding out what happened. Are you here to make fun of me more?" Someone woke up out of anesthesia in a bad mood. Maybe he needs more drugs. But instead he starts to work his hospital gown off of one arm in careful, mincing movements. There's a stack of clothes on a nearby table that he's eyeing like he's trying to figure out how to cross the monumental distance (about five feet) over to them.

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    "Tsk tsk. I've gotten enough broken bones to know," He sing-songs, "You can't fool the Baaaaaaaaatman." He sets the bag down, and then tsks. "You pulled out your IV. After disabling the alarm on it. That's the most coherent incoherence I've seen in a long time." He watches Tim, and then he sets the bag down, and pulls out some gatorade - and a bag of Dr. Taco. There must be... eight seitan burittos in there.
    Then he takes out a container of Mochi ice cream. "I figured I'd do something nice for you, but if you're in such a hurry to leave-"

Tim Drake has posed:
    "The key is to avoid him and everybody else you know," Tim replies. Not in a sing-song voice. In fact his tone is particularly flat at his says it, eyes downcast. Maybe the whole bridge thing was closer to his actual plan than he wants to admit. Probably not the part where he dies, though.

    He studiously avoids looking at the offerings Lonnie sets out, but his peripheral vision is good enough to identify it all. Though Tim could probably tell it was Dr. Taco by smell alone.

    He rubs his side a little bit longer and then lets his hand drop. "I suppose I can lower myself to accept this peace offering," he says quietly, with a quick sniff, and then points with the hand on his uninjured side. "Can you hand me my shirt, at least, so I'm not sitting here in just my shorts?" He manages to get his gown the rest of the way off by slowly tipping to his side until gravity (and a little bit of wiggling) does the work for him.

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    "What, no Unstagram? I mean even *I* have an Insta." It's mostly photos of the urban decay of Gotham City and anarchist rants. The occasional video of him taking in a punk show. Videos of his dog.
    He rolls his eyes, and then he hands Tim the zip-up hoodie out of the pile - he helps him put it on, leaving it unzipped. "Don't you have a reputation as a feckless bachelor to cultivate?" He hands Tim a bottle of the gatorade. It's grape-flavor.

Tim Drake has posed:
    Tim's head tilts to the side so he can peer at Lonnie through a well-aimed side-eye. "It's private. I use it to make fun of conservative politicians and post the overnight oats I eat every morning." The only sign of whatever pain he's feeling is a faint trembling to his breath as he fiddles with the zipper on his hoodie, after Lonnie's helped him into it. Maybe a faint tightening around his eyes as the material brushes against the gigantic bruise that is his back from shoulders to hips at the moment. "Never pegged you as the type to keep up with social media."

    "How many pictures of Yap are there on your page?" he asks, the corner of his mouth dimpling.

    He reaches out and makes a grabby-hand motion as Lonnie holds out the bottle, and then he carefully grips it between his thighs (eeeeeeeee cold) so he can unscrew the cap. "Not really. Unless my reputation of wearing the same three outfits when I go between home and campus every day counts." He takes a long drink.

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    "While social media is a despicable invention that's slowly strangling us, it could be repurposed to be a social good. And in a world full of toxic influencers, somebody has to be a healthy influencer." For Lonnie's given value of healthy influence. He sits on the edge of the bed.
    "Quite a few." He says. He gets out his phone and puts up a video of Yap delivering water bottles to protestors. "He's very popular." He even has his own hashtag, #notalldogsservemasters

Tim Drake has posed:
    It's not until Tim has downed half the bottle that he even realizes how thirsty he was. He turns his head as he lifts up his arm to rub his mouth against his sleeve, leaning in slightly to look at the phone as Lonnie plays the video.

    "Of course he is," Tim replies. "Look at him." That's all the evidence he deems necessarily to supply. And then Tim digs his phone out from underneath the pillow on the bed. After a few moments, Lonnie starts getting notifications that go like:

INSTAGRAM            1m ago
rightplacewrongtim liked your photo.

INSTAGRAM            1m ago
rightplacewrongtim liked your photo.

