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singillatim2024-08-24 04:41 pm
ployboy) wrote in singillatim2024-08-24 04:41 pm
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.
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.
no subject
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."
no subject
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.
no subject
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."
no subject
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?"
cw, detailing some self harm
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."
no subject
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."
no subject
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."
no subject
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.
no subject
"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."
no subject
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."
no subject
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."
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
He fills the other's cup to the brim instead.
"You wanna get the bad guy. Nothin' wrong with that."
cw suicidal thoughts, past suicidal actions
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."
no subject
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."
no subject
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."
no subject
"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.
c-c-cw emeto
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.
no subject
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?"