Holland March (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
questioningmermaids) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
singillatim2024-03-06 10:21 am
questioningmermaids) wrote in singillatim2024-03-06 10:21 am
closed; long cool woman
Who: Holland March + Cornelius Hickey and then also March + Bigby
What: A little CR, a lot of gossip
When: Early March
Where: Various cabins
Content Warnings: The usual alcoholism tw for March, most likely weird shit from Hickey, will update as needed
This place is utterly fucked. Irrevocably. Bigby's town meeting really drove that home--March had been there, quiet in the background and keeping his mouth shut. Maybe they're not all starving like he's predicted but there's a terrifying monster that can't be stopped--and yeah, monsters, they exist, he's still kind of grappling with that, too, even if it's been a while.
Bigby's technically a monster. That's certainly a sentence that March has thought and turned around over and over in his mind for the past few months, too. Difference: Bigby isn't going to claw him to death for no reason. Maybe he will now, though, because March is starting to feel it. That dig. That itch. Maybe it's the Darkwalker appearing again that's subconsciously kickstarting it. Maybe it's because he's running away from complicated feelings around someone who's name starts with a W.
Regardless of the reason, it definitely seems like Holland March has his groove back.
He notices something's off with Bigby in the community hall before all of this with a pretty, power suited new arrival. With the new arrival, at least for the broad shouldered wolfman. Subtle, but there, and March has to give Bigby credit for hiding it extremely well, but March knows him better than he'd like. The blond grins through the toothpick he's been chewing at in a feeble attempt to curb his nicotine cravings when he notices the two together, waits until he's fairly certain Bigby's alone in his cabin to knock on the door.
And he does knock, to his credit. He's also immediately opening it and making himself at home, rose tinted aviators fogging up as he transitions from hot to cold, stomping his boots on the porch like he's born and raised in the midwest despite never seeing a flyover state in his life.
"You wanna talk horrors?"
That's a non-answer, Bigby. Of course you do. March closes the door behind him and starts shoving his obnoxiously coloured ski jacket off. He's practically vibrating.
Yeah. March definitely has his groove back.
Even March knows he can't avoid it for very long. Eventually, he's got to talk about it. He's like a carbonated soda that's been shaken like crazy, it's kind of embarrassing. But it's not like he can goes straight to the source and hash it out and all that.
When he finally decides to do something about it he makes a list of people that give him the time of day. It's a surprisingly short list (he tries not to think about that) and he spends a solid 20 minutes going through it over and over, his little detective notebook worn out but still kicking:
Maybe:
-Healy not here
-Fraser square
-Bigby will actually give advice
-Tim (?) 12 years old
-Kieren Also 12 years old
-Wynonna NO!!!
-Goodsir (?) too victorian
-Lanfear complicated
-Hickey
Hickey should have the same problem as Goodsir, which is mainly that they're all so Victorian their idea of a fun recreational activity is some lady singing opera at them for four hours in a musty theatre, except Hickey's different. Hickey likes to party. So March brings half a bottle of moonshine--he already drank half of it the day before, whoops--and heads over to where he knows Hickey is.
It's not like anything crazy or dramatic has happened to the boat boys in the past few days, after all. That would be ridiculous.
Knock, knock, pal.
What: A little CR, a lot of gossip
When: Early March
Where: Various cabins
Content Warnings: The usual alcoholism tw for March, most likely weird shit from Hickey, will update as needed
➤ Bigby
This place is utterly fucked. Irrevocably. Bigby's town meeting really drove that home--March had been there, quiet in the background and keeping his mouth shut. Maybe they're not all starving like he's predicted but there's a terrifying monster that can't be stopped--and yeah, monsters, they exist, he's still kind of grappling with that, too, even if it's been a while.
Bigby's technically a monster. That's certainly a sentence that March has thought and turned around over and over in his mind for the past few months, too. Difference: Bigby isn't going to claw him to death for no reason. Maybe he will now, though, because March is starting to feel it. That dig. That itch. Maybe it's the Darkwalker appearing again that's subconsciously kickstarting it. Maybe it's because he's running away from complicated feelings around someone who's name starts with a W.
Regardless of the reason, it definitely seems like Holland March has his groove back.
He notices something's off with Bigby in the community hall before all of this with a pretty, power suited new arrival. With the new arrival, at least for the broad shouldered wolfman. Subtle, but there, and March has to give Bigby credit for hiding it extremely well, but March knows him better than he'd like. The blond grins through the toothpick he's been chewing at in a feeble attempt to curb his nicotine cravings when he notices the two together, waits until he's fairly certain Bigby's alone in his cabin to knock on the door.