INSTAGRAM            1m ago
rightplacewrongtim liked your photo.

    Tim flips his phone over and sets it back down. "Okay, I don't know if," brief pause to wheeze in a breath, "If I hallucinated this last night, but did you train him to go find the nearest police officers on patrol?"

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    "I've trained him to do a lot of things. Find and kite the cops, distract the cops." Lonnie shrugs one shoulder, and unwraps one of the seitan burritos, before he gives it to Tim. Mmmm, gluten. Apparently they're all for Tim. "He's not just my dog, he's my partner." He puts his hands on his knees, and then says "I'm glad you're all right. And don't blame yourself for this, someone is cheating. There's no way to spot a hard-light hologram BEFORE it appears."
    "I don't know why they're gunning for you, though. I feel like there's some piece of critical, need-to-know information that's missing. But don't sit here dragging yourself - do something about it. ...When you're actually physically functional."

Tim Drake has posed:
    "I just--" Tim stops, and he's wheezing again, though this time it's not because he needs to catch his breath. It's because he's laughing, which makes him go "ow" and set the burrito that Lonnie's given him down so that he can press his hand against his side. "It's just, it was sort of like, you know, Lassie? 'Timmy fell down the well'?"

    More wheezing. Tim stops clutching his side so that he can instead wedge the heel of his palm into his eye socket. "It's so dumb, ugh, ignore me."

    He's quiet for a little while because he decides it's best if he shoves a few bites of seitan burrito into his mouth, rather than keep talking. But he keeps his head tipped so he can watch Lonnie. "We're definitely missing something," he agrees. "Thing is, though, what happened last night doesn't make any sense. I was careful about where I was hiding--no one should have been able to see me. I still don't have an idea where the knife even came from."

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    "I have a fused bicameral mind. I should be able to figure this out, but you can't figure anything out without a clue. It's like someone's popping in from another universe to try to kill you." Lonnie rubs his chin. "But that's not importanat right now, is it?" His eyebrows go up and he adds, "Yap's much smarter than a collie."
    He lets out a sigh, and then says, "I just want you to know - I haven't really had friends in a long time. Usually it's more people I lecture at. But... that doesn't work on you. I'm arrogant and you're manipulative. But for some reason... the thought of something happening to you was very -" He presses his tongue against the top of his right canine - "Upsetting to me."

Tim Drake has posed:
    Tim chews his way through another bite of burrito, aluminum wrap rustling against his fingertips. He blows out his next breath through his nose, staring with an unfocused gaze at the middle distance. "None of the pieces make any sense," he mutters. "I can't--I stare up at my ceiling when I'm supposed to be asleep, trying to fit everything together. Whatever it is they're gathering components for, they have to be building it in Gotham. But where? And why?" His jaw goes tight, shoulders bunching up slightly under the cotton of his hoodie.

    He shifts his attention downwards. "Thanks," he says, after a moment. "For the food. And," he starts to take a deep breath, winces, and shakes his head. "Sorry. For the whole manipulation thing. That's not the kind of person I want to be."

    Shoving the last of the burrito into his mouth is something Tim can do to keep himself occupied, rather than answer Lonnie. Same with balling up the aluminum it came in into a tighter and tighter ball, that he manages to lob underhanded into the trash bin near the door. Sure, it bounces off the rim, but it goes in. Counts.

    "Welcome to the wonderful world of caring about people," Tim says, humorlessly. He's still staring at his hands. And then, "You shouldn't get attached to me. I'm a disaster magnet."

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    "It's not the person you want to be, it's the person you are, but YOU decide how curb that tendency and how you put it into motion. Because I'm a bigtime believer in personal autonomy? But sometimes autonomy means that people do some damn-fool things." He gives Tim a sidewise look. "I wasn't born into luxury like you. I never *knew* my father. My mother did the best she could, but - drugs. Bad decisions." He pauses, as if thinking about whether or not to say it, "...All it took was one of her boyfriends trying to grope me in the middle of the night - trying - before I learned to keep a pocket-knife hidden under my pillow and that I could do my homework in a whole bunch of different places if I didn't want to *be* home."
    He gives Tim a sidewise look. "You had parents who loved you, and who could deal with all their messed-up shit and put you first. I never had that. I understand the pain of having lost them, but I envy you having had that *at all*. But it was being out on the street all night that made me an anarchist - there was always a show where the punks were friendly or a sex worker who'd share her coffee with me if I gave her half my sandwich. People the upper-crust would look down on who looked out for each other and helped each other. You know?"

