singillatim | [closed] What praise is more valuable than the praise of an intelligent servant?

Entry tags:

[closed] What praise is more valuable than the praise of an intelligent servant?

Who: Tim Drake, Damian Wayne; Tim Drake, Holland March
What: The boys drink tea and grieve a friend (and maybe overcome some of their differences); Tim makes a plan, and that's a good thing
When: Late August
Where: Woods, Milton; March's cabin, Milton

Content Warnings: we're doing the Tea Time prompt, all those warnings will apply; and hunting; poorly managed grief; hallucinations; PTSD; possible violence because just look at them; will add as needed

He'd been out checking traps, taking the time to do maintenance on his deadfalls and ensuring that the painted and posted signs were more than appropriate at warning off wandering humans .There were lesser traps throughout, all nuisances that would force a person to halt and maybe wonder why the fuck a pinecone was launched at their face with a vengeance (and those eyes would then find an obnoxious number of words and pictures spelling it all out: DO NOT GO FORWARD FROM HERE LOOSE BOULDERS YOUR LIFE IS IN DANGER AVOID THIS AREA). Or something like that. Tim had gotten a... big, brown, shaggy, lanky, cow-thing the other day.

Good eatin'.

Damian had just. Materialized behind him, a fact that Tim can't bristle at because with more snowfall came more of that soundproofing quality that snow has, and besides: this is the son of Batman. (Older than he should be, in more ways than one. But still an awkward, shaggy, lanky... child. Thing.)

Tim had pretended that he'd been taking down the deadfalls this whole time.

They were a stupid idea anyway.

Had pretended that he hadn't heard of Damian's distress from the vampire du Lac, and hadn't brought up the last weeks at all. In fact, Tim spent the evening with the little shadow pretty silently. But Tim had been the one to break first; quiet hadn't been sitting well with him lately.

He had asked if Batcow could maybe find herself a big, beefy, Bison boyfriend. What if he asks her, Please?

(What the hell does he know about animals.)

Eventually he dismantles the last of the behemoth traps, with the lingering idea that he's done good.

It's getting darker, earlier. It stays dark, longer. Tim had hiked up his black hood and asked tiredly,

"You heading back too, or what?"

The brat liked Lakeside, and didn't like him, so Tim wasn't sure if he should shove off or wait an extra three seconds for Damian to finish collecting his things.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

He watches Tim - has been watching Tim on and off for the last few days, he gets the feeling that sometimes Tim notices and sometimes he's probably too sleep deprived to notice whatever's even in front of him.

They don't talk about it, in addition to all the other things they don't talk about, or the way that they don't talk in general.

He'd been considering his options. He had figured that Tim had this side of town handled - with maybe some assistance from Jason though that's always a complete wildcard.

He left his responsibility (Batcow, protecting Milton itself) here under the assumption that Tim would handle it, and somewhere in Damian's mind he can acknowledge that's probably not fair.

Despite this, he wasn't following Tim this time. He was looking for arrivals. That's always part of his routine.

"Milton needs repairs. And protection, given the state that it's all been left in," The sailors will probably lynch Hickey and Damian should probably give a shit but honestly, so long as they stop making it everyone else's problem... "I'll stick around for a few weeks."

You clearly can't be trusted to take care of yourself, let alone everyone else. He doesn't state that outloud, but he does think it.

They don't talk, and Tim figures that it's as best as they can behave; hell, his role in the clan has always been far more Work than Life balanced, and though it's difficult to extend some courtesy to a stranger... anyway, Jason had taken some of the proverbial wind out of his sails after calling them brothers. Tim had reasoned that good people forgive and forget, but he comes up predictably short and only says he forgives. It should be, he thinks, more than enough.

But to be continuously harried after he's said his truce is an offense that makes him want to take it all back. Tim's not any fucking good at emotions, he knows, and there's blame to assign to himself in giving in to ideas and ideals of family.

"'That it's been left in'," he repeats, voice just reciting back to his brother. Tim could let this slide the way Damian had let slide his pestering about the cow (it's cool that she's okay, he had wanted to say, I have some feed and...) but it's different. As far as attacks are concerned, Tim's claws have been (and have stayed) sheathed. And there's always the expectation that that is just how things should be. And Tim thinks, because this is a situation where two against one is inevitable, that he will absolutely not forget that-

"Newsflash, Robin, it's always been a cesspool."

Wolves would eat the dead that still had littered the woods; the structures were more destroyed than time itself would warrant; none of these people had the safety that a community should offer. Robin (if Tim wanted to be fair) maybe wouldn't know, though. He had hightailed it to Lakeside one evening, and decided that his princely hands wouldn't dirty themselves on this podunk town.