And he does knock, to his credit. He's also immediately opening it and making himself at home, rose tinted aviators fogging up as he transitions from hot to cold, stomping his boots on the porch like he's born and raised in the midwest despite never seeing a flyover state in his life.
"You wanna talk horrors?"
That's a non-answer, Bigby. Of course you do. March closes the door behind him and starts shoving his obnoxiously coloured ski jacket off. He's practically vibrating.
Yeah. March definitely has his groove back.
➤ Hickey
Even March knows he can't avoid it for very long. Eventually, he's got to talk about it. He's like a carbonated soda that's been shaken like crazy, it's kind of embarrassing. But it's not like he can goes straight to the source and hash it out and all that.
When he finally decides to do something about it he makes a list of people that give him the time of day. It's a surprisingly short list (he tries not to think about that) and he spends a solid 20 minutes going through it over and over, his little detective notebook worn out but still kicking:
Maybe:
-Hickey
Hickey should have the same problem as Goodsir, which is mainly that they're all so Victorian their idea of a fun recreational activity is some lady singing opera at them for four hours in a musty theatre, except Hickey's different. Hickey likes to party. So March brings half a bottle of moonshine--he already drank half of it the day before, whoops--and heads over to where he knows Hickey is.
It's not like anything crazy or dramatic has happened to the boat boys in the past few days, after all. That would be ridiculous.
Knock, knock, pal.
cw spousal death, child neglect, alcoholism, the usual tim-march issues hour
March is supposed to be play-it-cool. This shouldn't bother him--he's got his own shit to deal with. There's plenty of other people in this snowy hellscape that are better equipped for this shit. The soft fathers, the polite minders, the community oriented folks who toil endlessly to make sure everyone has a hot meal and a ear to listen in the little community hall. March doesn't do that.
He used to before this. Before he got kicked off of the force for planting evidence, before the fire. It's different here, sure, but March has already thrown in the towel and given up. There's not much point in close interpersonal relationships for him, not really.
Except he has a daughter. Tim talks about walking around at night, and March is suddenly painfully aware of how he's seen Holly sneaking out to the razed patch of land where their old house is, armed with a flashlight and a book to be a little bit closer to her mom while March refuses to rebuild it. How she looks up to him even though she's regularly waiting around in bars for him, ready to drive him home. He should be a better father. He should be a better person, but here he is, wishing for a cigarette and a quick way out of this conversation.
What was it his wife said? He's never had any follow through. Maybe it's time to start changing that a little. ]
You can't spend your life with a ghost looming over you, Tim. You can't change what happened.
[ He stands up, chair scraping on the floor, another Dad Grunt as he picks the jar up and purposefully wanders to stare out the window. ]
Do me a favour?
ʕ•ᴥ•ʔ
Tim is very aware of the pin-prick of panic nestling into every pore of his skin.
It's a... need. To avoid. Evade. But he has a plan, and the back of his tongue feels sour and heavy and it's a whiplash between wanting to correct the man in front (a ghost? what about ten?) and having to wrestle himself back from lunging clear across the table to grab a hold of the poor bastard and (don't leave please don't leave him he didn't mean it not really he doesn't know please!).
Tim sees himself for a second. Thinks (knows) he really is going crazy. Says,] Yeah, my mom was the only one who was any good at... this, too. [Tim sees himself and sees a girl he doesn't know, but he remembers a wedding ring on March's necklace. On his neck. Like a garrote.] -I think.
[Tim doesn't remember Jack doing anything performative after his wife passed away. He knew how to move forward. Move on. Jack was hitched to Dana soon enough.
March isn't Jack. Tim knows this.
(But god they're both going to fall apart without hi--
but, god, they're going to fall apart because Tim never does anything worth--)
Do me a favour? And Tim wants to beg that yes, anything he would do anything just make him feel like he's doing something.
Tim feels a headache, and vaguely wonders if he's coming down sick. He slides to standing, wary and weary and silent like the ghost he ought to be, but isn't.]
What is it?
[To know how to force control of an out of control situation and still decide to surrender to the dizzying unknown-- what does that say about him? Tim finds himself missing Bruce. He knows he could get direction then, even if he knows he'd be quick to discard them.]
no subject
[ It hurts, the sudden bout of clarity he's been surpressing. This time he reaches for the jar, not because of anything Tim is doing but because he's said the one thing he avoids like the plague out loud. He's not nearly drunk enough for this type of self awareness--any self awareness, really, and it's not a manly thing to do, but he finds he can't really look at Tim in the eye. ]
Don't be like me.
