There was a hole in Robin’s leg that would eventually heal. One that stretched and ached whenever he walked, but he couldn’t complain about it. Not really. It was his own damned fault. Only you, people might say. So Robin wouldn’t mention it. The wound was wide and deep but had been haphazardly bandaged, the crisp white material wrapped around his thigh beneath the denim of his jeans. He couldn’t even weave it into some fantastic story about how he’d bested some hunter, or had escaped the wrath of a particularly heinous fae.
No, Robin had been watching Netflix.
Sprawled on the couch with his eyes half watching The Get Down and half paying attention to the dagger he’d somehow got hold of (it had been put on the coffee table when he’d got home one night, a spectacular find that he’d wanted to show off but had forgotten about). Semi interested and semi restless, Robin had been flipping the dagger – tossing it up to catch it by the hilt, and tossing it again to catch it by the blade, back and forth, probably lucky he didn’t slice off a finger or three. But he had dropped a catch, and the blade had plunged deep into the flesh of Robin’s thigh.
He’d cleaned the blood from the couch as best he could, but the stain was still there. He had flung a decorative throw over the couch to attempt to hide it, though he figured Maddison was going to find it. Eventually. Maybe, by then, he could plead ignorant. He could ask her whether she could have accidentally spilled a blood bag without realising.
Now, he was cleaned up and dressed, finished the outfit with a crumbled denim jacket that was mostly clean and rolled up to his elbows. All evidence of his bad luck had been scrubbed clean and hidden, and for all intents and purposes he looked like his usual scruffy self. Tonight was not a work night – his hair was mostly unbrushed and there were no suits in sight.
He paced the living room, before pulling his phone from his pocket. He pulled up the message screen, and texted Maddison:
He’d never really been good at sitting around and doing nothing.
No, Robin had been watching Netflix.
Sprawled on the couch with his eyes half watching The Get Down and half paying attention to the dagger he’d somehow got hold of (it had been put on the coffee table when he’d got home one night, a spectacular find that he’d wanted to show off but had forgotten about). Semi interested and semi restless, Robin had been flipping the dagger – tossing it up to catch it by the hilt, and tossing it again to catch it by the blade, back and forth, probably lucky he didn’t slice off a finger or three. But he had dropped a catch, and the blade had plunged deep into the flesh of Robin’s thigh.
He’d cleaned the blood from the couch as best he could, but the stain was still there. He had flung a decorative throw over the couch to attempt to hide it, though he figured Maddison was going to find it. Eventually. Maybe, by then, he could plead ignorant. He could ask her whether she could have accidentally spilled a blood bag without realising.
Now, he was cleaned up and dressed, finished the outfit with a crumbled denim jacket that was mostly clean and rolled up to his elbows. All evidence of his bad luck had been scrubbed clean and hidden, and for all intents and purposes he looked like his usual scruffy self. Tonight was not a work night – his hair was mostly unbrushed and there were no suits in sight.
He paced the living room, before pulling his phone from his pocket. He pulled up the message screen, and texted Maddison:
Let’s do something tonight. Something fun. Where are you?
He’d never really been good at sitting around and doing nothing.
[Wearing]