Tim Drake has posed:
    It's true. That is who Tim is, deep down, and even though he can't argue against it--not in good faith--his posture still shifts into something defensive, arms folding and shoulders curling inwards.

    Which is of course a mistake, and the wound in-between his fifth and sixth ribs protests greatly. He squeezes his eyes shut against the pain and takes several shallow breaths. But he's listening, still. Of course he is. Tim's always paying attention.

    "I--." There are things he wants to say, protests he wants to put up about the assumptions Lonnie is making about his childhood, but before the words can even form in his head Tim already knows they're inconsequential. So instead of saying anything, he just bites the inside of his cheek. He picks at the hem attaching the cuff of his jacket to the sleeve until he's managed to work a stray thread free. "Do you think I look down on you?" he asks, brows drawn together.

    After all, Tim is absolutely the upper crust. The 1% of Gotham. Even before he had Wayne attached to the end of his name, that was true. "I don't. I think maybe I--maybe I envy you, some. You knew who you were since you were--what, how old were you when you strapped that fake head on?" Despite the animosity they'd shared back then, it's still an amusing memory to look back on. Though at the moment Tim can't really muster up the energy to laugh about it. Too much of everything.

    Drugs have probably worn off. "You were right about me. I've measured myself against everyone in my life and found myself wanting because I have no concept of who I am as a person beyond the obsession I've had about Batman since I was five years old."

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    "Not on purpose." Lonnie says, "But sometimes I think you do, not out of arrogance, but out of the self-confidence Batman has drilled into you about not wavering that you're doing the right thing." He keeps his hands on his knees, his expression schooled into neutrality, his green eyes someplace else. "Twelve. I was twelve. It was shortly before you appeared on the scene."
    "The signifier becomes a symbol which contains meaning, behind which others rally. One man's war on a city's endemic crime problem creates an army. Even I've felt that pull, though I'm - me. I could never be one of the Batman's soldiers, and I wouldn't want to be. Because I want a city that *doesn't need Batman*. Not even as a legend."
    He looks up and meets Tim's eyes. "Sometimes who you are is reflected back at you in other people. What about your friends, Superboy and Impulse? The Outsiders? Batman himself? The things that cause them to seek you out. The things they value you for - depend on you for."
    "For me, it's that you're my only intellectual equal. And you're so ruthlessly pragmatic about it. It's maddening, that it's so hard to outsmart you. But while I find you a little authoritarian, you're also not boring."

Tim Drake has posed:
    "Batman can't take credit for that. I've been obsessively driven since I was a kid, it's just that working with him..." Tim swipes his tongue over the indent his teeth have made on the inside of his cheek. "Purified it, I guess. Maybe that's not the right word."

    His weight on the clinic mattress shifts, and he brings a hand up to rub at the back of his neck. Even uninjured he's rarely able to work out any of the tension that lingers along his spine, and right now when he's trying not to jostle his injuries, surprisingly he is even less effective. "Refined it, maybe?" he suggests into the open air, sounding like he's not sure of the fit himself.

    He thumps his fist against Lonnie's knee once. "I'm glad you're not." The mention of his friends has Tim flashing a grimace that's pained, regretful. "Almost everyone in my life is, to some degree, whether they're directly aware of it or not. You know what they say about the Bat's shadow, and all." The gesture he makes with his hand to accompany that statement is expansive, indicating not just the confines of the tiny back room he's sequestered in, but all of Gotham out beyond the clinic's walls.