[ He needs a cigarette. Instead, he glances over at the picture of Holly this godforsaken frozen hellscape has gifted him. He's got to lighten this somehow, for both of their sanities. ]
You're gonna start seeing Richard Nixon if you do, and I don't think you've got the chops for that.
cw projection ahoy: neglect, abandonment, emotional abuse, relationship for pay, idefkjfc
Tim bristles, the resentment of too many heartbreaks boiling over, the cold sting of disappointment forgotten like so many empty promises to him had been forgotten by the men around him.]
It's that bad.
[Sometimes he's so fucking tired, or pissed, or both, but Tim doesn't wonder why nobody sticks around anymore.
He invites loneliness, he cherishes the abandon.
(Hey kid, don't you get tired walking all the way out to the farms? Why did you move out there anyway? You really don't know what you're doing, I'll help. You don't even need to ask. There's a little kid hanging around, he can't be all alone out there, you can't take care of him all by yourself it's okay I'll help I got you.)
When he started crying is a mystery, but Tim has a headache, so he pins the wet blur of the world on that.]
I always wondered what I was doing that was so bad that my parents couldn't stand being in the same continent as me. Then I didn't know why I had to live in the stables when I had been in B's freaking custody already! Did you know that I paid a man to glance my way once every other week after my father died?! That Bruce didn't even bother to ask what the hell had happened when he was gone, why I wasn't at home anymore! But I get it now, because you're not even aware of that world but it's happened to you too!
Having a kid is that bad! It's the worst thing that happened to you!
You're looking at her and all you can think of is why and you wish you could just forget it!!
no subject
It's when Tim brings up Holly that March's eyes narrow, a flash of something--a warning, maybe, something uncharacteristically alert--and as Tim's shout echoes up and reverberates around his little cozy cabin March looks at the teen very, very pointedly. He watches the other, brings a hand up to rub at his facial hair in a very clear 'what-am-i-going-to-do-with-you' gesture. He doesn't blame Tim for lashing out in the least, hell, if he was 15 and had as much family issues as Tim appears to have he'd probably be the same.
But the kid's crying. ]
You put any more words in my mouth about how I feel about my own daughter and we're going to have a problem. [ March's voice has been cool, calm, and a matter of fact--a firm boundary, nothing more. He exhales loudly.]
Alright. C'mere.
[ The kid's in pain, and even an asshole with no follow through needs to do something about that. He moves towards the other, moving in to pull the other into a hug, forgetting about what's happened. What will happen. The hurt and the pain that comes from physical touch. ]
unreliable narrator who
And so Tim sobs. Because it hurts.
With barbed spite he barks,] Then fucking start acting like you want to go back to her again! [and frankly he'll pat himself on the back later in a restless sleep; Tim isn't a whimpering dog. At least. Through bone-aching shuddering that he's in absolutely no control of (he's lost control of everything) and a head splitting pain and he's tossed aside again and his chest is what's being split open with his heart exposed to the blizzard-cold without reprieve, he can at least still bite.
...at least until the man, standing ahead and far too sober for this shit, pushes the hug thing again.
And it's been a hot minute since Tim's been hugged, and he thinks of Bruce and Dick and Cassie and Kon and his dad, and Tim ducks his head and all but throws himself into those open arms because he doesn't know what to do to keep feeding the cow and make sure the rabbits don't kill themselves and stay out and awake to record the Aurora nights now that he's without Damian's help and
it's like being burned alive.
The embrace.
Tim bites his tongue (really bites into it) to stifle the stupid and sniveling sob that now wants to tear out of his idiot throat.
He holds this man like the invitation for a passing affection is the best damn thing that's happened to him in months.
And it fucking hurts.
And Tim thinks, well, that's fine so long as he can hide his face in March's chest, just for a while.]
no subject
No, not that. It's hard to concentrate when you feel like your head is going to literally split in two.
But March hugs back as fiercely as he can anyway, wincing with the effort. ]
no subject
The thoughts never stop but now they're gleeful and unapologetically mean:
no, Tim's not made for anything but abhorrence.
He doesn't shove March away, rather he slips expertly out of the hold.
He's fighting his legs to keep himself standing and with the vicious wiping at his stupid face and staining his sweater red with spittle, Tim figures it out:
(God help him he really is crazy.)]
I didn't know you had-- you could--
The fire power is new?
[It doesn't smell like his skin is melting, but Tim's riding the delusion. Sue him.]
no subject
And that doesn't matter anyway, none of it matters, because Tim slips back and March looks at him, the window outside, purposefully skips over the picture of Holly as he moves towards the little tiny kitchen. ]
S'comin' in handy. Even if I ran out of cigarettes to light. You find any, you let me know, huh?