People had died. He could have done better, done more. He hadn't. Guilt churns and turns his stomach. Damian had gotten what he wanted. Tim turns.

The walk back to Milton is one that Tim can now make with his eyes closed.

Tempting.

Pax.

Repairs need to be made. The Community Center is everyone's shelter. To lose it...

"Do you go around telling everyone that I know you?"

Fair is fair.

"Or is that something only du Lac sussed out? Do I have to remind you just how bad of an idea that is?"

Edited 2024-09-03 22:16 (UTC)

Of course. They can't exactly go one full conversation without Tim looming over him and trying to cast judgement as if this isn't all his fuck-up. As if Damian is the half conscious liability here.

Always. Always with the sanctimony and assumptions.

He grits his teeth and narrowly avoids letting his anger turn into a raised voice, settling for a chilly hiss instead.

"And I thought you could handle it, or at least keep it from getting worse. Which was clearly a mistake on my end," It isn't fair and he knows it, but all the same, he wasn't the one that started handing out blame. Evidently Tim thinks that he was somehow slacking or relaxing in the town that was on the border of the largest group of organized survivors that have a vested interest in killing them all, or relaxing in the dam as he tried to find any possible way they could generate some degree of power, or at least figuring out the specifics of what was blocking them. "Any work on longterm solutions will have to wait, clearly. And if the Forest Talkers attack and kill them all I'll just have to live with it."

Tim's next statement makes him want to break his ribs with a swift strike, disable him for another two seasons, maybe. Or he could punch his throat so hard he won't be able to talk for days. Instead, he just glares and grinds his teeth.

He could be vulnerable, reveal why Louis knew, that he caught Damian when he was panicking and desperate. And he has no doubt that Tim will use it as ammunition against him. Trust is something he can't afford to give out to this iteration of his "brother."

"The vampire being aware that I know your fucking name doesn't enter into the upper echelons of my top concerns, no. Any other fun and interesting avenues you want to use to deflect your own guilt?"

Sucks that Tim can acknowledge he's drowning on dry land, but there's one opening that he'd be daft to not latch on to. Guilt is a pain for those people who have standards, a measurement of how far they've fallen. And Tim has learned, and it's quite fresh, in fact, that he has no qualms with bringing a son of a bitch down with him.

"Thank you, Robin, for acknowledging your blunder," he credits, perfectly polite despite the battle lines being drawn. Isn't it weird? This feels more like home than giving Jason Todd a piggyback ride. They should be over this crap. It's been months, they both know the monsters they're against. And Tim knows he's slipped up, and that Damian's sharp audacity was a great help to Dick, actually, but the whole of the world is not on his shoulders and if it is then fuck right off because he obviously can't 'handle it' and to delude oneself to entertain the idea that he can is an abject failure.

Ass.

"Do better."

That's Tim's jiminy cricket, alright.

And this is Tim, not bothering to even glance aside to the kid.

Should have just left him alone back there.

What's one more fuck up in a long, drawn out history of fuck ups-? But Tim mulls it over, those battle lines, and he make them make sense. (Because nothing else ever does.)

"If that vampire is for me to worry about, then you need to keep your undead away from the people here."

All Tim knows is that Kieren treks to Lakeside.

(Should have stopped him, too, could have stopped-- but he hadn't.)

(Tim clicks his tongue in childish annoyance and will deny that he ever did to his dying breath. --tck.)

"We can have Jason wrestle the werewolves to keep him busy until he becomes one."

There's a lot of people Damian has met over the course of his career that had their life influenced in some way by Tim Drake, a lot of which will talk at length about what a great hero he was and openly scorn Damian for not being just like this idyllic hero in their heads.

Tim doesn't look at him, but Damian stares at the absolute fucking mess standing in front of him.

"I'm not entrusting Milton to you again," Which means Lakeside is getting abandoned, because that's the calculus he has to make. Keeping Milton is more important than holding Lakeside. "And Kieren is a useless self pitying wreck, if he steps out of line again I'm putting him in a coma. Besides. If I were leaving you in charge of the vampires, I'd need to be sure you know how many there are."

A test of Tim's deductive fucking reasoning that everyone prattles on about.

There's a campfire ahead. Smoke rising up in the sky. Damian clicks his tongue at it. They should stop arguing. Scout instead. They'll argue anyway.

So easy, it almost feels like cheating. "You may not know this," Tim mutters, pensive but not, just to hear his voice dip to something airy, unattached, and objective in his next observation. "But when people have these things called Friends, in school, they really like that tactic if, for example, they don't know a question on their homework but want to seem like they do."

There's smoke ahead.

"Also usually employed after a pop quiz, or a benchmark test. Where they know they failed but want to know why, and they try to get you to be the bearer of bad news."