    Then he laughs. Wheezy, again. "I'll take the compliment. Better than you calling me GQ," and he cuts a half-hearted glare in Lonnie's direction. "You're incredibly challenging, you know. And I mean that in the best way--it's nice to have that. I think it's, uh, good for me." It sounds a little bit like Tim's making this revelation as he says it, to some degree. He shrugs the shoulder on his uninjured side.

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    Lonnie raises an eyebrow. "Listen, I once had to organize a protest against an event you were speaking at and had to put up with every single girl in the protest crew swooning about how good looking you were, and how it was a shame you were an old-money aristo capitalist. And half of the guys. One of my crew *fell off their bike* because they craned their neck around when you walked by. I threw eggs at you just to mess up your aesthetic enough that I could get them back on target."
    "You can weaponize your looks to achieve your goals. Now me, I stick out like a sore thumb-" He points to his fire engine red hair. "But that's neither here nor there. It's going to be difficult to be friends. Sometimes our goals are just... opposed. Maybe impossible in the long run."

Tim Drake has posed:
    Tim presses his thumb and forefinger against his eyelids. "That's why you egged me?" he asks, and he actually sounds mildly distraught. "I feel so uncomfortable in my own skin all the time, it's--I'm good at empathizing with other people, it's part of the reason why I'm usually pretty okay at the whole detective thing."

    Pause. "This case notwithstanding."

    "But I can't wrap my head around that. I mean I know I'm... whatever, but it has so little to do with the mental image I have of myself that..." Wherever Tim was going with what was already a meandering statement, well, he seems to have lost his way. So he just lifts one hand, palm-up, and then lets it flop back down against his leg. "Easier if I was just a brain in a jar," he jokes.

    He tips himself to the side slightly and considers Lonnie, mouth pursed, going so far as to do the whole up-down look thing. And then he digs his knuckles against Lonnie's scalp. "If it were easy, it'd be boring," Tim says, post-noogie. "And then neither of us would be interested."

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    "Well, I mean, I also egged you because you were a despicable capitalist whose family was so entrenched in the Gotham City system they were practically part of the bedrock. And I thought it was funny..." Lonnie ticks off on his fingers. "I hear there's a gorilla who finds the jar aesthetic really appealing-"
    Then he closes his eyes, and goes "Hey!" When Tim noogies him - though he doesn't push back, because he'd hurt him. "I think maybe that's a core part of who you are, deep down. You can't stand being bored. You can't stand being mentally *still*. I'm the same way."
    Then he adds, "Learn to like yourself, Tim - because there's a lot to like. I pay attention, and all those dangerous international assassins must be throwing themselves at you *for a reason*, right?"

Tim Drake has posed:
    All Lonnie gets in response at first is a snort, and then Tim's tipping back the rest of his gatorade.

    "It's almost physically painful, if I try," Tim says, nodding his agreement as he screws the cap onto the now-empty bottle. "Which I think is wrapped up in some deep-seated control issues. 'Control the controllables' isn't a valid coping strategy if I've managed to convince myself that with enough planning, I can account for anything."

    He rubs at his side again. The pain, whatever, he can deal with. Part and parcel with the whole running around Gotham in a cape thing. It's the fogginess from the anesthesia and pain meds that Tim doesn't like, which... well, he said it himself. Control issues.

    For a little while, he contemplates the ice cream container. He really, really shouldn't. "Sure, I'll get right on that." His tone comes out particularly nasally in that moment. "Just wake up tomorrow with all of my issues resolved, everything figured out." The reference to all of the... unexpected encounters with women that Tim's had in costume makes him curl in on himself faintly. "Yeah. If you can't get yourself some Batman DNA, his sidekick's a good enough replacement. Totally a normal thing to do," he adds.

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    Lonnie tips the ice cream toward Tim. "Part of healing is calories. Your body needs energy to burn." He looks up, and then begins to get to his feet. "You need to lie down and rest. And think. But more rest."
    As he's half-risen to his feet, he adds, "Dude. Tim. They're not throwing themselves at you as a Batman substitute. If they want Batman, they go after Batman. Thus the stabby kid with short-man syndrome."

