[Back at Wayne Manor, Alfred is eased out of his coat, and his bed quickly becomes a makeshift examination table. Oswald raids the nearest medicine cabinet, bringing Lee everything he can find: antiseptic ointment, gauze, bandages, nitrile gloves. He watches her pull a chair up to the bedside and clear the nightstand, suddenly feeling too big for the room. Drowning in that silence. Chewing his nails, he struggles not to stare at the blood, the gashes. When Lee readies the antiseptic, he can't stay.
Among the rations Alfred’s been diligently stockpiling — bricks of instant noodles, jerky, granola bars — Oswald finds two tins of tomato soup. Dusting the lids off with his sleeve, he cracks open the pull tabs and pours the contents into a small pot. A few lumps of celery, potato, and carrot tumble out. He cautiously licks one of the lids, wrinkling his nose. It’s a tart, bland excuse for soup; a far cry from what either of them could make on a good day. But with a heavy dash of seasoning and a slab of buttered toast alongside it, they’d make do; they've both survived on less.
He flicks on the burner, cuts two generous slices from the loaf in the bread box, and loads the toaster before slumping into the nearest chair to wait.
With the adrenaline draining out of him, he realizes just how weak and winded bedrest has left him, how much everything hurts. He’s not sure how he’ll get the food upstairs, but he’s determined to carry it up and see that Alfred is fed — even if it takes several trips. It’s the most and the least he can do.]
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timeskippery
Date: 2025-02-14 05:07 am (UTC)Among the rations Alfred’s been diligently stockpiling — bricks of instant noodles, jerky, granola bars — Oswald finds two tins of tomato soup. Dusting the lids off with his sleeve, he cracks open the pull tabs and pours the contents into a small pot. A few lumps of celery, potato, and carrot tumble out. He cautiously licks one of the lids, wrinkling his nose. It’s a tart, bland excuse for soup; a far cry from what either of them could make on a good day. But with a heavy dash of seasoning and a slab of buttered toast alongside it, they’d make do; they've both survived on less.
He flicks on the burner, cuts two generous slices from the loaf in the bread box, and loads the toaster before slumping into the nearest chair to wait.
With the adrenaline draining out of him, he realizes just how weak and winded bedrest has left him, how much everything hurts. He’s not sure how he’ll get the food upstairs, but he’s determined to carry it up and see that Alfred is fed — even if it takes several trips. It’s the most and the least he can do.]