As far as Tim Drake is aware, it's the ghouls of the night shift who take charge in investigating the Unknown, or the Terrible. But Robin is staying by his side, and what does Tim really know, anyway? There could be an entirely different angle to the way Batman and go about their crusade.

Tim was busy. Blackgate. Russia.

If Robin knows Tim Drake, and if people know this as true, then he can't even reach for his bo anymore. His hands are tied. He can't think about how that grappling gun is holstered against his body, because Tim Drake shouldn't have a grappling gun. If Tim Drake has a grappling gun, and if Robin has a grappling gun, and if Robin knows Tim Drake--

fucking, stupid kid.

Tim swallows thickly to stave off a cough.

And he walks on. And approaching the source of the fire is now a game of Chicken that he had never wanted to play.

He rolls his eyes. And yet he's the one they call a child or a runt or whatever creative nickname they come up with.

"Two that I'm certain of, probably a third, four at most. That's how many vampires are - or were, at least - in Milton."

He recognizes his own failings to recognize Louis, but he did recognize the girl for what she was.

"And to think you're the one that gets labelled as the 'smart one'."

He needs to stop expecting Tim to act like they're on the same side. He knows how this one will end up. The idea that he could be trusted or helped was just another instance of childish naivete that he needs to shed. He can't trust or rely on his father, Red Hood, or even Tim apparently.

Some 'family' they turned out to be.

Damian sniffs.

"Do you smell that?"

It's faint - a smell of some kind of tea, he thinks. The smoke is closer. He can hear the crackling of fire too now, but no voices.

"Yeah. The fire?"

Ask stupid questions, get stupid answers.

Tim has to wonder who dropped the ball there- Bruce? Dick? Because Damian is used to getting all of his wishes and all of the solutions to his problems handed to him on a silver platter. That is, as far as problem-solution-implementation goes, it makes sense that he's struggling to connect the dots of

Tim, civilian

Robin, vigilante

without having someone else hovering.

Someone is going to get killed by this bullshit.

(Huh. Might as well-)

"Maybe they're cooking something."

(Might as well show the gremlin how dumb he sounds right now.)

"Let's go check it out."

Damian glares at Tim like he's the dumbest motherfucker he's ever seen. Brilliant detective, the smartest of all of them or so everyone keeps saying, with his powers of observation and his attempts to be funny.

"Wow, really?" Damian says with a frustrated eyeroll.

The fire isn't particularly strong, the smoke disperses weakly. Used primarily for cooking rather than heat, though that's an added benefit. It's blocked by a makeshift stove or a pot.

There's two possibilities that spring to mind. Technically three.

Regardless, he nods. "I'll hang back, you can do the talking. Since you're so popular and all."

To be fair, that's what he's aiming for.

On the inside, he's screeching about the lost opportunity to take a position at the flank, something Robin, as a combatant, oughta have figured out long ago. If they're meandering into trouble then having one person bait and the other to strike is just what makes sense. Tim blinks once, twice, as if to clear his immediate memory and replace everything he's ever known with only

fine dining, and breathing.

He really does hate how easy it comes to him when the simple naivety is something he's grown to despise.

"Hey!" He calls out, cupping his hands over his mouth as if it'll help carry the sound. (It won't.) "Hi!"

He does that shuffle-walk that one does when trying not to offend the car that's given one the right-of-way as a pedestrian pleb. Tim lets himself feel stupid when he ducks under a branch and gets a hair full of powdered snow, and he's suddenly now face-to-face with... a little old lady.

Which isn't right, because even Alfred would be struggling in this weather, in this world. And he'd have his trusty shotgun. This woman does not. She isn't perturbed either. It's a lot of red flags.

(And Tim being made into an obvious target should clue Robin in to concealing himself, the Ace, the hotshot, while the woman turns to pick out an ornamental box from her travel bag. Goddamn, Robin, what is your damage-)

That had better be a Mother Box. Tim says, like a doofus, "I don't think I've seen you before. Are you lost? Oh my god, are you hurt? I can help, here..."

She says she isn't, but Thank You. Tim wonders how she'll kill him and he hopes it's a clean break.

Naturally, despite Tim's judgemental internal screaming, Damian's instinctive move is to disappear as soon as his back is turned, and as soon as he's sure the woman isn't watching him, he passes through the forest like a ghost, climbing on top of a tree so he has an elevated view of the conversation, and positioning himself so that the woman has her back to him and he's at least peripherally in Tim's line of sight.

If she does turn out to be a cannibalistic monster, Damian thinks, he can probably be forgiven if he lets her eat his fingers or an entire hand. Given how terrible Tim is at taking care of his own body, it could be only an improvement.

Except then he'd have to hear Tim's nasally little voice whine about response times or discipline, as if he has any right to fucking talk.