Tim Drake has posed:
    There's maybe a second or two of hesitation before Tim takes the ice cream. "I'm going to eat this," he says, because he's got a hold of it now and it is a foregone conclusion. "But I need to get out of here. I was serious about how avoiding Batman is the only way to keep him from figuring things out, and that's really only good enough to avoid him discovering the fine details. So." He pops a whole mochi into his mouth.

    Which is a mistake. He tries to say something, but then he has to press his hand over his mouth as he chews and chews and chews, and the moment the brain freeze hits is obvious, because his eyes pinch shut.

    More chewing. More wincing. Eventually, Tim swallows, and then he clears his throat. "Uh. Right. Yeah, get out, so I can suffer the indignity of struggling into my jeans without an audience." And then he puts another whole mochi into his mouth because apparently he learned nothing.

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    "Okay. So I'm *totally* on board for helping you avoid Batman." Lonnie says, as he gets Tim's pants.
    "But I have to know, why are you avoiding Batman? 'Because I'm embarassed I got stabbed' doesn't seem like a really good excuse. And I get that you're in kind of a drifting phase? But you didn't really do anything he'd judge to be *wrong*."

Tim Drake has posed:
    Tim stares. First, at his pants in Lonnie's hands. And then he lifts his gaze to stare Lonnie in the eye. Given that he has a mouthful of ice cream and mochi, he can't actually respond, but the thinning of his lips and the dead look in his eyes should communicate the outright disbelief he's experiencing right now.

    "You're kidding, right?" he says as soon as he's able, and maybe it's a little too soon, because it comes out as 'Er kiddink, rih?'

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    "What, that somebody stabbed you?" Lonnie looks perplexed. "Gosh, nobody's EVER stabbed Batman before. I think *I* stabbed him in the leg, once. Or was that you? I got a bad concussion that night, my memory's foggy."
    "I just can't believe that you're being so shifty just because you're embarassed to fess up to Bat-Dad." He laughs, aloud. "It's kind of hilarious, really!"

Tim Drake has posed:
    Tim's fighting his way through his second brain freeze--which he honestly didn't think was even physiologically possible--while Lonnie laughs at him. "Shuddup," he grumbles, chin ducked down. The way he isn't meeting Lonnie's eyes any more makes it easy to assume that it was in fact him that got stabbed that one time.

    He holds his hand out for his pants. "It's not just him! And I fell out of a tree, too! Plus I was completely unarmed, because I am an idiot, this will follow me for the rest of my life if anyone finds out."

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    "...Did he ever tell you about the first time I crossed paths with him? He put his cape over me when I was lying on a gurney, because he felt bad for hitting me full-force without realizing I was a kid."
    Lonnie helps Tim put his pants on, leaning in to get one leg, then the other, as he does with pants.
    "I spraypainted an anarchy symbol onto the back of it."

Tim Drake has posed:
    The whole indignity thing is mostly a farce. Between the amount of dead bodies Tim's seen and how many injuries he's suffered (with the regularity that only a member of the Bat-clan can claim to experience them), it's all kind of background noise at this point. The realities of being human.
    So it's really just the pain that has Tim hesitating before he slips off the bed. Half the process isn't particularly difficult, it's just moving the leg on his injured side tenses his core muscles too close to the stab wound, and Tim's reached the point where he doesn't bother holding in the hissing groan that it triggers.

    "I wonder if he saved it," Tim asks, slightly breathless as he leans back against the bed frame. "You know, souvenir. 'That time I got punked by a kid wearing a fake head."

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    "I would be flattered if he did." Lonnie helps Tim get both legs into his jeans, and helps him pull them up - but the zipping and buttoning he can do himself. He looks around, and then the corner of his mouth turns up into an amused grin. "The first time I got punked by a kid wearing a fake head, you mean."
    He rolls his shoulders, and then for a moment his expression is more somber. "Look. Just... take care of yourself. Your injury could've been way worse than it is... just--" He meets Tim's gaze. "Red Hood uses rubber bullets, and they hurt. A lot."

