ᴛɪᴍᴏᴛʜʏ ᴅʀᴀᴋᴇ ǝuʎɐʍ (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
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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
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?"