So instead he lies in wait and watches this painful exchange happen, wanting to throttle Tim's 'socialite' persona even more than he wants to throttle his actual personality.

Tim will at least see he's there, waiting for a signal. Because apparently that's something he's still doing. Trusting Tim Drake's judgement for some reason.

Aaaand now he's alone. Tim can feel his left eye twitch. Knows the old lady can see it. Knows that she knows that he knows she can see it.

But Grandmother shoos his concerns away, even as Tim reaches for her in what was supposed to be a clumsy, open want to see the woman on her feet, just for reassurance. Grandmother chuckles, not finding the scene unusual and explaining that she's been keeping warm with her fire.

Won't you have some tea with me?

"I don't know," Tim hears himself say. His eyes finally give up the gig- he focuses on the ornate box that Grandmother holds close. Not a Mother Box.

Not a Mother Box

.....that Tim has seen before.

And of course the tiny effort of keeping his breath level is enough for his cough to act up. Grandma turns on Tim with such wide, gentle concern.

She has a tea for that. That can help strengthen lungs in this cold.

And what is Tim, if not a fool.

And what is a Robin in a tree, if not a little bitch but a highly trained one who has saved lives and who does hone his skills through observing the misfortune of other suckers.

Tim decides he is that sucker and his body is but a tool, and Grandma's kinda adorable and it is cold.

He sits.

By the fire, not so near to the woman. Where even in dying light, the campfire illuminates motion. It sacrifices details to shadows, but when dealing with poisons and-or ambushes, it's more about keeping an eye on the big moves.

Tim is... Tim is-- Tim is. And he has already identified the problem; and the problem (that persistent one that hunts him like some prey animal, the one that turns his essence toxic, the one that he can't best) is that Tim is.

He is something detestable, and no, it's not ego; he has proofs of it, has kept the receipts, has heard the many voices. This is not the first time he not only hears, but also listens when others talk, and he thinks

yeah, it makes sense.

For Tim, for the person he is now, sleep is hard to come by except for times like these where the weight of dead bodies denies him the opportunity to even try to live a life that shouldn't belong to him. He had made a mistake somewhere along the line, and now Tim is imprisoned in his room (rooms) and has to periodically make it seem as if he's doing something worthwhile for whoever it is that's listening in.

It's infuriating in an indescribable way to be surrounded by people who can only know better than he does, that even know him better than he does, but if he can't even keep the secret of his indolence then Tim is-- Tim is--

and it's a pretty big fucking problem.

It's his own fault that he can't even summon any surprise at this, at the feeling that is Not Feeling, or at the way the dead color his thoughts with No Color. He's done this before.

Actually, no, but he should have done it the first t

Tim thinks, this could be a problem.

His flashlight is dying.

That's funny.

His flashlight is dying and he's standing at the steps of where he knows March lives, and his hands are steady despite the brutal cold of midnight. He has no right to be doing this, not after-- and with L- the vampire du Lac-- with Bruce-- but clearly, Tim has never done what is well and good and whatever it is that he's supposed to.

He has a problem and he has a solution, and he's shamefaced when he knocks on the door.

It's so simple.

He doesn't know why it took him so long.

It just is.

It's going to be one of two people knocking on his door at ass o'clock, and the knock isn't the definite Wynonna rapping, which means after grumbling to himself about it all Holland is very much rising from his usual spot on the couch. He picks himself up, limbs feeling heavy with the weight of sleep, and opens the door with sweat-slicked hair from how many blankets he'd been using. Sure it's only midnight, but he'd been doing the dad move of napping on the couch after dinner and then just never moving to bed.

He opens the door and barely looks: he's already inviting the other in, yawning loudly.

"I was dreaming about Faye Dunaway."

March is sweating, had been tucked under too many blankets and doesn't reek like cigarettes or swill, and Tim really didn't want to know about Dunaway. His eyes widen, color splashing across a tired face, and Tim is an idiot, he knows, he says, "Network is a good movie."

Someone in it threatens to shoot their brains out.

Tim looks down at his flashlight, just flickering now, and he keeps both it and his gaze trained on the floor as he slips inside. He is, of course, careful to not brush by March; you know the saying. Fool him once, shame on you. Fool him twice... he can't be fooled twice.

There's nothing to look at now that Tim is inside and he's homesick for the whipping wind.

He paces.

Louis was right, he thinks, he's always going off like a total tweaker.

He's stupid, because his brows knit together and he clarifies to the room as a whole, "Chinatown really holds up." because of course that's what March would have most present: he's a P.I.

Are you alone?
Isn't everybody?

His flashlight dies, and Tim sucks in a bracing breath and sets it on the first flat-ish surface he sees. And he paces. And he can't look at March, the embarrassment gnawing on his very bones like a dog gnaws on a rawhide. And so-- Tim is pacing. And that's... it? No, he had... wanted...

