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

[ployboy]

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.

Comments

[ployboy]

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."

[questioningmermaids]

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."

[ployboy]

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."

[questioningmermaids]

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.

[ployboy]

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.

[questioningmermaids]

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."

cw suicidal thoughts, past suicidal actions

[ployboy]

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."

[questioningmermaids]

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."

[ployboy]

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."

[questioningmermaids]

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.

c-c-cw emeto

[ployboy]

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.

[questioningmermaids]

"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?"