Clothed in our grief

Chapter Thirty Three

Stepping out of the bathroom onto the tan colored fake wood patterned linoleum flooring in your room, stepping past the door frame and onto the grey rug you bought and placed on the floor so it wouldn't be so slippery. New linoleum tends to be so slippery, that even sometimes you nearly catch yourself falling even though you've got no socks or shoes on to slip from. It's almost as if the people who owned this place beforehand liked to wax the floors literally every other day of the week, and twice on saturday.

You put your hands up in defense, walking towards the slowly awakening Robin as if you were walking towards a wild dog that had it's teeth snarled. Slow and steady, making sure you run everything through your head before you even say anything.

The white wooden frame of the bed had some mud on it, probably from his boots that were now laying on the ground by the bed. Did you do that? You remember doing some things before passing out, such as taking off his cape because that was definitely something you weren't going to let on your bed. Soaking with water, you think you just ended up hanging that on the doorknob to dry. But you clearly would recall trying to untie his shoes, seeing as the length of them? It would have taken a while. His green gloves, his gauntlets, and his knee pads where off of himself, too. He must have dealt with it in his sleep, or woke up for a small amount of time during the time you were asleep.

"Are you, um, awake?" You asked quietly, walking with now both feet onto the soft grey carpet you picked up from Target a couple weeks ago. Raising a single thin eyebrow, opening your mouth in forms of confusion. You stopped walking, but let your arms cross nervously under your chest. You're literally wearing nothing but a knee length bath robe right now, but in reality? It's really not that bad. It's just like wearing a dress, really. And it's not like you're doing to be moving around too much, so there's no issue in the fact that this is the only thing that you're wearing.

"Ugh.." He let out a tired groan, sitting up. To which you opened your mouth to speak with a, "No, don't get up too fast. You hit your head pretty hard on the side of the cargo crate." Stepping forwards out of worry, bending your knees slightly to get to a lower position and make eye contact with him.

Stopping just a couple feet short of placing your palm on the back of his neck to help him up. He was clearly going to feel that, if not now? Then later.But of course, you kept your space and didn't really feel the need to go and help him. He's just sitting up, he's not an infant with a head too big for it's body. You've already done enough for him, and you being alive is proof enough that the two of you are even and that he should really get going soon.

It's been eight hours, nine if you're going to count the argument you had with Damian out in the rain. About the ring? Yeah, that was nine hours ago. Wow, time is passing so much differently. You guess kidnapping does that to a person. Nine hours and the last that your mother ever saw of you since then was you stepping outside with a hand gripped tight around Damian's wrist. Poor Damian, she's probably going to assume that he had something to do with all of this. First, you get mad at him just by angry assumption. Second, you find out that the ring was one of two? You kinda felt humiliated for getting so angry with him, it isn't like he stole it or anything. And now? Well, as stated, the last she saw of you in the past nine to ten hours? Yeah, things weren't looking so good.

You don't even realize that you're holding your breath, and if it weren't for the mask over the young vigilante's eyes? You'd probably be making eye contact with him right now. And it felt so strange. Like the way you look at a picture of someone who you've never spoken to, yet you know a lot about them. When in reality, it should you be looking at a picture and knowing little to nothing about them. In this case, it's not even a full picture. Just half a picture, damnit.

"What should I do? Do I go to the police after this? Do I just stay home? Do I go to the hospital and ask them to run any and all tests on me? Who was that guy, what did he want with me?!" Okay, so here's when the reality hits you. The sudden realization smacking you across the face like it's a winter day and your cheeks are frozen stiff but they're turning a bright shade of rosy red, where the tip of your nose copies that same color. Someone comes along, and gives you a good hard reality awakening slap to the face. Open palmed, too.