He can't even look for the old gun. It'd be absurdly suspicious. And besides, not his intention.

There's an old fire that's died out. March watches Tim for a while, watching him paced like a caged tiger, an embarrassed schoolboy--takes in the Tim of it all. He shakes his head, throwing some more wood onto the fire and lighting it easily with his power.

"Okay." He breathes out.

"Clear mason jar on the counter. Pour two glasses and explain why you're acting like you're on black beauties, please?"

This is ridiculous and the admonishing self-consciousness welcomes in more of that restlessness and listless energy. Every second of hearing his own footsteps is driving him mad, and that means his body only wants to get away from the source of the irritation. And that means pacing, because he's here to do something and can't just leave.

Well... he can't just leave now, because this is stupid and he already looks stupid and

"What? No, I don't..."

Leave it to him to zero in on the important stuff like defending his straight-edge card-carrying membership, instead of thanking March for letting him in, or asking why he was let in at all or

(or)

getting to the fucking point.

His eyes (bright, actually! refreshed and not reddish or darkish) snake through the room, and his feet take him to the moonshine. Steady hands, clear voice, like there's nothing wrong about any of this.

(There isn't.)

Tim fetches the glasses. Pours into them what he thinks he remembers is March's preferred quantity to sip at-- what is it, like 3 fingers? A bit much, but not too much.

Tim's never poured alcohol before. He somehow makes it obvious.

He brings the mason jar along when he's finished.

For March.

He tries to say--

and then he looks elsewhere, at anything but March himself.

This isn't such a good idea anymore.

March is more awake now, and as Tim fumbles his way through pouring--it's just liquid, kid, c'mon--March is able to really, fully take him in.

Something's wrong. Of course something's wrong, because Tim always visits him when he doesn't know where else to go, something March isn't exactly sure he cares to examine the why of. It either means Tim respects him (weird) or Tim doesn't care if he knows shit (weird), and either way he's got the wrong guy.

March is terrible at this. The advice shit, it just doesn't work coming from him. The comforting shit. If he was good, he wouldn't be an alcoholic with a daughter that takes care of him more than he takes care of himself.

But it's nice, he thinks, to be thought of like this. It hasn't happened in a very, very long time. March accepts the glass, lifts it to his lips, takes a sip. Starts to feel normal again. When he lowers the glass, his voice is dry.

"You forget how to speak? C'mon. Have a seat and spit it out."

Tim is

pacing, which a fantastic change of pace to how he'd been moments before. He sets what's supposed to be 'his' glass down on that rickety table he knows so well, and he, at least, fights to drown a sheepish grin as he attempts to both remember how to part his lips and use his words.

He passes the table, and rocks on his heels to a stop, and he picks up what's supposed to be 'his' glass of rotgut.

"Sometimes? Yeah," he laughs, awkward and doleful and it's funny, to him, kinda, that a person here can question why he's being quiet. Even Drake-Wayne can be a touch melancholic; Gotham knows why, and few people press it.

It's inertia. He wants to keep moving.

He looks at the fire, and his expression morphs to despondent again, and he rocks on his heels again. It's growing too warm in here now, but he'll be damned if-- the rejection was still-- he has a glass of moonshine in his hand. And frankly it smells disgusting.

"You sure?," he asks, and the kid looks March's way. But not entirely at March.

That's gotta be annoying.

Imagine waking up at ass o'clock for the Nothing that is him.

"I forgot my ID in my other car," he adds, and it's a joke and it's told like a joke and it feels like it could be a joke. But isn't. Tim wants to move.

This has got to be so fucking

"I'm sorry."

Please, Drake, hammer it home, make it more obvious that he's invading a space that he does not belong in.

"I'll do anything," he says. And sits. And plays with the liquid in the glass, and has made it clear in his words that he is very aware of the meaning of anything. But he's in for a penny... in for a pound. "But I need a favor."

Tim peppers him with four or five or seven half thoughts, and March thinks at least it's at least better than silence. He's got an alarming amount of patience for the kid, though. Let him get it out. Let him shuffle around.

It's all gravy, baby. Probably because he's been like this a lot in his youth. Anxiety isn't exactly a term someone like him knows, but that's it. He'll roll his eyes at the ID joke, take a long sip of the disgusting pine wine--it works, though--and he's already leaning back.

"Alright."

His tone is neutral, hiding his slight worry. Let's hear what Tim's up to today.

Nobody really does this, give him time to sort through the thousands of tangled lines zigzagging his brain until he unravels a coherent thought. Dick does, because Dick is special in that way that has always made him seem important in Tim's eyes; Bruce does, Batman will if he thinks it's worth the lost time.