[ He's pulling out another seperate jar, putting it on the table. Sliding it over to Tim. Fuck it. Get smashed with a teenager. It's fine.]
reference to underage drinking
Tim swallows again, unsure if he admires this or what the fuck, and he swears he can see his body like he's outside of it as he tries,] Oh.
[Huh.
But it figures.]
You could have just... thrown a chair at me or something. I would'a shut up. I mean, you know: sixty percent of the time, it works every time.
[His quote falls flat but Tim will pat himself on the back later for still... standing, though he gives up and slumps down obediently and docile on the chair he had abandoned in a rage.
The rage feels as far away as his body does right now.
He takes the glass and his hand only shakes slightly. He says,] This stuff is terrible. I couldn't even figure out how people liked the good scotch. And that was in Nice. France. Party boat, so you know that the Crown Prince didn't, like, skimp on the drinks.
no subject
You can judge a rich person by their martinis.
[ Casual. Fact-of-the-matter. March wonders why the fuck Tim's first joke is about a chair thrown at him, but hey, they're in this together now. Maybe he'll ask later. ]
no subject
Wiping at his face with a furry sleeve, Tim doesn't miss a beat and chimes,] 'Shaken and not stirred'.
[Though his dad would let him stay up late with him in the TV room, sometimes. Sometimes when the stars aligned and Jack was actually both home and in a good mood, and Tim would say he'd finished his homework and what was so fascinating about that old sitcom anyway? They'd then spend a solid half-hour or full hour together watching this comedy on Army doctors. One of them was a booze hound, would always have his martini drier than the Sahara.
Tim wants to sob again. He clenches his jaw against the soreness.
Just kind of sits there dumbly in his shame and fiddles with the glass.]
You drink a lot around Holly, too.
no subject
[ March's voice is sudden, but soft. That transparent lack of judgement, the casual tone that would be easier if he had a smoke in between his fingers, wrist moving as he speaks. Tim's in pain, still, it's pretty fucking obvious--physical, mentally, the whole shebang--but it's not like March can do much about it.
Maybe he was crazy to pull the other into a hug. Probably he was. Definitely, a little. Booze will help. With the open wounds, with the mental ones. ]
You like to push buttons. Get a rise. Makes you feel seen without showing any actual vulnerability.
no subject
The truth doesn't ring true anymore.
Dazed, expression now pinched in concentration instead of-- crying, Tim fights off his newest crisis by inching his glass to the table's edge. Fingers loosely holding it.
You know, Alfred totally said he could and so that means
(the idea of alcohol on the cut of his tongue is (blessedly) repugnant. Behold: lucidity.)]
Very funny.
[Lucidity tastes like salt, blood, and untruths he still wants to believe but can't.]
Tell me where I should put in 'n application for bellboy.
[Talk is exhausting.
He could bring up the dead wife.
No.
He shakes his head and just.
Shakes his head.
(He should make a run for it.)]
no subject
He thinks he probably likes Tim because the little punk reminds me of himself, good and bad. Tim’s got a lot more follow through, though. A streak of actually doing good, where March just sort of talks about it and does the opposite. ]
Hey. It’s a skillset. Pretty important one if you wanna solve mysteries and all that.
waddles back here with some mild self harm
The private investigator is needling now. Tim has half a mind to let March know it's obvious. And that through the time March must have served as a beat cop it would have been justly pointed out.
Tim's throat is sour with an apology he needs to give.
He's reclining into this chair like he's hoping the back will open up as a portal to the worlds of New Gods; he hopes it breaks and he splits open his head in the fall.]
What do you want?
[(For Tim to get gone. To run, run away and never come back.)
There's a lazy headache and Tim wants to scrub at his eyes or pull out his hair, but he's so stubbornly still that it makes even breathing seem impossible.
He's tired. And he looks on at March. And he's sorry. And not-- really sure he won't blow up again, unwarranted and needlessly. And he's not sure when this happened in him, the cold need to hurt. And that's so exhausting. And it's fine that nobody cares because it's nothing to care about and--
He can't fucking take it. He says,] I'm sorry. [without a voice, and so it's just his mouth moving, and Tim can barely get enough air to breathe and he doesn't know when the
A hand comes up and he cards it through his rat's nest of hair, and he tugs. It's childish. It's sharp.
It's beyond-]
I'm sorry. I didn't mean to... I don't know. I really don't know what happened.
[Ah, there's his voice.
It sounds confused, and sort of helpless.
Tim hates it.]
You didn't deserve to have me just... I don't know. I don't know.
[And he fucking hates it.]