Tim Drake has posed:
    "First time's always the most special," Tim quips, and then realizes what he's said immediately afterwards, eyes pinching shut. His next exhale is wheezy. "That's not what I meant." He finishes dressing himself, and then braces a hand against Lonnie's shoulder long enough for him to shove his feet into his shoes. They're just gonna have to stay untied.

    He slides his phone into his pocket, and then grabs the Dr. Taco bag because there's no chance whatsoever that he'd leave those behind. "I'll be fine. Who would I be if I didn't have a handful of boltholes where I could hide out for a few days?" He smiles, but it only lasts for a second or two before his expression falters, though he's still looking up at Lonnie. "Thanks, by the way. For... the food." He winces. "And, uh, keeping me company."

    One careful breath later, Tim has braced himself and managed his first step. And he's prepared for the pain, so it doesn't register on his face. In the sense that suddenly nothing is registering on his face. But at least he looks stable. "I'm sorry for worrying you. That's--I... thanks." No more blank expression; he's definitely grimacing as he turns away and it has nothing to do with the pain.

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    Lonnie looks away, and huffs out a breath - and then he approaches Tim on his un-wounded side and hooks an arm under his shoulders to support his weight. Say what you will about Lonnie, the kid has the tensile strength of an old piece of beef jerky. "What're friends for?" He adds, as he... helps Tim leave the clinic long before he's supposed to. What, he was going to do it anyway.
    "Come on, soldier through. I used to train for fights with Batman by moshing at the Snake Pit, you know? Really gives you a tolerance for getting thrashed."

Tim Drake has posed:
    Tim has the good sense, at least, to accept the help. There's no doubt he would've been able to make it out on his own somehow, but he would've struggled through the effort of it. "Wait," he says though, and he tilts his head towards the door. A moment later, no more than a few seconds, the sound of footsteps echoes along the hallway outside the door. Tim exhales, and then nods.

    "I'm fine," he says, even though there's already a touch of sweat gathered at his temples. Clearly he is not fine. He is, however, managing to keep pace. "That sounds... fun." So far his breathing has remained measured. "I was going to make a joke about masochistic tendencies but that would be kind of hilariously hypocritical, wouldn't it?" he laughs.

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    "You should try it. It's a very egalitarian experience, and a good way to ride the adrenaline high. You're awfully cerebral for an adrenaline junkie, you know?" Says the guy with a fused bicameral mind. "There are times when life needs to be lived with abandon, and the experience of free-fall needs to be celebrated."
    "Watch your step."
    "I hear Punch-Face and the Pukes are playing at the Pit next month, they're a great Anarchist punk band. Bakunin Blast, the Flag-Smashers, Eye Hate Clowns, the Batgeoise..."

Tim Drake has posed:
    "Sure," Tim says, before he quite realizes that he's agreeing. "Soon as I don't have an extra hole in my lung. Let's do it." Indeed he does watch his step. "What did you say earlier? Bring your pet 'old-money aristo capitalist' to work day?"

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    "Well the revolution always did have its sympathizers among the aristocracy." Lonnie muses, as he lets Tim put his weight into the taller man. "Besides, I wouldn't keep a pet aristo, you cost way too much money to feed. I already get annoyed that I have to go to gourmet dog food boutiques to get the most nutritious dog food blends for Yap anyway. It shouldn't be a luxury to feed your pet healthy food."

Tim Drake has posed:
    "If we go with the sympathizer angle, maybe I can avoid getting egged again?" Tim asks, hopeful. The conversation is doing a lot to keep him distracted from the pain, even though it feels a little bit like he's getting stabbed all over again with every step. Slight exaggeration. "You're not wrong, though. My Onion Maiden budget alone is kind of obnoxious, but they're local-owned and really good about being eco-friendly." An extra spiteful twinge in his side makes his nose scrunch up. "And they make their own croutons," he hisses out.

    It's a few steps and a few moments before he's capable of talking again. "I, uh, might know a guy with a good homemade dog food recipe."

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    "I make no promises. I see the rich, I egg the rich." Lonnie says, tilting his chin up, as he sneaks Tim into the stairwell. He looks at the stairs, and then at Tim, and says, "Ugh," before he looks at Tim, who's about fifteen pounds heavier than he is despite their height difference, and then he sucks in a breath and... carries Tim down the stairs. "Hang on! Hfffffff, you're heavier than you look, Drake!"