Tim lifts the glass and drinks the pine wine the way as if he expects it to be a cool drink of water and oh my god it's so gross-

"Uhp-"

Why not just drink rubbing alcohol, Christ.

"This is gross," he whines. Honest to God whines.

Whiplash, thy name is Drake.

He turns his head to cough weakly into his elbow, and he's at least no longer in motion.

"Do you remember what I... said, when you came back from the mines?" He asks March, looking at March, body positioned to March. He doesn't give March the opportunity to answer, or to think of the answer, before Tim plainly says

"Because I don't."

"Sip, don't chug." March instructs lightly, watching the other fully experience the taste, something that he doesn't so much as blink about anymore. That's the thing with being consistently drunk: you get used to how shitty this stuff tastes.

Probably, he should feel bad about giving a guy a drink, but he's from the 70s, and they're currently in a hell world, and Tim's a man now anyway.

"What do you mean, 'you don't'? You hit your head?"

"Yeah-?" he affirms, not at all directing energy into masking the disbelief. Very no shit Sherlock, only Tim wasn't raised to be so rude. His fingers are flexing his hold on the glass, his way to hurry up and will away the flashing lights from his vision.

This is worse than champagne. Tim very suddenly remembers why he doesn't drink.

Nobody would bat an eye (hah...) at Tim Drake, professional orphan, rich bitch, getting shitfaced on a rare weekend.

Tongue heavy, he sips the booze. It still fucking sucks.

He aborts the very crucial action of clicking his tongue. Instead he just bites on it. Hit his head, yes, absolutely. Tim's not a stranger to attempting to crack his skull on the next available hard surface following-- emotions. Preferably the surface is also at a sharp 90-degree angle. Or, barring anything able to withstand his thick head, glass can scratch the itch. Tim has been quiet. So, to fill the air, he nods.

--wait, no.

Tip number... 3? of public speaking, is that no one will know you made a mistake unless you let them know. He nods again, "And I... kind of don't want to have to hit your head so you can... forget. Not when there's, I'unno, Aurora-induced amnesia targeting that specific evening and the tantrum I was throwing. It was embarrassing."

March watches the other with his brow increasing its furrow, a mixture of a lot of things on his face. Confusion, mostly, but there's worry and concern etched into there, too.

Tim's spinning his wheels and going nowhere, which is fine--mostly, he's still slightly alarmed--and eventually he brings his hand up to rub between his eyes. He's not mad at Tim in the slightest, but he is very much not in the detective mood at the moment.

"Tim. What the fuck are you trying to say? Why are you here? Use your words, finish a sentence. Are you here because you want me to forget the fact that you sometimes show up like this and have a low-key death wish? Pal, half the people here have the same thing."

His mouth shuts with a click of teeth.

No. Yeah. He gets it.

There's a guilty silence, and Tim turns to the door, first, and then to the fire. He chugs the booze because he's heard it called liquid courage, and also because the lithium-battery-burn of it eroding his insides is a good mask for the tears he's shedding. Fat, slow tears, that Tim despises for being as awkward and awful as the rest of him. He wipes at his face after the grimace; this time, he thinks he does see stars flying over his head.

"If I wanted to die, I would have already done something about it. I had the gun. I had the time. I secured it to a tree overlooking the basin, so that you'd get it back afterwards. I don't have a death wish. Don't worry about it."

Retelling how he spent his time in posession of March's handgun isn't getting to the point at all.

His head hurts, but not as much as his throat and tongue. Tim straightens up. Says,

"Bruce is here. Everything I said about him is wholly irrelevant. I don't even believe that you remember it all. But I need a guarantee that you're... I don't know. That you're not going to bring any of it up. My name is Tim Drake. I don't know what I was thinking calling myself-- anything more."

What he had been thinking was, he'd missed his dad.

He misses his dad.

He wipes at his face. It feels grimy. Tim feels mildly nauseous.

He says, "I need to see Harkness die, and then I'll think about-- but Bruce can't know. About any of it."

Jesus fucking Christ. It's worse than he thought. March watches Tim chug that bottle of pine wine like March usually does, though Tim's lacking the tolerance. March makes a mental note to make sure he's got some water by him when he inevitably passes out. The detective's got enough blankets that he can make the couch pretty cozy.

It's the words Tim's saying that's a cause for concern, and he recognizes this for what it is now: kid's got a low-key death wish, his dad's here, and now he wants to undo everything. He's sitting on it--has been sitting on it?--for God knows how long, though the name Bruce is familiar enough that he can put two and two together.

Well, shit.

"What makes you think I was going to tell anyone in the first place?" He says neutrally--he's worried Tim will take any soft tone as sympathy and lose his mind over it, knows any hurt from the apparent lack of trust is irrelevant. He gets it. He wouldn't trust himself, either.

"You're alright, kid. If I wanted you outta here or not talking to me I would have said something. And if you wanna be Tim Drake you can do that, too, I don't care."

This is bad. He's bad at this. He tries anyway.

Tim thinks he's about done with trying to make sense: he never wanted to put stock in the idea that he's lost his mind, not really, not even when Cassie had looked at him with mournful eyes and said it. Tim stares at the wooden table. It bobs up and down a little and his mouth tastes terrible.

"I don't know."

Why did he assume he was worth the hassle-?

There's the child in him who only wants to be relevant. But then here's Tim, and he doesn't have an answer for why he assumed March would... what? What had he been thinking was going to happen? He'd been called to the dean's office more than once on account of black eyes, blue-purple arms, and a blatant disinterest in using school as anything but a place for good sleep. The term is, Mandated Reporter.

Tim is not a child.

Tim does not need rescuing.

Tim knows that nobody ever reported a damn thing, anyway; and he know that he puts that idea of importance into his own troubles when he's damn aware they're all his doing in the first place. It's a gross way to live.

He leans somewhat across the table to grab at the pine wine.

Says,

"My-- I don't know."

Because he doesn't know if he has the right. But. For the sake of. helping March understand. and because he's a viciously selfish bastard, Tim (barely) dares to go on.

"My grandpa is going to die."

(It sounds stupid, said like that.)

"So I'll kill that man, too. But I don't know if... Bruce knows. About what's going to happen. He can't know. It'll ruin him."

Tim's going five thousand miles per hour and March just has to watch and guess where it's going. A boxer on the ropes, Tim spouting God-knows-what. Probably, a better detective could pick shit up. Weave things together.

March isn't that. But he'll listen. He can recognize the kid's got a lot of pain in him, at the very least. He's going through a weird, non-contexual sort of journey. But he has to ask.

"Are you telling me your grandfather's going to die so you'll kill him instead? Kid. Slow down. Start from the very beginning, would you?"

A beat.

"I wanna get it. Get you."

That's funny. Tim chokes, which doesn't make the pine wine taste any better. Yeah, he's a total lightweight. Not exactly a surprising turn of events given that he's a self-proclaimed square.

He waves a hand in front of himself to dissipate the idea of- "No! What? Are you crazy?"

As much as he'd love to actually laugh at the notion of anyone Old Yeller-ing Alf because of how innately stupid it is, there's the extremely recent wound of real death and its ripples in Tim's head.

There's a lot going on in Tim's head.

He swallows and... nods, making the effort to listen and not only hear. He... can see how it seems like he's spinning his wheels in the mud. Sure. With a short smile, amused and subdued, he clarifies, "It's complicated."

.........making an effort. Right.

Tim sighs; he's got a headache. He says, "You know how... people here come from different places? The wit- the lady in the woods, I'unno if you met her. She offered some tea and... sure."

His life can't ever be shared, known. Tim feels adrift in the hopeless loneliness.

"I think one of the teas showed a vision. I think... it was a memory. Of something that hasn't happened yet. But it's something that will happen, unless I... change some things. So I'm going to get home. And kill Boomerang. That's already set. But now I know I should... end the guy who wants to hurt..."

He's not made for crying, but the sharp intake of breath looks as painful as it feels. "If I don't, then he's going to kill Alfred."

There we go. That makes sense. Half of March wishes it didn't, given how depressing it is--here's a kid going gung-ho about murder, and march doesn't have the heart to pretend the police will help. Not after the Detroit auto show back home. Not after the truth they uncovered got sensationalized to the public but barely damaged the people that matter.

It's bleak. March keeps his thoughts to himself. It's not about him, it's about Tim, and Tim doesn't need to hear that shit. He probably already knows.

Fuck that grandmother, though. She's messed with way too many people March considers friends, even if that word is scary as hell. He leans back in his chair, balancing it on two legs, and picks up the glass to take a larger sip. Unlike Tim, he doesn't wince.

"Think you can actually do it?" He asks, non judgemental but always questioning.

Tim's one baby glass of wine in, and he's forcing himself to count the shaky, erratic breaths he's taking.

His hand, the one on the glass, clenches and loosens; it does nothing to make the quivering go and stay away. His other hand, now that Tim is only barely keeping himself from doubling over, is absently though more forcefully executing the same motions at the root of his hair. "You don't think I have the... follow through," he realizes weakly. As if putting his failures out there into this heartless world will mean someone will assure him it's not a failure of his, that this is instead just his life; Jack Drake was never a fan of Tim getting lost in the scifi books and tv series: it was all fantasy. And Tim always got too carried away with fantasies.