Tim Drake has posed:
    Maybe Tim would, in normal circumstances, have something snarky to say right now. But he doesn't, because all he's doing is making choked off noises in his throat as he clings hard enough to Lonnie's shoulders that he's probably going to leave bruises.

    When they're at the bottom of the stairs, he has to lean against the walll for a couple of seconds until he's like, at least 75% sure he's not going to vomit or pass out. "Guhhhh."

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    "You're the one who wanted to leave!" Lonnie says, as he pats Tim's back. "I'm just enabling you. I'm Gotham's worst supervillain, 'The Enabler.'"

Tim Drake has posed:
    "So--" Pant. "--what does that--" Huff. "--make me?" Tim cuts a hand through the air after he asks, though it's a very flail-y sort of gesture. "Don't. Don't answer that." Slowly, he straightens up, and drops his hand from where it's been clutching his side. "Next time, remind me how awful it is getting stabbed so I don't do it again, okay?" This time around he looks like he's going to try walking on his own, which lasts all of one step before he grabs onto Lonnie's arm.

Lonnie Machin has posed:
Lonnie leans in to catch Tim, which leaves them face-to-face. He's talllllllllll. "...An idiot? But an idiot I'm enabling, sooooo... which of us is really the idiot here?" He lets that pause hang in the air.
    "You. You're the idiot."

Tim Drake has posed:
    "...I hate you," Tim says, as he tries very hard not to laugh. He shifts his hand up to Lonnie's shoulder and, dammit, he's laughing, wheezy and delicate though his breathing may be right now. "This is so stupid. This is legitimately the stupidest thing I've ever done, and I fell out of a tree literally last night."

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    "And yet, you still did it." Lonnie says, "Because your pride is wounded and you don't want to drag this in front of Batman with nothing to show for it. It's downright irrational of you, Drake. It's... the most *human* I've ever seen you be." He's laughing too, which means they're probably straying close to being caught at the bottom of this stairwell.

Tim Drake has posed:
    Tim reaches up to rub his eyes against the sleeve of his hoodie. "Well, congrats," he says through hiccups, and it sounds like he's just barely holding off on falling into hysterical laughter. "You're right. I'm an idiot." He's doing his best to support his own weight here, but admittedly he's also barely hanging onto Lonnie. This is a very ineffective escape attempt. "Come on, if they find us we're going to have to do this all over again, but with them expecting it. Get me out to the curb and call me an Uber."

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    "No way, if I just leave you that opens me up to that much more of a bat-beating. At least this way I have the out that you were being stubborn and I was keeping an eye on you." He lug-drags Tim outside. "I've never heard you laugh before. You were always the Stern Robin. It's nice. Try to laugh more, Drake. It's good for you."

Tim Drake has posed:
    "I'll get you a get-out-of-beating-free Bat-card," Tim assures Lonnie from his place, slightly to the side and half a foot or so slumped down from him. He's staring downwards at his feet, frowning with intense focus. The fresh air--inasmuch as it can be called such, in Gotham--seems to help revitalize him. "Sure, okay. Maybe try to be funny once in a while, Lonnie, who knows what could happen."

    A car horn beeps at them just before a Mercedes Benz with heavily tinted windows (definitely not legal in Jersey!) pulls up to the curb. "Oh," Tim says, and he has his phone out, squinting at it. "So maybe I called myself an Uber." It's definitely not an Uber. Though it's hard to see through the windows, there's an older gentleman with white hair in the driver's seat. Tim stumbles out of Lonnie's hold, manages to slump against the car, and get the backdoor open. Immediately he tumbles inside. "Bye, Lonnie. Tell Yap I said hello. I'll send you that recipe."

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    "Sure." Lonnie says, as he tosses in the burritos behind Tim and closes the door. "Be seeing you, Drake." He watches the car pull off, and stands in the taillights for a moment, though eventually the darkness closes over him, and when another car passes by, there's nobody there.