He's crying miserable and quiet, and he's careful not to break the cup in his hand because it's March's; the pressure-release of the white knuckle tug of his hair isn't even a good distraction. It just is.

"I'll fix that," he tries. Miserable. Shame faced.

He's supposed to be crying for his grandfather and not--

Tim sobs-stops-pulls-slouches even further down until he can actually hide his face, forehead on the wood.

Selfish. He always knew he was selfish. So Tim, unable to do anything else but think about himself and his wrongs and his rights, clarifies, "I. -m not going to. Turn into a monster. I'm n.not going to go aroundkilling people, just- just them."

It just so happens that it needs to be said.

But Tim can fix

well, anyway.

He has a plan.

So.

"It's going to be okay," he says, and he doesn't believe it either.

He had wanted

to live

but if he

he can't.

That's that.

He turns his head, releasing his hold of the cup of wine; he hides his face in his arm, and he hates that he cries.

March lets him. Kid needs to get it out--and March may be stuck in the 70s, may not know how to handle anything emotionally (bury it, just bury it), but he knows the other needs this. Maybe more than he realizes. Probably, he should give the other a tissue.

He fills the other's cup to the brim instead.

"You wanna get the bad guy. Nothin' wrong with that."

Catching the bad guy was what all of this was supposed to be about. Tim had had to save Bruce first, because the man had been so torn that he had been unable to catch Bad Guys. Batman had been destroying them. Destroying himself. With no Batman, the city would... just not feel safe.

Tim breathes in as he wrestles with a shaky body.

Look at him now:

The Bad Guy to be taken down, and the world will never feel safe.

Even at the edge of that big city skyline, at his lowest, when he had had to phone his brother for help because he was drowning he was so low, Tim had never envisioned hearing someone cheer him on.

Into his arm, he nods an affirmative.

Get the bad guy. Nothing wrong with that.

He swallows and it's raw and bitter-sour, and he gasps in another conflicted breath.

"I'm sorry," he squeaks. It's embarrassing. All of this is. "I don't know why... 's not supposed to be a big deal. I already knew I was going to do it. I'm sorry."

March's brows furrow, then straighten--something he only seems to do with Tim. He is not equipped for this. Neither is Tim, dealing from the way he's nestling himself into his arm.

But the kid's desperate. Has always been desperate enough to come to him for....what? advice? March has no idea. Probably, it's because he's a fuck up. Like recognizing like.

"Why the hell are you apologizing? You didn't do anything."

Maybe if he does the counting thing he'll stop the shivering. It's supposed to be for panic attacks, though Tim doesn't think that his constant buzzing classifies as panic anymore or even anxiety. The baseline is just too high, and the alarm is drowned out by every other dull and muted noise of the world he still lives in.

At the table, Tim confesses (screws his eyes shut to stave away a pang at the forefront of his head-) "You don't get it,"

(get this:)

"A'think I'm gonna hurl."

Edited 2025-01-09 16:59 (UTC)

He gets that. March is surprisingly quick for someone in a constant state of inebriation--he grabs a nearby bottle of moonshine (empty) and quickly slides it over to Tim.

"That was quick. You're okay, champ." Champ seems dumb. He watches carefully anyway, and if it isn't too bad he'll get up to grab some water for the other.

Champ is dumb, and Tim has to laugh.

And by 'laugh' the writer means, his chest rises with a muted ha! and that's as Tim finds himself face-to-face with a jar of moonshine.

A jar of moonshine that still, to Tim, reeks of moonshine.

The heavy heaving sucks a little more than the actual vomiting and that's only because Tim has no dinner to greet again once all is in the bucket-bottle of bile. The aftershocks suck too. But remind him to never piss off a booze-weilding supervillain, though, dazed and disgusted, Tim figures he hasn't said...

too much. Not anything... too damning. Bruce would be proud.

He stumbles to his feet. Argues, "It wasn't quick it was gross."

Which translates to: I'm not a lightweight.

But, god, he is a lightweight. A lightweight who needs to rinse spit out of a jar of moonshine.

"Yeah, it usually is."

March decides not to tell him how he personally deals with it: just be constantly drunk, keep fueling yourself up so there's no room for any other actual feeling, easy peasy. Bingo bango bongo.

At the very fucking least, he at least keeps his mouth shut about it. He may be a bad influence, but it's not that bad.

"...You're gonna stay the night here, alright?"

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[closed] What praise is more valuable than the praise of an intelligent servant?

no subject

these are not the droids you're looking for

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

the lightning hits, the power goes out in the fray (cw: HEAVY on the suicide in here)

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

cw, detailing some self harm

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

cw suicidal thoughts, past suicidal actions

no subject

no subject

no subject

c-c-cw emeto

no subject